The following lacks words, plot, and characters enough to be as a short story, or even a piece of “flash fiction”. In truth, it hardly qualifies as a vignette. Still, I had this fragment of an idea, and started typing.
As far as anyone could make out, there was no reason for Ogres to be the absolute best poets in the Known Lands. As a species, their command of the spoken word was dubious, their understanding of the underlying tenets of grammar and usage doubtful, and such niceties as simile, tone, and anapestic tetrameter demonstrably beyond their grasp. And yet, Ogrish poets consistently produced works of thunderous depth and soul-shattering truth. That the quills were most often gripped with a full fist and inked with the blood of unwary travellers was immaterial, as were the green-tinted drool spots that adorned the original texts. The spelling was horrific (the Guild of Prose routinely flung budding authors into deep ravines to appease Kairpoln, Undergod of Easily Corrected Errors, for lesser offenses), but such trivial blemishes only served to underscore the brilliance of the material. As Manumon The Exceptionally Long-Lived said: “To hear the message of a god is the highest honor, even if he is belching the words.”
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