Last year in about March I decided to try and write a thousand words a day and make a habit out of it. Unsurprisingly I failed to make a good habit out of it with the pressures of everyday life, work, and stuff. But I did manage to make it an almost good habit off and on for a while and do manage to fall into the habit occasionally again.
The rule is not to write 1000 good words, just write 1000 words be they good or bad in the theory that some of them will be good and when the writing bug gets you then you push on and write some more. It Was also the reasoning behind starting this blog way back in August last year, as something else to pour those thousand words a day into. As this is all of the 8th posts it has been far from successful as a plan but no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy after all. And the enemies of writing a thousand words a day have been many and various.
However, there has been the odd fun outcome from my 1000 a day plan. Not least I managed to write a complete if I suspect not very publishable novel. I have also managed to throw together a load of short pieces, some stories, some bits of stories, some ideas for bigger things. I have also pressed the delete button on a great many occasions after writing the words, but that’s probably a good thing in of itself.
One of the results was a series of Ork fuels short stories written for fun and just to have a laugh with silly idea’s, I was struggling for a subject one evening and my then live-in girlfriend suggested Orks mainly because she was painting some night goblins at the time and the top of my screen was littered with half painted savage orks I suspect. Be that as it may as inspiration for something light and fluffy to write ( with spiky helmets aggressive attitudes and lots of sharp objects) it was just what I needed at the time and a thousand words of ork fueled silliness flowed out. She liked the story that resulted so much that any time I said I was short of inspiration for my thousand words a day, she would shout “Orks” and me and poke me with sharp objects till I agreed.
Stumbling across these stories again as I try to order my documents a little made me smile and made me want to write some more ork fueled spikey shouty silliness just for the fun of it. So that’s what I am going to do next time I struggle for something to write.
In the mean time here’s the original silly ork story I wrote nine months or so ago. If people like it, or I feel the whim to do so, I will publish a few of the stories that followed here. If only to encourage myself to get back to the habit
ReelBadBuga kicked the night goblin out of his way, not with any great intent, just absent minded annoyance at having followed the little runt for two miles from the tribe’s camp site. He was a Big Boss he did not get summoned to the mountain. Runts don’t summon a big boss, Runts don’t send other runts with a summons. This was the way of things, even if the mushroom eating runt in question were Mushmuncha the Sharman and touched by Gork and Mork.
The night goblin flew towards the edge of the mountain track and over it madly scrambling for purchase with his hands flailing around. He grabbed a tree branch or managed to hold on at the last moment. But ReelBadBuga had not bothered to go and look; he did not even listen out for a satisfying scream followed be a small goblins sized squelch it hit the bottom. He was too focused upon his annoyance, and his temper was a thing of legend among the nineteen tribes of the god stone valley. Rumour had it when RealBadBugga stubbed a toe you could hear his roar of anger echo around the mountains from one end of the valley to the other for a week. When one Gurt Scarbutt’s wolf riders used his helmet for a chamber pot at a clan gathering three summers ago, he had taken the Buga’s Boyz tribe to war. Driven by his fury the Buga’s had ravaged their way through to the Scarbutts camps, decimating three other tribes who just had the miss fortune to be camped in the way. Then slaughtered half the Scarbutts and skinned their mounts making wolf skulls as trophies till he had from the offending rider. Pinning Gurt down he had urinated all over him, then with a nod declared the war over and took the Boyz back to their home camp. Not without a few skirmish on the way back of course but that was just for fun and not serious war business. As RellBadBugga stormed into the cave mouth, the night goblin he had kicked was crawling back over the ledge grinning with relief at averting his fall down the mountain side. He was just dusting himself off when two more of his hooded brethren came pirouetting out of the cave having been unfortunate enough to be in the way. The collision of green flesh and black robes tumbled backwards over the rim. ReelBigBuga would have probably smiled at hearing the screams and satisfying splats that ended them.
The caves were dark and full of green fool smelling smoke, enough to bring tears to the eyes of full grown men. Orks are not, however, hampered by tear ducts. Evolution never saw the need to equip Orks to weep, for some reason beating other Orks to death with any available object was a more viable survival trait.
In the caves, the rats sauntered in corners, too stoned to scurry. Mushroom of every size and shape grew in the dank dripping caves, fields of them in the lower levels. In some places, a spaced out goblin would be chewing happily while one of his kin was arguing with a rock which refused to let him past into the wooden stick for hunting in the dark. At least that is what the Ork assumed the goblins meant by night club.
Reel ignored the minions of the goblin caves and bellowed “ I Iz Hezes Mush wadda ya want. “ with his customary gusto .
A runt in a black cowl pulling a runt squig on a leash no bigger than Reel’s foot came scampering up. “Mushmuncha says to follow me. Oh, Mighty Warragg leader.” He said which impressed Reel, he did not actually lead a Warragg, but liked the sound of the ‘Oh mighty’. He was too busy considering the sound of ‘Oh Mighty’ to hear the goblin append his statement with a whispered “fat oaf.”
He grunted, “Lead on then Runt.” He shouted, resisting the urge to swat the little night goblin but only because he thought it would be beneath him as an ‘Oh Mighty’ to do his own swatting of the runts. Somewhere in the back of his not particularly large mind, he considered for a moment if been if not been able to do so was a major downside to the whole ‘Oh Mighty’ thing. He grunted once more and fell in behind the night goblin who was scurrying along so fast he was more dragging than leading his pet squig.
They progressed downward into the heart of the night goblins mountain realm. Reel was surprised how busy it was, he had not been aware there were so many of the little runts in the caves. He suspected this may be due to a lack of good swatting, and absently tried to rectify this error with any of them that came in range of his hands.
The caves teamed with activity which mostly seemed to revolve around grown and harvesting mushrooms and making stuff from mushrooms and trying to teach the not so tame spiders to not eat the goblins but to allow themselves to be ridden. A process which seemed to involve as many goblins as possible so that eventually the spider was so over fed it gave up eating and one of them could get on the beast to ride it around. Why anyone would ride anything that wasn’t a boar escaped Reel, but then quite a lot did.
Finally, they arrived at a small cavern on the edge of a subterranean lake, where three night goblins manned a raft, with long poles. And the Night goblin with the squig clambered on board. Reel did not trust the raft , or the goblins, or the water much, and any lake in the middle of a mountain was bound to have big albino flesh eating fish in it, he was sure. But ‘Oh Might’ isn’t scared of water, he told himself and climbed aboard the raft which sunk further into the water than was normal to the alarm of the good ships crew. One of which was sent flying into the water where he scrambled for shore before the killer albino flesh eating tuna got him. Progress across the lake was slow, mostly due to the nervous nature of the crew, and the rocking of the raft cause ReelBadBuga to experience sea sickness and decorate the deck at one point. Finally though they reached a small rocky island in the middle of the lake where sat the wizened old shaman around a large cauldron bubbling with a green mixture which smelled suspiciously like split pea soup. Reel hated split pea soup.
“ Sit with me Oh Mighty one.” The Shaman croaked. “it is time to learn your destiny,” he said with due ominousness and a hiccup. “Mork and Gork have ceased there fighting in the sky to tell me of their mighty son who much unity the tribes.”
“Whoz this then, if anyone is leading a Warragg it will be me not some mighty son, the Buga’s lead we do not follow “ the smoky atmosphere of the caves making him nauseous, he longed for good proper smoke like the corpse of his enemies and their tents smouldering after a raid. Rather than this vile green smoke which was giving him a bad head.
“You are the mighty son of Gork and Mork , ReelBigBugga mush lead us all in the mighty Warragg, we must go east into the lands of the elves and the rat men, they fight a war and have invited us not. The gods have chosen you to lead us, with of course my advice, Oh might one” the Shaman intoned with dramatic menace, despite odd hiccup and giggling fit.
Reel was filled with visions of glory, of the great sea of green descending on the non-green and having a really good fight with him at the head of the Warragg. Tales for the campfire for generations, his name above all others as the might Warragg leader. So much was he enraptured by this vision he did not hear the shamans final words “ and I’ll get me some nice warpstone chunks while everyone’s busy fighting you big oaf then I’ll be in charge , hiccup.”
The nest day at the top of the mountain the cry went out , “WARRAGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!” and echoed across the valley of the nineteen tribes . Many were called , all answered , though not without a little fighting among themselves.