So, I’m just winging it here, there’s this guy. Let’s call him Bob.

Bob’s not anti-social, just shy, thoughtful, nerdy, you know what I’m talking about. Maybe a scientist, or a mechanical engineer. No, wait, I got it: he’s a database administrator. (Actually, his job isn’t really relevant.)

So, anyway, he sees this girl, I don’t know, not at a party (I don’t think he goes to parties very often). Somewhere in public. At the grocery store. Yes.

So, he sees her, she’s trying to buy something, pears, yeah, but doesn’t know how to pick them. Bob prides himself on his mad pear-selection skillz, so he helps her out. They talk a little, joke around, it’s all good. He’s a nerd, but he’s old enough to be able to fake some social skills.

Crap, I forgot to mention: she’s hot. Like, smoking. And smart, witty, fun, smells good, you name it, she got it. I think her name starts with ‘J’, but I can’t remember it right now. I don’t think that really matters to this story, anyway. Total babe, though.

So, yeah, she gets her pears. Bob then epically fails to even ask for her phone number, or to suggest that they should get together, hang out, get married and move to the suburbs. He just smiles and says “See ya!” as she walks away. In all fairness, his brain is so overwhelmed with random synaptic discharges that’s it’s pretty impressive that he can even get that much out without drooling or stuttering. Still, though, Bob. You gotta at least try!

So, anyway, back to the story, Bob goes home and cries himself to sleep.

The End.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

What? I never said it was going to be a happy story!

The little toad, made of stone, would sell his soul to be real. To jump away from this shelf. To be able to hop and catch flies and swim. To find a fine looking lady toad and settle down on a lily pad.

Unfortunately, being made of stone means he has no soul to sell, and no buyers.

So there he sits, motionless, gathering dust, and dreaming.

He woke his family at the usual time, but instead of everyone hurrying to their morning chores he gathered them around him. His wife’s weathered face remained placid, but his nearly-grown son and young daughter were bubbling with excitement. He’d never delayed the morning chores before! Not for anything!

He cleared his throat. “Well, today’s January 1st, 1400. So, the Middle Ages are over. Son, you need to learn to read. And in Italian! No more of this just being an ignorant peasant nonsense for you, or just learning Latin.” His son looked startled, but before he could speak his father continued. “Daughter, I want you move to a town as soon as possible. Try and work for a merchant, or maybe be an artist’s model.” His daughter started to cry.

“None of that, now – there’s a Renaissance on, and we need to start acting like it.”

His patient wife finally spoke up. “Dear, it’s not like these things happen instantly. We can…”

“No, I’ll not have my family stuck in the past. It’s finally 1400, and we can start to change.” He tried to look heroically off into the distance, but since they were still seated around the rough table in the tiny hut, there really wasn’t any distance available to him. That didn’t matter – he’d been waiting for the Renaissance all his life, and by God and all the very best saints they were going to do it right!

Wait, no, make that “by God and all that’s best in humanity”. Whew, despite his enthusiasm, he could see where this would even be tough for him. But it would be worth it – the Middle Ages were no picnic. He was ready for change.

“Do you have any idea how many knights I’ve defeated?” hissed the great red dragon.

“Do you have any idea how many dragons I’ve defeated?” retorted the black knight.

The dragon sniffed. “Probably not that many – you mammals are so short lived. Let’s be realistic – I’m nearing my second millennium, so I’ve no doubt that my record is longer and more distinguished than yours.”

The knight looked grim. “Talk is cheap – victory does not come from boasting, but from deeds!”

The dragon grunted, letting a small wisp of flame out. Knights, especially young knights like this, could be so pompous.

Seeing the fire, the knight lowered his visor, and cried, “May St. George and the Blessed Virgin Mary both guide my hand!”

They both scooted their chairs up to the checkerboard. The dragon rumbled “You’re black – you get the first move.”