Day 70 Writing Short Stories

To Kill

Monsters are made. It was a repeating thought, plaguing him as he moved amongst the trees beside men, whom he would die for, whom he had known most of his life. He twisted his fingers around the hilt of his sword, still keeping it in its sheath, listening to the twigs and leaves bend under the tracking feet. The woods were getting darker and twisted as they moved onward. The trees towered over them, hanging their long arms down as if to stop them from going farther.

Monsters are made. They are not born.

He licked his lips and tried to push aside the uncomfortable feeling. This was the king’s request. Requests were to be kept.

His captain lifted his hand into a fist, and he, along with the other men, came to a halt. He kept his fingers on the hilt of his sword, waiting for a command to release it. He glanced at William, whose hands shook as they always did. Yet, when it came time for combat, they were as steady as any man’s.

John, not too far from them, knelt on the ground, pushing his hand into the soil, feeling what was to come. John had kept them alive all these years. He was the heart and soul of the unit. His sixth sense made him more than any mortal man could ever dream of being.

He gave a nod, and all the men drew their swords.

Henry released his hand and motioned them to advance past the scorched, shielding trees.

Monsters are made. Kings make monsters. There it was again. He pushed his feet deeper into the ground, feeling the earth rumble underneath him. He had his brothers’ strength with him. Thoughts were not his to visit.

Past the monstrous trees and their hanging limbs, the earth turned to black soot, and there it was, the witch’s cottage with its dark walls and painted windows.

They got no farther than the burned grass around the cottage as men dropped to their knees, holding their chests. The piercing pain shot down his spine, making his whole body convulse. John was the only one standing, unaffected by the pain.

I eat your little, ignorant hearts.

He swallowed, trying to push up from the ground, but the pain kept him pinned down.

The door shot open, and she stood there. Her gray hair flowed loose in the gentle breeze coming from the woods. She was dressed head to toe in mourning clothes, dark as the night. There was no cackle. No broom. No familiar. There was just her, and her stern gaze.

“First you try to burn me and the woods, and now you take your iron where it should not go,” she said. Her words sent pain down his arms, making him release his sword.

He could see John falter, but he still stood his ground.

“Make no mistake, ma’am, this is justice. This is the right course,” John bellowed, taking his cross and sword into the air, but he dropped both as they turned into vipers.

“Yes, there is that what you call a justice of the cross, and this is mine and the woods.” She squeezed her hand into a tight ball, and his heart gave out.

Monsters are monsters even with a crown and a cross.

—

I didn’t quite get the story right. I struggled with every paragraph. I could have gone down an easier path, writing about monsters as I have written before, but I wanted to do something else and write about a unit, but I think I didn’t get it as I wanted. But I’m glad I tried, and there was at least a story. However, I’m not happy with the ending. Not at all.

What I got today was a conversational fantasy about overcoming a monster, written in limited third person. Maybe tomorrow the words will flow more easily.

Thank you for reading! Have an imaginative day ❤