Just Another Sunday

  Tom the blacksmith was the finest hammer-swinger in the wee little village of Devonshire. He could shoe a horse in his sleep, forge a sword before breakfast, and once bent iron just by looking at it funny. Or so he claimed.

  One sunny morning, Simon the butcher waddled up, panting.

  “Tom! I need a new cleaver. The last one snapped in half!”

  Tom raised an eyebrow. “What were you cutting?”

  “Bread.”

  “Simon, that was a butter knife.”

  Next came Eli the merchant, fanning himself with a coin purse.

  “Tom! I need a strong lock for my treasure chest. Pirates, you know.”

  Tom peeked inside the purse. “Eli, you’ve got three buttons and a rock in here.”

  “It’s sentimental treasure.”

  Tom handed him a shoelace. “Try this. Pirates hate knots.”

  Then came Greta the baker.

  “Tom! I need a metal spoon that won’t melt!”

  “What are you stirring?”

  “Porridge.”

  Tom frowned. “Then what happened to the last spoon?”

  “I left it on the forge.”

  Tom handed her a ladle and muttered, “May the gods of common sense protect it.”

  At last, the village elder hobbled up.

  “Tom! I need a cane strong enough to lean on.”

  Tom handed him a sword.

  The elder blinked. “This is a weapon!”

  Tom shrugged. “Exactly. Now people will make way.”

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  Tom the Blacksmith and the Purgatory Problem

  It was a slow Tuesday. Tom the blacksmith was polishing a horseshoe with one hand and stirring his tea with a wrench when Father Bernard, the Catholic priest, strolled up the road, robes fluttering and brow furrowed.

  “Tom,” said Father Bernard, “I need your help forging a donation box. The old one’s full.”

  Tom raised an eyebrow. “You finally selling indulgences by the pound?”

  The priest gave a patient smile. “We’re raising funds for the poor souls in purgatory.”

  Tom snorted. “Purgatory? That halfway house between Heaven and common sense?”

  Father Bernard folded his arms. “It’s a place of purification!”

  “So is my forge,” Tom said, gesturing to a smoking anvil. “But I don’t charge rent to dead people.”

  The priest sighed. “Tom, not everything can be hammered into shape.”

  “Wrong,” Tom said, holding up a horseshoe, a sword, and a frying pan. “All proof otherwise.”

  Father Bernard tapped his cross. “This is faith, not ironwork.”

  Tom tapped his hammer. “This is reason, not guesswork.”

  The two stared at each other.

  Finally, the priest said, “Look—just build me the box.”

  Tom nodded. “Fine. But I’m putting a sticker on it that says ‘No Refunds After Death.’”

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  Tom the Blacksmith and the Knight, the Widow, and the Banker

  Tom was hammering a shovel back into the vague shape of a shovel when a shadow fell over his anvil.

  “Blacksmith,” rumbled a deep voice. “I need a new sword.”

  Tom looked up to see an old knight in rusting armor, holding a blade bent like a question mark.

  “What happened to the last one?” Tom asked.

  “I tripped over a goose.”

  Tom nodded solemnly. “A noble foe.”

  He handed the knight a replacement. “Don’t fight poultry with honor next time.”

  Before the knight could respond, a hunched widow appeared, dragging a rusted iron pot.

  “Tom, darling,” she said sweetly, “can you make this pot lighter?”

  Tom examined it. “I could, but then it wouldn’t hold anything.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “It hasn’t held soup since my third husband died. Fell in, poor soul.”

  Tom blinked. “…What?”

  She just smiled. “Accident, of course.”

  Tom quietly backed away and whispered to himself, “Make it heavier.”

  Then came Barton the banker, in a velvet hat too large for his head and a purse too small for his ego.

  “Tom, I need a safe—something impenetrable.”

  “Planning to store gold?” Tom asked.

  “No. Secrets.”

  Tom gave him a locked box and the key.

  “Wait,” said Barton. “You’re giving me the key?”

  Tom grinned. “Of course. So when your secrets leak, you’ll know who to blame.”

  Barton paled.

  Tom leaned on his anvil, looked at the sky, and muttered, “I don’t know why people keep coming to me with problems that can’t be solved with metal…”

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  Tom the Blacksmith Goes North

  One chilly morning, Tom packed up his hammer, three spare horseshoes, and a suspicious meat pie from Simon the butcher, and set off to visit the town of Northhollow.

  “Why Northhollow?” asked Father Bernard as Tom passed the chapel.

  Tom shrugged. “They say their blacksmith died trying to forge a mirror for a philosopher. Sounds like my kind of place.”

  The road was long and muddy, much like Simon’s meat pies, and by the time Tom arrived, his boots had developed personalities of their own.

  At the gate, a guard stopped him. “State your name and business.”

  “Tom. Blacksmith. Visiting to see if your people are as strange as ours.”

  The guard looked confused. “You mean… normal?”

  Tom nodded. “Exactly.”

  Inside, he found the town square oddly quiet. Too quiet. Then a woman ran up.

  “Are you the smith? You must be! Come quick—our town’s cursed!”

  “Let me guess,” said Tom. “Your well sings at night and your cows speak French?”

  The woman blinked. “No… our mayor got stuck in a suit of armor during the harvest festival.”

  Tom found the mayor near the tavern, immobile in a gleaming set of plate mail, arms locked in an accidental royal wave.

  “I sneezed while trying it on,” the mayor explained through the visor. “Now I rule by gesture.”

  Tom inspected the armor. “Looks like a standard ‘hubris and ale’ model. I can get you out.”

  He lit a small fire, poured water on the joints, and gave the chestplate a firm whack with his hammer. The armor popped open like a walnut.

  The mayor stood, dazed. “You’re a genius!”

  Tom shrugged. “Nah. Just good at hitting things until they work.”

  As he turned to leave, the townsfolk gathered to cheer him.

  “Anything we can give you in return?” someone called.

  Tom grinned. “You got any cursed artifacts or haunted kettles? I collect those.”

  He walked back home that evening with a singing spoon, a wooden duck that may have blinked, and the quiet pride of knowing he’d solved another problem in the most reasonable way possible: with fire and steel.

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  Tom the Blacksmith and the Devonshire Devil

  Tom returned to Devonshire just in time to find the village in chaos—or at least slightly more chaotic than usual.

  Greta the baker was weeping over flour that had turned into sawdust. Simon the butcher’s knives had gone blunt. Father Bernard was trying to baptize a goat that kept quoting Latin.

  And in the center of the square, lounging on a barrel of cider, was a horned figure in red boots and a smug expression.

  “Well, well,” purred the Devonshire Devil. “If it isn’t the hammer-happy holy man himself.”

  Tom folded his arms. “Heard you were stirring up mischief.”

  The Devil grinned. “Call it ‘creative management.’ I’ve introduced chaos, despair, and intermittent plumbing failures. Business is booming.”

  Tom scratched his chin. “Alright. Let’s make a deal. A game of wits. If I win, you leave. If you win…”

  “I take your soul!” the Devil declared, flames dancing from his nostrils.

  Tom rolled his eyes. “No. You get to polish my anvil for a week.”

  The Devil frowned. “That’s not very dramatic.”

  “Neither is losing,” said Tom.

  The village gathered. Bets were placed. The goat was disqualified.

  The Devil snapped his fingers and conjured a riddle. “I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?”

  Tom squinted. “An echo.”

  The Devil blinked. “Alright. Fine. Beginner’s luck.”

  Tom stepped forward. “My turn. What’s red, wears boots, causes trouble, and gets outsmarted by blacksmiths?”

  The Devil sneered. “That’s ridiculous. The answer is—”

  Tom grinned. “You, obviously.”

  The villagers erupted in laughter. Simon wheezed. Greta spilled flour in joy. Even the goat clapped.

  The Devil turned beet red.

  “I’ll get you for this, Tom!” he howled. “You haven’t seen the last of me!”

  He vanished in a puff of smoke—and reappeared three feet to the left.

  “Still working on my exits!” he shouted, then vanished again—this time landing in the fountain with a splash.

  Soaked and furious, he finally disappeared for good.

  Tom shook his head. “Honestly, not even the worst customer I’ve had.”

  Father Bernard crossed himself. “You do realize you’ve just insulted a demon?”

  Tom shrugged. “Better than arguing with a banker.”