Short Stories: Fantasy Fiction

The Butcher’s

 

Red blocks cover the left side of this shop, marking it clearly as a place of slaughter and unsavory smells. The large, study knives shine brightly at the edge side, having been sharpened constantly each day to allow the butcher his usual ease of dismembering each animal, quartering it and separating the meat for potential customers.  The handle and body of the knives are splashed grey by layers of blood residue, proof of the butcher’s experience and proficiency. 

The butcher dons his leather apron, made by himself out of pig’s leather. The few patches here and there are made from the skin of smaller animals, which granted the apron a unique look. The butcher’s chainmail gloves protect his hands from accidents: a butcher with less fingers was no butcher at all, but only a worker who toiled at his slaughterhouse. 

Short Stories: Fantasy Fiction

 

The fort

The familiar cold black stone of the walls regards its inhabitants every day. Leaning on his spear, the guard threw another pale log into the flame. The fire on the watchtower licked the stale air with much distaste, peering occasionally above its pit. Reaching for another leathery piece of meat jerky, the guard contemplated his future: He would be here until he was aged well enough and then retire, enjoying whatever time he had left from the keep’s pension of 100 copper a week. He was familiar with the crowd; retired old men huddled to their tables at the inns, with a candle for company, and empty women to talk to.  

Short Stories: 100 words

 

Towards School

 

The zigzag path was the same color of grey as every day. Darker spots littered the sides of the path here and there, no more interesting. Jian slinked forward, few steps at a time, as if fearing further punishment from an invisible persecutor. The world of a difference between doing and thinking anything at all was irrelevant in his youth. He breathed in the air of a world that moved on with or without him, much like how his parents would advise him — strongly, and with a cane.

He reached the gate. It was closed; no admittance for adults.

 

The beaten track:4

Once more:Where are we?

Embarked on the journey

Fast on the road

Quick on the worn ground

Speedy on the slippery rocks.

 

Across roads

Across rivers

Across mountains.

 

A direction quickly taken

Upon a fork, even faster

at a crossroads.

 

Progress forward,

Always onward,

At the fore

 

A great exodus

Into the fray

Away from home

 

Alas, an end?

The hill

Stops.

 

At the top,

We asked:

Where are we?

The beaten track:3

Forgone

Strike once, strike twice strike thrice!
Interrupted by noisy mice,
Hands up, the uneven array,
Tall and short, reach for the day
Touching nothing but air.

Item one:A lock of hair
Item two:Eyes, a pair
Item three:Some good teeth,
Item four:A muddy heath
To put the others upon,
To see how they come along,
Just fine, like a person’s face,
One so happy, yet forlon,
Like the ones you have forgone.

But then, never fear,
For what you have will always be here.
In the place which is near
To your heart, hear, the mere
years you have forgone.

The beaten track:2

On the way home

I looked at myself today,
Without a mirror, if I may.
Upon the pool upon the ground,
I walk on by without a sound.
Upon the sign right on the way,
Polished surface clear as day.
I always glanced and never thought
Within myself I always fought
Between outer me and inner self
Kept a distance for my health.
I laughed it all away-
the ridicule, and dismay
Because i knew it didn’t matter
At least, I thought it would be better-
If i had left it there,
Never looking, and never care
Until one day I look again
I realize my own pain.