|Influences||I'm influenced by creepy horror stories and inspiration.|
|Bio||I'm an engineering student who loves writing short stories and poetry in her spare time.|
We heard something.
That was strange in itself considering we had not spoken for nearly seven years now - and for good reason too. Stitched lips and Troopers tend to put fear into people’s souls. The quietness is what had kept us alive until that point and whoever broke it did not see another day.
But how the voice sounded, now that was very strange. It was in the old language, which I was surprised I understood since I couldn’t remember what my own voice sounded like, but the words they spoke - or screamed rather - did not sound like words that haven’t been spoken for years, but instead ones that had been spoken regularly.
"Come at me you bastards!"
The voice didn’t seem strained or rough like the ones who speak right before they are executed. It sounded strong and full of life. Too bad their idiocy would get them killed.
Speaking meant death.
But still, at the sound we looked up at each other in shock, eyes wide with surprise and my nutrient pack on my chest jostled at the movement. I stared at my six year old sister’s stitched lips and wished she knew the joys of speaking; of not having rotting teeth due to not eating with them; of not having a tube stuck down your throat to feed you at birth; of freedom. But slowly, we turned our eyes back down to The Book Of Truth. We weren’t reading, we knew every word by now considering one hour a day was dedicated to reading it and the Troopers would know if we didn’t. Instead, our ears strained to listen to the struggle the person was putting up. I counted in my head and after a while I found myself staring at the door that led outside with wide eyes, they’ve lasted longer than their predecessors.
Once I realised my eyes had strayed from the Holy Book however, I immediate snapped them back down, hoping that no Trooper noticed my lapse in concentration. The war had lasted for so long I forgot others existed - others who weren’t kept as captives and made to build a fortress, executed at the age of 40 if they hadn’t died first. They were too strong, too powerful and too sinister to care.
The voice yelled again, joined this time by others, but shockingly not in defeat. In victory. How many of them are there if they can overpower the Troopers?
My sister's eyes once again quickly met my own, not knowing what was said but realising it’s urgency and my breathing picked up. What was going on out there? Hope threatened to rear its head but I quickly shoved it aside. Hope led to death.
I heard rushed footsteps racing towards our room and heavy feet slammed onto the steps leading up to our door. Suddenly it banged open, hitting the wall and a man burst in. I met the man’s gaze with fearful eyes that soon turned to amazement. His face was muddy and his hair matted but the thing that made me forget to breathe was his mouth, his smile. There were no stitch marks scarring his face and he smiled with teeth, “We’re here to rescue all of you. We are the resistance. Come with us to save the world.”
His words made me feel a mixture of emotions. Had the war really gotten that bad that a resistance was formed? We knew nothing of the outside world, but I assumed we still were fighting with armies. But still, I was hopeful because at least someone was still fighting.
His grin faltered as he saw my eyes suddenly turn panicked but before I could point to the Trooper behind him, a shot echoed through the room and I flinched. He was dead. Our only chance at freedom, shot in the head. My eyes lingered on his lips, not stitched and now belonging to a dead man before they flew to the Trooper.
The Trooper stared at us from behind his helmet and my sister and I quickly turned our gazes back to The Book Of Truth as he dragged the mans body outside, his head thumping on each step. My sister didn’t know what was said so she didn’t experience the flare of unwanted hope at the man’s words, but I understood. A tear slid down my cheek, dropping onto page 623 of the Holy Book and I knew my sister saw it, but she couldn’t say anything.
None of us could.
My quaint cottage resides on the summit of a grassy hill. To the west lies the ocean, giving me a soothing sea breeze to wake up to each morning and a beautiful view as the sun sets into the water in the evening. Walk down the hill to the west and one will reach the sandy shore, something I do each afternoon.
To the east however, my melon garden lies. The shadows of the melons’ stems stretch as the sun rises each whimsical morning which I enjoy watching from my kitchen window. The garden sprawls along the slope of the hill and rolls down the contours of the land, the stone pathway serving as a conduit for myself and my basket each morning as I collect the melons. My garden extends only so far, eventually being halted by The Mist.
These melons rot easily due to the sun rays glaring upon them constantly, however they grow back quickly once sung to which means that I do not need to hunt or fish, the melons providing all I need to live. It does get lonely here sometimes and I do often wonder why no one visits me but then I remember The Ballad Of The Wicked. A simple song that instills irrational fear into men’s hearts, leaving me alone in my life. I can never leave the hill after all.
I woke up one day in this strange place, surrounded by The Mist to the east and the ocean to the west, unable to escape this beautiful prison and venture beyond the mist. I always end up back in the garden. The ballad also prevents anyone from rescuing me from this mystical place as it warns any traveller to be wary of an evil witch who loves the taste of human blood and feasts on the flesh of men. It’s all mere fiction of course, for I have never seen such a hideous beast roaming these lands. It’s haunting words spear icy tendrils of fear into the hearts of those who hear it though.
It is morning however and it is time to harvest the melons. Donning a woollen cloak and gloves, I make my way out of my cottage, my shoes snapping along the stone path down towards my melon garden. Of course there are no melons here yet, but that is expected since I have to sing first for them to grow. I found the song when I first woke up here and soon discovered that when sung in the morning as the rays of light begin to touch the stems, the fruits will grow. I slip off my shoes and step into the blades of lush grass, sighing in contentment. I begin to sing.
Whimsical tunes float through the air
Incantations will repair
Catch the song to take the throne
Keys and clues to the unknown
Envious men will try to steal
Doomed, they are for they will kneel
The lyrics flow out of my mouth as around me, melons begin to grow from the soil. Across the Kingdom, widows sob as Her call floats through the air. Some mornings, the King’s men march off to destroy the witch that holds the key to the thrones of all other kingdoms. Those mornings they return, without their heads.