A Transylvanian Tale

 By Martin Sercombe

In the town of Targu Mures, three old gents decided to embark on a road trip together. With their wrinkled faces and silvered hair, they sought one last adventure before the twilight of their lives.

They packed their worn suitcases and set off in an ancient, sputtering car that groaned with each mile. The open road beckoned them, promising stories untold and laughter yet to be shared. But as they ventured deeper into the countryside, the road signs became less familiar, and the path they followed grew increasingly obscure.

Their laughter turned to unease as the sky darkened, casting an ominous shadow over the land. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the first raindrops fell like tears from a mourning sky.

Lost and disoriented, they found themselves on a narrow, muddy track, far removed from civilization. The car's engine sputtered and wheezed, and then, with a final gasp, it fell silent. They had run out of petrol.

The rain intensified as night fell, transforming the track into a treacherous river of mud. The wind howled with fury, rattling the car and amplifying their fear.

Suddenly, a flash of lightning illuminated the landscape, revealing a distant farmhouse, seemingly untouched by time. With newfound determination, they pushed their vehicle towards the refuge.

But when they reached the house, they found it locked shut and unoccupied, trapping their frail bodies outside. The farmhouse, once a beacon of salvation, become a cruel mirage, mocking their futile attempt to escape the wrath of the storm.

Exhausted and defeated, the gentlemen clung to each other, their bodies trembling with cold and fear. The rain poured relentlessly, as their frail forms succumbed to the unforgiving elements.

As the storm howled its final requiem, the old gents slipped away, their journey coming to a tragic end.

Thunder

 By Martin Sercombe

The rain poured relentlessly, transforming the once peaceful field into a muddy quagmire. In the midst of this tempest, a prize bull named Thunder found himself in a precarious situation.

Thunder was a magnificent creature, known far and wide for his strength and beauty, but on that stormy night, he had wandered too close to the edge of the field, drawn by the tempting aroma of fresh grass. As he stepped forward, his hooves sank deep into the muddy ground, trapping him in a sticky quagmire. Panic set in as the bull struggled to free himself, but the more he fought, the deeper he sank.

The farmer, alerted to his cries, waded through the muck and tried to pull the massive beast out but his hooves remained stubbornly planted in the mud. Undeterred, the farmer called for reinforcements, rallying his neighbours to join the rescue mission. A group of determined individuals gathered, their united strength matched only by their concern for Thunder's well-being. They heaved and strained, yet Thunder remained trapped.

Just when their hope began to waver, a ray of light pierced through the storm clouds, casting a glimmer of hope upon the weary faces. Thunder, sensing the change in the atmosphere, summoned his last reserves of strength. With one final surge of power, he lifted his massive body, hooves emerging from the mire. A collective cheer erupted from the farmers, as they led him to the safety of the barn.

Cnut and the Waves

 By Martin Sercombe

This story of Cnut resisting the incoming tide was first recorded by Henry of Huntingdon in his Historia Anglorum in the early twelfth century:

When he was at the height of his ascendancy, he ordered his chair to be placed on the sea-shore as the tide was coming in. Then he said to the rising tide, "You are subject to me, as the land on which I am sitting is mine, and no one has resisted my overlordship with impunity. I command you, therefore, not to rise on to my land, nor to presume to wet the clothing or limbs of your master." But the sea came up as usual, and disrespectfully drenched the king's feet and shins. So jumping back, the king cried, "Let all the world know that the power of kings is empty and worthless, and there is no king worthy of the name save Him by whose will heaven, earth and the sea obey eternal laws."

The Foundlings

by Glen L. Bledsoe 

In 1648 two young girls were found wandering the properties of Sir Gordon Yarborough. Their clothes were in rags. They were cold, hungry and frightened. Sir Gordon and his wife were childless and took them into their home and raised them as their own. At first the girls could not speak, but learned English quickly. Once they gained full vocabulary they told stories of where they were from. A world filled with machines: flying machines, talking machines. Machines that showed moving pictures on slabs of glass. Machines that made music. No one believed their stories at the time, but the girls were presented to the upper class by their "father" as a kind of entertainment. Today we know just how silly those stories really were.