“I’ll make him an offer he can’t
refuse” – The Godfather
“What is a tarn”, asked Inspector Strade.
I read from
the back of the menu.
“Tarn (n) a small
steep-banked mountain lake or pool often glacier fed, or by mountain streams.
“But in this case, it is a more
expensive private part of the Scaramouche Restaurant.”
Inspector Lee Strade opened the menu in front of him.
“Good thing I have a generous expense account. Still as funny name for a restaurant.”
This Mike is an interesting man, a real gentleman! He holds the limousine door open for me to exit. Inside the restaurant he takes my coat and finds somewhere to hang it.
A Talendar for Shirley
Peony D Beckside
With acknowledgement and thanks to John Norman for
creating the world of Gor, in which this story is set.
My name is Michalis Dundras. That’s not quite the name shown on the slim little book in the inside pocket of the jacket I wear; the booklet with the word ‘passport’ on the front cover. The ‘passport’ says that I’m Michael Donaldson. The organisation that I work for is fortunate in having someone working in the US Passport Office. The passport I have, is therefore genuine, the documentation upon which it was issued though, is perhaps less than honest.
Man makes plans,
and the Priest-Kings laugh.
*
Due to increasing difficulty in navigating image generation restrictions, all illustrations in this post are archival.
I do not scream as I awaken in this
cage. The concept of finding myself
locked in a cage is no longer so shocking, so bizarre. It’s an experience I’ve had before. I don’t like the situation. I no more want to be kept like an animal in a
cage than I did before. It’s simply not
a surprise anymore.
This cage though is in a much more dark and dank room than had been the one I had inhabited on Earth. At least the previous prison-room had fluorescent lights, here the lamps seem to be some kind of oil-lamp, with its concomitant reduction in light output.
The moon was a
ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas
It was 4AM, I was at the wheel of the Queen Conch as she plied the Pacific Ocean south from the mouth of Patroon Creek towards San Francisco. All the others were asleep; it had been a long day. Smith and the short swarthy sailor had met us there at dusk and brought us safely aboard. I had slept until just before three in the morning, when the silent sailor had wakened me to take a watch at the wheel. In the wheelhouse, he had pointed out the course and muttered that Smith would relieve me at seven.
“Brand,” Mirus said to Mena, who was kneeling in nadu next
to me. She looked at me confused and
then at Mirus.
“Must a command be repeated slave?” he asked firmly.
“No Master! This slave does not know that command.”
“Rise up on your knees, keeping them spread wide. Now extend your left leg out. Pull the hem of your tunic high up above your brand, displaying it to me,” he said. She complied quickly, following his instructions immediately as they were given.
The men are so strong. Big and muscular, brawny if you like. No sign of excess fat. I watch as two of them, under the command of the rat Kyril Flavius, remove the girl from each of the cages.
