Fragments from books that don’t exist: Flod the Vincible


“I always surrender,” Pinkett declared. “There’s no point in fighting on if it means that somebody might get hurt.”

“What kind of hero are you?” Surya asked.

“Just terrible,” he admitted. “I haven’t really done anyone any good in years.”

“Can you tell me about that time?” she asked. Surya was sitting comfortably in her light-brown leather lounge chair, while her patient was made to endure the hard-edged plastic of the forest-green lawn bench she had strategically placed across the room where the glare of the sun was most likely to cause real pain.

“It was a little boy,” Pinkett began, after hesitating and scratching his ear for a moment. “I believe his name was Jahlomar. This was in the Eastern war.”

“Quite some time ago then,” Surya commented.

“He only wanted a pickle,” Pickett stumbled over the words and could not go on. The mere thought of that lone, sad pickle was just too much. He shifted in his seat as the memories overwhelmed him again.


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