Other Drabbles 3

a collection of the Middle-earth themed but non-canonical and/or humorous drabbles by various fans
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Alphabetical by title:
A Drabble - Mousechief
Cirdan's Beard - Primula
Food Fight - Onomir
I Cannot Do This Thing - Lothithil
The Last Ship Out - Primula
The Rohirrim Ride Again (3 parts) - onónë
Spider-spit - Primula
Squibs - Primula
String Theory (11 parts) - Primula
Much Abraided - Primula

I Cannot Do This Thing

"I will not do what I have come to do... I cannot do this thing."

"I'll do it for you, Mr. Frodo..."

“No! This is my task... no one can do it for me.”

"Then get on, Frodo!"

"Yeah... what are you waiting for?"

"What's the problem here, lads?"

"It's Frodo, Cousin Bilbo... we're very worried about him.”

“He's afraid to do it, sir!”

"No, I'm not," said Frodo, "but it's so beautiful... so round and perfect, so altogether precious..."

"It's just a birthday cake, Frodo... now take the knife and cut it before your cousins starve to death!"
- Lothithil


There was a generous distribution of squibs, crackers, backarappers, sparklers, torches, dwarf-candles, elf-fountains, goblin-barkers and thunderclaps.  They were all superb, or so Merry reported in an undertone to Frodo after he and Pippin were finally tracked down and locked up inside empty ale-kegs for the remainder of the night.  It didn't quite end the mischief, as (realizing Gandalf was on to them) they had hidden a great number of rockets in plain sight, swapping them out for birthday candles on Bilbo and Frodo's cake, the candles themselves having then been eaten as a 'surprisingly chewy candy' for the Proudfoot clan.

- Primula

"Food Fight"

The hobbits and Gimli started out early with Gandalf in the lead; up the mountains side and into the snowfield.
Boromir, Aragorn and Legolas followed soon after bearing most of the supplies and leaving Bill the pony to graze at the edge of the woods.

“Wait for us you wooly footed goats!” Boromir yelled

Merry and Pippin laughed and turning about started hurling a shower of snowballs at the three men.
Boromir shielded himself as the others laughed and in turn returned fire but to no avail.

“We surrender!” Boromir shouted.

“And so you shall! For Elvensies!” Agreed Pippin happily.
- Onono Laivindur


Vainly he twisted; not another one! The horrible, creaking voices were speaking to one another. The web was tight, his head was clouded. What was he to do?

He felt the bite, and winced, though the idea of it that was worse than the bite itself. It was only a taste, a sampling of their catch before dinner like a child sneaking bread-dough before it's cooked.

And, as the aforementioned child, the spider recoiled, spitting from the unexpected taste.

"Blech! Eyagh! What is it? It's juices make me want to swoon!"

"Squeee! Don't bite it! Fangirl drool!"

Ah, thought the Elf. Marinating among admirers may save me yet...
- Primula

The Rohirrim Ride Again:

A stunning sight, beautiful and awe-inspiring to behold: the Rohirim were riding once again. The fine steeds moving in perfect unison. The riders at one with their mounts. To the observer, it was like a kaleidoscope of helms and horses, blowing manes and battle lances, swords, shields, pounding hooves. They thundered down the hill, a hundred horsemen and their horses moving as one. A truly breathtaking sight. One could almost imagine the swelling music pulsing through their movements.

Man and beast rode with but a single thought: I wonder if this will be as popular as the RCMP Musical Ride.
- onónë

The Rohirrim Ride Again... Part 2

Theoden called Eomer in for a consultation.

“You wanted to see me, Sire?” asked Eomer as he bowed to one knee in front of his uncle.

“I’ve been thinking, this rugged look is good for us and all, but it’s about time for a change.”

“A change, Sire? What kind of a change would that be?”

“You know… something different.”

Eomer protested. “But Sire, we are known for our helms with their horse-tail plumage, for our mail and our cloaks. And Brown is our color!”

“Yes,” responded Theoden, “But picture this…. The Rohirim will ride to war in Red Serge!”

Part 3.

Eomer fumed out of the throne room. He had had enough. He would have preferred anything to this. ANYTHING! What had possessed his uncle, King Theoden? Possessed! Wait a second!

“Eomer, you may be on to something,” he told himself aloud, glancing around to see if anyone was within earshot. “This new devilry must be a work of Saruman and his pawn, Grima. Who else could be so treacherous?”

He went in search of Gandalf to talk about Theoden’s odd behavior, subconsciously straightening his lanyard, adjusting his “Sam Browne” belt and tucking his Stetson under his arm as he went.


String Theory


Gandalf was in the tallest tree and beneath him the wargs and goblins approached, singing their terrible yet insipid song about birds and cookery.  Flames flickered around the clearing in the night.  The dwarves (and a hobbit) clung to the branches and watched fearfully as fire was laid at the base of the wizard's tree.  'Ya hoy!" sang the goblins in triumph.  The fire began to spread to the other trees, but what was this?  Gandalf drew himself up to his full height as best he was able in a treetop and the wizard unleashed his powers upon them.


"Yarrrrg!" cried the goblins in dismay as great squiggles of silly-string shot down upon them from the wizard's staff, squiggles in green, yellow and pink festooned their goblin-teeth, snarled in the fur of the wargs, clogged their ears and put out their fires.  And still it came, out of the air at Gandalf's command.  It came on, piling up at the base of the trees, burying the struggling enemy beneath its colorful, cheery coils.  The dwarves, at first dismayed by what appeared to be yet another threat (that of drowning in silly-string) were soon applauding as best they were able.


The goblins were no longer a threat, nor the wargs; the last visible were either rapidly sinking beneath a tide of pastel noodles or struggling home in panic.  The rising wind caught streamers of silly-string and drew it up and down in great squiggles, catching upon the branches, swaying and bobbing.  Their beards and clothing were soon flecked with bits like confetti.  And still it came. 

"Er, Gandalf," Bilbo ventured to call out. "They've gone!  We've quite enough silly-string, thank you." 

Gandalf did not reply, as just at that very moment he was swept into the sky by an eagle.


The dwarves stared, hollered and shrieked in undwarflike mannerisms as they went aloft.  Streamers and lines of pastel noodles blew from their clothing as they broke away from mounds of silly-string.  Above them, eagles' wings powerfully swept, before went a line of eagles bearing dwarves (and hobbit), all following the easily seen trail of pink, yellow and green that still squirted unendingly from Gandalf in the lead.  Beneath them the country bore a dotted line showing their path.  Bilbo found this a great revelation and decided right then to use dotted lines on his own maps to show his travels. 


The eagles landed, dropping the dwarves (and hobbit) into a pile upon their eyrie.  Just beyond them they could dimly make out the ledge upon which their wizard had been deposited.   It was not long until it began to overflow, the rough stick nest brimming with moonlit silly-string.  Great fat garlands of it twisted down over the ledges in a slow-motion pastel waterfall and more came.  All they could see of Gandalf was his hat bobbing above the mounded undulations of silly-string that marked where he stood. 

"%@*!#!" they heard his voice of Wisdom declare in muffled thunder.  "Turn OFF!"

The piles of silly-string subsided as Gandalf flailed his way out of them, multi-hued gobs dropping off the eyrie into the night.  It was not until their arrival at Beorn's the following days they discovered where some had gone.   It appeared wizard-generated silly-string gobs were more aerodynamic than they had expected, judging by the festoons that draped the Carrock, dotted the bushes and hung upon the gables of their host's dwelling.  Gandalf also received something of a dressing-down when in relating the tale of events he gestured in an overly-wizardly way and accidently turned all of Beorn's provisions into spaghetti.

"Must you really leave?" Bilbo asked Gandalf as they stood near the darksome eaves of Mirkwood Forest. 

"Yes, but you must continue on," said his friend. "I need you to keep watching over those dwarves for me. Here, I have something for you that may help if there are any missteps."  He pressed something into Bilbo's hand, a small rounded metal canister with a button on the top of it.  "Only press it in greatest need. And stay on the path! Now goodbye, and really goodbye!"  He mounted his horse and sped away.  Bilbo entered the woods only slightly comforted.

"Achhhh...sssss" hissed the spiders in frustration.  "What is it? What is it called?"  No matter which way they turned, the horrid attack continued. Their prey was getting away!

"String! String! String!" replied the infuriating invisible voice, the glowing can of "port-a-wiz" silly-string that he had been given in case of emergencies was certainly coming in handy now.  Silly-string shot into the spider's eyes, confused them as no web of their own making ever had.  In fear they ran gibbering into the darkness, spluttering on blue pastel strands, their spinnerets clogged with pink and yellow.  They were no match for String!


"I gave them the Arkenstone!" squeaked Bilbo.  Thorin shook him til his head was a blur.

"You!" cried Thorin. "By the beard of Durin, I wish I had Gandalf here!..." his continued curses echoed. "I'll throw you down...!"

"If you don't like my Burglar, please don't damage him," came Gandalf's voice. "You are not making a very splendid figure as King Under the Mountain."

"Why....you...." spluttered Thorin.  His entire face, beard and all, suddenly disappeared under a mound of silly-string that the wizard shot forth. "Blaphllgpla!" he added, flailing around as Bilbo neatly made his escape down the wall.


'Bless me! What's going on?' cried Bilbo. There was a great commotion, people thick round his door.  He had arrived back during an auction for his own effects. 

"He's not dead?" shrieked Lobelia, clutching spoons to her chest.

"He is! That is not the genuine Bilbo!" stated Otho authoritatively.  "And I should know, being his next-of-kin and all.  Begone, you pretender!"

Gandalf smoothed his beard.  "We'll soon set this right."  The Sackville-Baggins (and much of the population of Hobbiton, for that matter) promptly vanished under mounds of undulating silly-string.  I am sorry to say, Bilbo did not mind a bit.


One morning the hobbits woke to find the large field, south of Bilbo's door, covered with silly-string.  A special entrance was cut in the mess and steps were woven there as if from crochet.  The silly-string crocheted tents were by Gandalf:  they were not only designed by him, but made by him; and the special effects, fountains of pastel noodles, were let off by him.  They were all superb.  The art of Gandalf improved with age.

A tremendous lot of streamers shot up, forming a floating plate of spaghetti in the sky.

'That is the signal for supper!' said Bilbo.
- Primula

Cirdan's Beard

"Ouch!" cried the Elf and not for the first time that day. First his hammar slipped, banging his thumb, then that beam knocked him on the head and now his beard had gone and caught in the decorative feather-like edging he had been chiseling since lunchtime. He grumbled as he untangled the silvery, silky chin-hairs and rewound them into the facial bun he wore when working. Why oh why had he ever consented to trying out that 'sun-lotion' those dwarves had sold him all those years ago? And why oh why had he put it on his face, of all places?
- Primula

The Last Ship Out

Cirdan stood upon the crest of the hill and looked down upon his well-loved Bay. Below him the last ship waited by the peaceful dock. He raised his bullhorn to his mouth and called inward to the lands of Middle-earth.


"Aw, already? But we just got here!" came a complaint from the trees nearby.

"But we were just starting a new song!" grumbled another voice as the trees came alive with Elven host.

"It just isn't faaaair," whined an Elf, "Why are you not making any more ships? You said you'd wait for us!"


Grumbling and whining, Elves began to file down the hillside, then began to run as they caught sight of the ship. It's formerly gleaming, empty decks were already beginning to be thronged with Elves. More Elves descended by the steps and pathways at the ends of the Bay, others made their way down ropes cast over the steeper parts of the cliffs. The paths began to be alive with Elves, pushing, shoving and complaining.

Cirdan gave a resigned sigh as the ship began to flounder under its load, sinking until its deckrails were nearly to the level of the sea.


Elves were still trying to get aboard the ship, clinging to the mast and ropes. Fistfights were breaking out. Cirdan watched as one of those aboard cut the ropes with a sword and the ship lumbered out to sea, leaving a shrieking, protesting mass on the docks. Some of them acutally leapt into the water, trying to swin after.

Cirdan's clear eyes watched, knowing what would happen. Sure enough, the remaining crowd turned to him, begging and beseeching him. He knew they would continue until he built another ship. And he would. Again. Prophetic gifts and procrastinators just didn't mix, he thought.

- Primula

A Drabble

"Come on Pip, we've got to go in there. I'll be with you the whole time."

Pippin shuddered as the stale air seeped from the dark, cavernous opening.
"I don't know Merry. There's probably spiders and dust, and who know's what creeping around down there. I've even heard it's haunted."

"Nonsense," replied Merry. "Besides, Frodo would do the same for you and we are definately well armed."

And with that, Merry grabbed up his mop and pail and marched down the steps into the cellar at Bag End to begin spring cleaning. Pippin reluctantly followed behind.

The End.
- mousechief

Much Abraided

The birthday party had been a roaring success, Bilbo observed blearily. Looking at the condition of his home, it must have been. Empty ale mugs littered the hall, dirty plates and cake crumbs were scattered on every flat surface and the drone of Dwarven snoring came from all the rooms, even the pantry.

He tripped over the handle of a small hatchet on his way to the kitchen, but when he passed the wardrobe mirror he had blink, and back up then take a good look again. Yes, that was his hair, completely done up in short dwarven beard braids!
- Primula


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