The Gift of Omiana

Page One

 This was not what he had planned for the evening, so that was going to be a problem.

His insurance didn't cover personal possessions, or even houses. That would be another problem.

There was also the very giant problem lying dead next to what once was his home.

Now that was the biggest problem of all.

So, he did what any reasonable person would do, given these problematic circumstances.

He ran away from his problems, hoping he'd find a solution to them later.

This person doesn't have a name, by the way. I could give him a name, but no one in his story will refer to him by any conventional designation, so what would be the point?

And yes, reader, this one story belongs to him. No, he never gave himself a name in what he himself decided was his story. I'm sure his friends did their best to talk some sense into him- it runs against common sense to deprive a main character of a name, especially when the narrative takes place from his perspective- but somehow he managed. Perhaps he gave himself an advantage by telling the story in first person, whereas I can only do the tale justice by telling it in the third person.

Well, to spare you an inevitable headache, I'll just go ahead and call him Phil.

Phil was vertically challenged, and not because of any of those racial traits that halflings, imps, and gnomes possess. Phil was short because his mother was short, which was because her grandfather was short, which was because his great-great-grandmother on his father's side was short, which by coincidence had something to do with the small coin passed to her descendants for generations. By that point, history becomes muddied, so let's just say that Phil was short because he was born short.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes. The problem.

Phil awoke to the sound of booming thunder outside. The tome on his lap (the one about dragons and buried treasures in Rothragar) fell to the floor with a dusty thud. The candle resting on the table next to his big, comfy chair flickered from the excitement.

Phil took a moment to calm his breathing, and looked around. Everything was still where he had left it; heaps of books on the floor, bookshelves half full or half empty, and from where he sat he could see that the kitchen remained as tidy as always. Relieved, Phil took slower, deeper breaths, and prepared to settle back down in his chair.

Thankfully, he didn't do that, or I would have to live with the embarrassment of writing a one-paged novel.

Another clap of thunder erupted outside, jolting Phil awake again.

The supporting beams above his head began to creak and whine, showing their age with all the grace of arthritis.

With an irritated huff, Phil plopped down from his chair, grabbed the lantern hanging next to his door, and clambered outside.

And oh, what a sight there was to see.