If LotR had been written by someone else!?

[Son of Númenor]

Frodo awoke with a pounding headache. Standing up, he felt a searing pain shoot down his spine, and realized he had been sleeping on a root. He cursed, and walked drowsily over to where Sam was making a pot of coffee.

"You look like hell," said Sam, pouring him a cup.

"It's the Ring," said Frodo.

In 1976, Mordor Technology Management & Services Inc. had conceived of the One Ring: an electronical manifestation of a fraction of the Dark Lord's being, encoded digitally into a golden band with microconductive properties. The idea of making an evil spirit physically manifest was not new; years before, MelkCom engineers had used type IIb boron-coated diamonds to disseminate their CEO's EVIL (Electronically Viable Inherent Loathsomeness) into the fabric of earth's lithosphere. But MTMS Inc. was taking it to a new level, with sophisticated doping techniques allowing engineers to procure an infinitesimally small electronic encoding of EVIL. In another ten years, dissemination techniques would become obsolete, replaced with extreme concentrations of structurally pure EVIL. The ramifications were huge if this technology became commercially and -- more importantly -- militarily viable.

Frodo knew all of this, of course, being the one who had been hired by Riven Dell Electronics to 'devalue' the Ring -- an industry euphemism for the destruction of a superior technology by a rival company, amounting essentially to corporate hijacking.

Frodo shouldered his pack as he downed the last swig of hot coffee. "Let's get moving," he said. "We should make camp in Bree by 1900 hours."

[Anguirel]

THE RETURN OF THE KING by Evelyn Waugh


"So the ruffians were allowed to surrender, as you promised me?" Frodo Crouchback asked.

Merry De Souza shook his head. "Awfully sorry, old chap. The partisans up at the Smials insisted we shoot them all. After all, they were traitors against the Communist state."

"They'd done nothing wrong," Frodo replied. "The woman in charge of them insisted they were displaced factory workers, nothing more."

"They were a danger to the sovereign power of the Party in the Shire," De Souza replied curtly. "The price they paid was appropriate. Oh, and by the way, there's a telegram...two, actually..."

Frodo took them from De Souza uneasily. The first read:

Crouch End. Rosie has had a son stop. Best wishes sir Sam Gamgee stop.

The second:

Michel Delving War Office. We regret to inform you that a bomb landed on your residence at Bag End yesterday evening, killing all inside except one newborn infant stop.

***

Frodo looked at the baby in horror. "It's...ah..."

"Doesn't look anything like Sam, does it?" the Gaffer growled. "No, everyone knew that girl was carrying Ted Sandyman's child."

"It doesn't matter whose son it is," Frodo answered. "I must bring it up."

"It'll need a mother," the Gaffer observed. At that moment, Pervinca Took walked by. Frodo hung his head in quiet resignation.

Later in the day, he remembered Arwen's jewel, and how it had fallen into a quagmire on the way home. He had feared then for his path to the West. Now, saddled with wife and child, he knew the journey could no longer occur. He only hoped he wouldn't be forced to act as Mayor, now Sam was dead. His shoulder was aching.

***

In Gondor, two gloomy, armoured men sat in a pub. Faramir had lost his seat as Steward of Gondor at the election, to a young Labour candidate. Aragorn had found himself unemployed after the postwar abolition of the Gondorian monarchy.

"Any news from Frodo Crouchback?" he asked.

"Married," Faramir said bitterly. "He's got a grand new house up in Buckland, and a son and heir. He's been appointed Mayor of the Shire in perpetuity for the rest of his life."

"Yes, all in all," Aragorn concluded, "things have turned out very well for Frodo."

[Kuruharan]

And Tuor stood upon the shore, and the sun was like a smoky fire behind the menace of the sky; and it seemed to him that a great wave rose far off and rolled towards the land, but wonder held him, and he remained there unmoved. And the wave came towards him, and upon it lay a mist of shadow. Then suddenly as it drew near it curled, and broke, and rushed forward in long arms of foam; but where it had broken there stood dark against the rising storm a living shape of great height and majesty.

Then Tuor bowed in reverence, for it seemed to him that he beheld a mighty king. A tall crown he wore like silver, from which his hair fell down as foam glimmering in the dusk; and as he cast back the gray mantle that hung about him like a mist, behold! he was clad in a gleaming coat, close-fitted as the mail of a mighty fish, and in a kirtle of deep green that flashed and flickered with sea-fire as he strode slowly towards the land. In this manner the Dweller of the Deep, whom the Noldor name Ulmo, Lord of Waters, showed himself to Tuor son of Huor of the House of Hador beneath Vinyamar.

He set no foot upon the shore, but standing knee-deep in the shadowy sea he spoke to Tuor, and then for the light of his eyes and for the sound of his deep voice that came as it seemed from the foundations of the world, fear fell upon Tuor and he cast himself down upon the sand.

“Tuor, son of Huor,” said Ulmo, “OH DON’T GROVEL!!! If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s people groveling!!”

“Sorry,” said Tuor, very much crushed.

“AND DON’T APOLOGIZE!!!” roared Ulmo. “Every time I try to talk to somebody it’s always ‘Sorry this’ and ‘Forgive me that’ and ‘I’m not worthy.’ WHAT ARE YOU DOING NOW?!”

“I’m averting my eyes, O Lord,” replied Tuor.

“WELL DON’T!!” boomed Ulmo. “It’s like that miserable Narn it’s going to be so depressing. NOW KNOCK IT OFF!!!”

“Yes Lord,” said Tuor.

“Right,” said Ulmo. “Tuor, son of Huor, you shall have a task to make yourself an example in these dark times.”

“Good idea, Lord,” interrupted Tuor.

“OF COURSE IT’S A GOOD IDEA!!!” roared Ulmo. Tuor was shown a vision of a shining city upon a hill. “Behold, Tuor,” said Ulmo, “this is Gondolin. Look well Tuor for it is your sacred task to seek this city. This is your purpose, Tuor, the Quest to tell Turgon its time to get out of Dodge!”

The waves rolled and it seemed to Tuor that they formed two great curtains. These curtains swept together with a crash and took Ulmo from Tuor’s sight.

“A blessing,” said Arminas, “a blessing from the Lord of Waters!”

“Ulmo be praised!” said Gelmir.

“Aren’t the two of you supposed to be headed south?” asked Tuor. “This is my blessing!!”

[Folwren]

This has been very humorous to glance through, and, alas, that's all I've had time to do - glance. I have read only one or two in full. (I like the Alexandre Dumas one, by the way.)

I did, however, decide to try my own hand at it and after looking at what authors have been used I didn't find anything written by him. So, off we go.

The Steep Stairway
By Lemony Snicket (author of A Series of Unfortunate Events)

When you think of a stair way you probably have a picture in your mind of a stair way at your home, or perhaps at school, or maybe even at church, and possibly a hotel. The stairway at home leads to a pleasant place if you're going to the kitchen to get a snack or to your room to get some sleep. The stairway at school can take you pleasant places if you like your art teacher, or liturature class, and the stairs at church often lead you to no worse place than a little bathtub that the pastor dunks you in and you get a little wet. Or the stairs at a hotel are handy if the elevator is broken, or you can't use them because your enemy is using them you have to leave by the back door. Of course, no harm can come of these stairs and no one is afraid of them. The stairway that this book is about is nothing like the stairs in your house, school, church, or hotel. They don't lead to a pleasant place, and they're not pleasant in themselves at all. They climb up and up the virtical cliff face as though they meant to go right up into the clouds and continue on, and they did, as far as Frodo and Sam could see from the bottom.

It was quite a gloomy outlook for the hobbits and they could not help but feel discouraged, a word which here means "feeling too tired to climb all those stairs to do something as nasty as throw a ring into a blazing hot fire that might kill them anyway."

"I feel quite discouraged," Frodo said. "Almost too tired to climb all those stairs and all we get to do when we get to the top is throw this ring into a blazing hot fire that might kill us anyway."

Sam looked at his master sadly and took his hand.

"It's alright, Mr. Frodo," he said quietly. He often wanted to bear the burden his master had to take, but sometimes you can't take other people's things from them and this was one of the times. "We won't think about the fire just now. Let's concentrate on going up. Look, Gollum's waiting for us up and he seems in an awful hurry. Come on."

They started the climb up and Gollum went on before them. But I don't think you want to read about their horrible climb up the slippery, slimy stairs. It was such an uncomfortable journey that you would probably throw the book down in digust if I even mentioned the mud that came off on their hands and knees and feet as they climbed, and how tired their knees became as they continued to bend and straighten, and how hungry and thirsty they became as they went. Not that it would be bad if you threw down the book, but you have chosen to read it. But you don't have to finish the account of their horribly long journey upwards into darkness, but it would leave you in such complete misery and a state of weeping that you would never want to read about Frodo and Sam again. But because I have sworn to research and write everything I learn of Frodo and Sam's journey up these stairs and into Mordor, I must faithfully pen all that I know. You, however, have not sworn to read it and so may put down the book at once before I begin.

It is not enough merely to write that "Frodo and Sam climbed up and up so long that it is not enough merely to write that 'Frodo and Sam climbed up and up so long that it is not enough merely to write that "Frodo and Sam climbed up and up so long that it is not enough merely to write that...

Dear Elrond,

I take the liberty to write you while I have a chance. My reader has hopefully taken my advise and abandoned this book and put it somewhre else, in which case it will be safe to write you without much worry of being discovered. If the reader did not stop then we are safe because he is brave enough to read whatever I have to say to you.

I would like to accept your invitation to tea, it sounded quite wonderful. But what we have to do and what we would like to do are often quite two different things, so I am afraid that I have to say that I can not make it.

With all due respect,

Lemony Snicket

[daeron]

" Ah Sir!It seems you have hurt my Lord! ",cried Eowyn

" I am extremely sorry. But I am in a terrible hurry, please excuse me!", said the witchking.

" Excuse you! Why you come barging through on that abominable steed, throw a horse over my lord, crush him under its weight and you think you can run off. Undeceive yourself comrade.You are not the Dark Lord."

"Well I did say I was sorry. But I really am in the greatest haste. I have a war to win. I did not do it on purpose.Nevertheless I apologize once again though at this time it seems an excess of courtesy."

"Well your apology is not accepted. You are by no means polite.You look like a gentleman from your clothing. I would expect a little more courtesy from you. "

" You are no one to instruct me in manners."

"Perhaps I am."

"Well then, draw your sword. And who shall you call for seconds. I have eight to choose from, you observe."

" Well, as I have no one, we shall have to settle this between ourselves, unless you are such a coward as to call for seconds when I have none"

" I am more than a match for you. Let me warn you that I never require a second shot at my opponents."

" Neither will you this time, lord for I shall thrust this blade into you before you even take your stroke."

" We shall see. it has been said no man can kill me. But before we start, I would like to know with whom I have the honour of fighting."

" I am Eowyn de Edoras, Lady de Rohan and the niece of the Lord Theoden de Rohan. As you see, I am no man."

[Folwren]

Excellent Muskateer style!! Yes! Another Dumas. That is sweet.