I want to thank everyone for their support last week, it was greatly appreciated. This weeks prompt was to write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece where fate plays a prominent role. You can write from the position of a complete belief or absolute disbelief in the role of fate in our lives or the lives of our characters. We had 400 words. This bit below follow right after Syten’s homecoming to Queen Snow.
Alice grunts as she hits the ground from her leap from the balcony. Her legs nearly go out from underneath her. Claws out grasping, digging for purchase, finally she stops skidding, rights herself and stalks away, glad that the darkness provided cover for her wounded pride.
She pads into the forest, looking for a strong rough tree to rub her back up against. If Syten weren’t so busy actively reuniting with Queen Snow, he’d be available to scratch the skin on her back through her fur with a clever wire brush he made for that express purpose. Her coat is especially torturous when it is fresh and new.
She notes a strange scent in the air, equally intriguing and repulsive. Sweet, sticky, rancid.
Careful. Syten says.
Mentally she rolls her eyes. She wonders if having only words with which to express themselves is the reason most humans never really say what they mean.
Fine. I don’t like this and I want no harm to come to you. Retorts Syten.
The smell grows stronger the closer she gets to the Wiccan Glade. This normally peaceful, beautiful place is spilling over with abomination. Alice’s instincts scream for her to take flight. She spots an elder of a tree. Before she sinks her claws into his flesh she apologizes, he recognizes the necessity of witness. His lifeblood makes her fur sticky as she climbs, he grabs deep into the earth stopping any rustling of leaf or limb. Alice crawls out on a thick arm and peers down.
She doesn’t understand what she sees. The Wiccan Wise has her arms inside of the crystal alter which is oozing a thick black substance slick with blues, purples and greens. The smell is the sound of screaming. The Wiccan reaches down into the depths and with rippling arms tears a small object out of the altar. It pulses with the essence of life. The Wiccan crams it into her mouth and chews, viscous fluid runs down her chin blending imperceptibly with the dragon wing black cloth that wraps her torso.
Souls? Alice asks the elder.
Worse. Fates. Leaving the souls behind, purposeless, empty. No root, no anchor, born without hope.
Alice knows what one can make out of humans who believe in nothing, who hold nothing sacred, who live only for their own skins. Dangerous, vicious slaves.