He stood in the centre of the large open field just outside the range of the front porch light. He was wearing rubber boots, underwear and a RUSH T-Shirt. The Milky Way stretched overhead. He arched his back and mock bellowed his rage into the stars. No sound issued from his mouth but he tensed and gave it his all as though the could shatter the night wide open to see what lay behind the bowl of the sky.
Too many demands from his boss. Too many bills. Too many taxes. A newborn baby girl’s cry pierced the night.
He hurt from the exertion, bent over, and closed his eyes. At remembering he wore only underwear he was suddenly embarrassed.
A dizziness came upon him then.
The light burned his eyes when he opened them. When he could see. The night was gone. There was a bright, blue sky, and white fluffy clouds. He thought he might be having a stroke. when his hand went to his head his arms felt odd — small. There was the sound of grinding metal at his shoulder. Armour? His hand went to is ribs. He was lean and fit…
… and on a white horse. What? No, a pony.
He inhaled deeply. And when Dave looked up he saw rolling emerald hills polka-dotted with round orange and white doors.
“Petunia is looking for you, Grovis.”
Dave, from the back of his pony, swallowed hard and gripped the saddle horn hard to stop himself from fainting.
“She’s gone to the Hardbottle estate. She said to tell you to come find her.”
Dave noted that the gentleman spoke as though Petunia might be someone special.
But more importantly he noted that the gentleman was also portly, curly haired and hairy toed halfling. Dave wondered for the millionth time if they were called halfling because hobbit was copyrighted.
He should have been more concerned about his situation. But he was more awestruck than frightened. He took in the man’s yellow vest stained with loose tobacco for the pipe tucked into his belt. His buttons and his buckles were brass. His tint in his cheeks made him look drunk. But he was just… healthful.
As for himself, somehow, inexplicably, he had become a halfling knight of some sort. His armour gleamed silver. Over it there was a loose white vest with a sprig of gold wheat embroidered on the chest. A pale blue cloak was pinned to his shoulder. A shield hung on the pony’s flank. On his own hip there was a swor— no — a musket of some sort! Hadn’t expected that. He felt cold then. Genuine fear crept upon what he thought now might be a broken mind.
The station wagon in the driveway was gone. He wondered then if his sanity had left with it. Then he thought about his baby girl. Fear set in. What is this?
Suddenly, from nowhere, a foul smell was on the air.
Then the summer sky tore wide open.
And the spawn of the nine hells rained down.
TO BE CONTINUED…
A journalist who became a halfling gunslinger.
A publisher who became a dwarf cleric
A school-teacher who became a half-orc thief
A stockbroker who became a horse-warrior of the Northern Realms
And a deep-sea, oil technician who became an elf wizard
How will they get home?
Do they want to get home?