500: An Anthology of Short Stories
The Barbed Wish (Narrative Poem)

The road meandered and curved, serpentine and circuitous.

Down steep ravines it dropped, passed near cliffs vertiginous.

It traversed verdant valleys exploding with life and sound,

Crept stealthily under ridge, bridge and earthen mound.

Gasping for breath, Jasper strained to continue walking.

His doubts intensified their merciless, inexorable stalking.

“I’ve come this far in my quest,” the young Sprite said,

“It would be folly to simply quit now while I’m ahead.”

He found himself abruptly in a forest of broad-trunked trees.

Standing like stalwart sentinels, they exuded the aura of queens.

Jasper stared in awe-struck astonishment at the fantastic sight.

Forgot he momentarily himself in the presence of their might.

“These are certainly ancient. Nay, perhaps even prehistoric!

What tales they would tell if they could utter words syllabic.”

A thrum deep vibrated throughout the dark, dense wood,

A hum that sounded like someone saying, “Oh, but we could!”

Then it was that a cluster of trees started to stir and shake.

Jasper gulped in fear, asked, “Who was it that now didst spake?”

A blizzard of dry leaves spun crazily about the petrified Fairy,

Funnelled him unopposed towards a rough cavemouth dreary.

Tumbled Jasper into the cavern, aglow with some unknown source.

For it was night by now, thus he needed shelter without recourse.

“Welcome, youngling, and well met,” greeted a polite troll.

“This be my home and kingdom,” said he with eyes black as coal.

“Please don’t devour me, sir!” Jasper beseeched the creature.

“Dire it is my destination I must reach to complete my venture!”

“Pray tell, Sprite: what be this mysterious end you’re striving towards?

Is it in pursuit of treasure? Perhaps you want the Five Hundred Cords?”

Jasper gasped loudly, incredulous; the troll had guessed it in one.

Too late he realised he should some deceitful tale have spun.

“I know not what you speak of, but no knot has me after it traipsing.”

Jasper cursed himself for a fool, for not being credibly deceiving.

“Ah, friend questor. You know the cords are knotted.

Is this not proof enough that with them you are besotted?

Come, come! Of service to you I can be; this I promise, young sir.

Through the portal I now shall you send with the speed of a blur!”

Before Jasper could object, argue, question or exclaim,

Instantly transported he was to the Realm of Demesne.

Teetering on the edge of a yawing, murky abyss,

Jasper knew many things were seriously amiss.

Over the lip of the chasm oozed a black shadow wrapped in knotted cords.

Five hundred in total, they formed what resembled a web of surreal fjords.

Jasper knew that just one of the strings could grant him his heart’s desire,

But how could he snag one and live, knowing with one touch he’d expire?

“Grant you this boon I shall,” said the inky nightmare,

“But wishes are barbed; beware!”

Alone Jasper lived for the next five hundred years,

His lonely soul drowning daily in remorseful, salty tears.