A Game At Farkle
“It’s not your turn, it’s mine” said Bunthorne.
“You’re cheating,” said Morton, before he realised Bunthorne was right. He handed over the wooden cup and its contents.
Bunthorne threw the dice, enjoying the scrabbling sound of bone on wood as they hit the table.
“A six, and a five,” he said, and that’s what they were. He noted the numbers and handed the dice to Featherstonehaugh.
Featherstonehaugh went through his usual ritual, taking the dice from the pot, rubbing them with his left hand, then his right, and blowing on them.
“I’ve got a beer,” said Morton, sipping it as it appeared in his hand, “anyone else want one?”
“Me, please” said Featherstonehaugh.
“You’ve got one,” replied Morton, as a second pint popped into existence.
“A four,” he announced, “and a two.”
“My turn!” said Manderley enthusiastically, shaking the dice with great gusto and throwing them with a theatrical flick of the wrist. He looked down, and then around the table.
“A seven, and a ten!” he cried.
“No numbers higher than six,” said Morton, “you know the rules.”
“Alright,” he said, before breaking into a beatific smile, “a bunny and a parakeet!”
The other players pulled their chairs away from the table, illuminated in the midst of the room by a yellow spotlight, where a large white rabbit shivered with fright, and a parakeet squawked and flapped. Blue and green feathers flew everywhere.
Featherstonehaugh tutted, plucking one feather from his beer, and several more from his moustache.
“If we’ve told you once, we’ve told you a hundred times,” he said crossly, “no transfiguration! You’ve rolled two ones.”
Manderley shot him a mutinous look, but wrote the numbers just the same. The table was pristine again, and the two tiny white dots stared irrefutably up at him from the bone-grey once-more-dice. The youngest semiotic mage muttered something as he passed them and the cup to Morton, and it might have been “you people are no fun.”