[Fortuglio, if I’m allowed to sound snooty on my own blog, begins what I refer to as The Silver Age of John-Michael’s writing. Back when I started doing security, I wrote a number of short stories and comic book scripts on my laptop. I was pleased with Fortuglio and did what some would consider the “wrong thing to do”. I posted it on my MySpace page. You see, once I did that, I threw away first publishing rights to Fortuglio. Now, anyone I presented this short story to could make a quick Google search, find it printed somewhere else, and toss my story in the trash pile. Funny thing is, the laptop broke and my information was irretrevable. I wish I did the wrong thing to all those stories. Ah, well.
Oh, also, a word of warning. This story is PG, as in Parental Guidance suggested. There’s nothing that bad in it really, but it isn’t the sort of story I would tell a bunch of kids on their way to sunday school. I’m just saying.]
Beyond the doorway, rain crashed on a drenched brown tunic sprlayed about the head and hung across his body. A set of reigns lead from his hand to a horse who snorted at the indignity of hooves buried in mud.
“Good evening, sir,” the stranger said. His voice struggled against the pounding of the rain. “My name is Gregori, and am a pilgrim traveling through your countryside. I’m in need of a dry place to sleep, and perhaps some food? I have some money I can part to pay for my expenses.”
Dobbins was annoyed. Helping pilgrims was not how he planned to spend his night. His back throbbed from scurrying about the farm, harvesting the last of the squash before the storm broke. He finished eating, he was tired, and could not read this man’s intentions for all the damned rain. Dobbins couldn’t turn this man away, though. He would suffer no end of bad luck if he did, and the man might catch his death from drowning in this weather. “Let’s put your horse up. The stable isn’t far from here.”