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Coleman Larkin

           Many moons ago, in the lush forests of Morlop, there lived an elfin wizard by the name of Glarvin. Twas a well known fact that Glarvin was the most pure-hearted of all the wizards in Morlop (there were many) and perhaps the most pure-hearted wizard in the entire kingdom of Exqueematrobe. Indeed, Exqueematrobians spoke at great length of Glarvin’s courage, and it was customary for them to recite tales of his exploits during feasts and banquets, especially the annual Lerfing of the Swynx. “Lerf your melvins high!” the village joops would exclaim. “And drink heartily of thine duggle! For the great Glarvin of Morlop hath delivered us from the wicked Vintrosnog and it is in his honor that we kulm this juicy swynx! May it be a most hunkphorian sacrifice!” And every manling worth his snarkle saddle would lift his melvin to the sky and shout, “To Glarvin of Morlop! Long may his legend be told! 

           So sit back and relax as I forcibly subject you to some ridiculous bullshit about dragons.

           It is said that not since the Cleptruvian Revolution has there been a more fearsome beast than the Vintrosnog. It stands as tall as a full-grown brawsby tree and has a wingspan as wide as the Pludnuffian River. Its skin is like chain mail and its red eyes glow like two embers plucked from the hottest fire. Its teeth are like a ribnut warrior’s daggers, with its foremost fangs, of which there are four, protruding at all times. Down the length of its spine and upon its tail are spikes like jagged shards of nard rock, and its vile tongue lashes wildly like a glumpy mudthicket. One can sense the Vintrosnog’s presence from miles away as it emits from every putrid pore the foul aroma of liblab and rotting sneedberries.   

           One day, as Glarvin of Morlop busied himself with mickle potions in his treetop laboratory, his nose began to twitch. Liblab and sneedberries were in the air. “And so it begins,” he said to himself, for every summer the Vintrosnog would leave the vast prairies of Nelbung seeking shade and sustenance in the forests of Morlop. His preferred meal, unfortunately, was elves such as Glarvin. 

           Hurriedly, Glarvin gathered his wand and book of spells, along with a copper amulet and a small vial of womproot extract. He climbed a ladder to his thatched roof and let out a piercing whistle that echoed throughout the land. Almost immediately the dull flapping of wings could be heard in the distance. It grew louder and louder still, culminating in a thunderous sound that shook the long, gray hairs of Glarvin’s beard. The clouds parted and a purple-feathered beast of a bird with a long, slender neck, a silver beak and a suede saddle soared into view. It was Xandeertay, Glarvin’s snarkle. Xandeertay hovered near Glarvin’s roof just long enough for Glarvin to hop onto his back and into the saddle. Glarvin took hold of the rugged belf-hide reigns. “To the Smelmack, Xandeertay!” he commanded. “For we must stave the advances of the wicked Vintrosnog and save Morlop once and for all!”

           The Smelmack was a lugent on the nermy stonk of sleem. No doubt it would be the Vintrosnog’s first stop. Glarvin snazzled his brazzlebee and unsheathed his shining dinkly, a weapon bequeathed to him by his father, Trivlyputt, upon the latter’s death at the hands of an Oontharian jinklet during the Drebnettle Uprising. Legend has it that Trivlyputt placed the dinkly in Glarvin’s hand and, with his last breath, whispered, “Glarvin my beloved harble. Inkle this dinkly and melf it in your qualf. The fate of Morlop is in your groodjaw. Sipple your umptugger and slay the vile Vintrosnog.” And then he rujjered.

            Glarvin and Xandeertay flew exploratory circles above the yapp bushes of Smelmack. The air was thick with the sickly smell of decayed sneedberries. Sure enough, the Vintrosnog was at hand, his muscular tail protruding from the dense hedges. Glarvin steered Xandeertay closer to the Vintrosnog, deftly maneuvering his trusted snarkle within striking distance. The Vintrosnog lurched and reared its hideous head. Glarvin, undeterred, let out his most blood-curdling Morlopian battle cry.

            “AADSFLAAAABBIANDERVERRRRRRR!!” He smelded his dinkly and wurved his markle at the jerbull side of plimy. Six times he mibled the rekward! The flognurd nuggled the buggleby and the hogcurd kleemed off of the jorny’s glarb. “Dumple!” squeered Glarvin. “Dumple mine mert britches!” And the marmut dargled nuddly until its mubber lorfed higglygrubs upon the voodsnatches of zapgravel. The Vintrosnog blerfed Glarvin’s snarkle and drobbered his dinkly. Cloddy mod wallerstein jib numbtruckle doopy. Flarzen mozzle rodd trubly buttle dripcrud mifflipster. Licktrickle hub juggerbeef harf yasser jine larvel. 

            And they all lived happily ever after.






Coleman Larkin is a 28-year-old comedian, artist, writer, and award-winning journalist. His talents are currently wasted as a cook in Lexington, Kentucky.


A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their colors, or the heavens without their azure. - Henry David Thoreau


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