Prompt September 2021

Here's the prompt these writers were given:

Gabriel Nelson

He looked out over the highland cliffs.  It struck him as the most beautiful thing he had seen in his time in Scotland.  He pulled the robes of a monk closer to him.  He had come on a trip to see the fulfillment of two more holy scriptures in this seaside monastery.  So far, the trip had been a success and he had the books to bring back to London.  Now as he looked out across the endless sea, he felt peace.

The sun slowly set over the lapping of the ocean.  Everything said peace.  The waves hitting the sides of the longboat.  The rhythmic rowing of oars.  The Scandinavian looked through his star charter and finally matched it to the directions given to him by his now sleeping chief.  He shivered from the salt spray rushing past them.  Then he saw the towering cliffs.

The sun had reached its halfway point on the seashore.  The monk finally turned around and started walking toward the monastery.  He then barely saw something slip into the sheltered cove that led up a grassy slope.  He shrugged it off as a trader coming for supplies and left.

The Scandinavians started climbing the hill.  Luckily, they didn’t have to use the climbing gear that they had been asked to bring.  They made quick, speedy progress on the hill and finally hit the top of the hill.  The sun was now only a few rays of light.

The Monk finally got to the door and the Canon opened it.  “Peace be with you brother” he said.  “And also, with you.” The monk replied.  He walked in and turned around and said, “you should prepare some food, a trader just landed in the cove.”  The Canon looked at him and asked, “What did it look like?”  The monk replied, “It was longish with shields hung along the side.”  The Canons eyes grew wide, “We must act quickly…. That is no trader, those are the dreaded sea pirates.”  To another monk close by he shouted, “Quick!  To the bell tower!  The Sea Raiders are back!”  Turning back, he gave a final instruction, “You must run away, I will take you to the hidden place where we keep our holy books.”

In the quiet of the night the church bell pealed out a warning.  The Sea raiders brought up a great roar and rushed upon the defenseless monastery with murder in their eyes.  They quickly sacked it and took its gold and supplies.  They found the canon huddled in the secret room with one of the bible copies.  He was about to run but it was too late for him and his bible…

The monk fled with the fear of the sea men.  He held the last copy that this monastery would produce.  He looked back on the fire consuming it and wept for them.  The sun had fully set...

10 years later

A man touched the ground in Scandinavia, in the land which they called Iceland.  He was to be a missionary among the ones they called, “Vikings”.  He walked toward the Viking leader in the front.  He crossed himself and pronounced a blessing.  He then, through an interpreter, told the leader why he was here.  To explain the one true God of Heavan and Earth, who sent Jesus to save all those who believe.  The Viking leader looked confused and told him that they already knew about this God, and even mentioned Jesus by Viking name.  Now the missionary was confused, how could some pagan Vikings know about God?  The leader motioned for him to follow.  He led him to a wood hut with what seemed a stolen lectern.  And on the lectern stood….a bible.  The man recoiled; he knew this book.  Was this the bible that he had seen stolen that terrible night at the monastery?  He then motioned to the leader and asked the question.  The Viking nodded and said that he had taken it for himself and wondered what it said.  He then took it home to an Irish servant he had.  The man read it and the Viking had come to faith.  He then never raided again.  The monk then said back that he was there that day.  The Viking’s eyes started watering and then embraced the Englishman.   Now two different people of different upbringings wept as brothers………

Even the most beautiful places turn dark during night…..But the night will always lead to day

Katie Persenaire

“Even the most beautiful places turn dark during the night” she thought “Why did it have to go black like this? I’m a captive of the enemy in the only place I thought was good.” Trina was in a room that had once been a part of a castle. The stone walls used to be so warm and protective. The silver laced furniture was cheery and bright. Even her small servant’s quarters were destroyed now. The only room still standing, the great hall, was coal black. The familiar fire didn’t glow anymore, the thrones didn’t seat the nobles any longer. The room was full of workers and villagers who had been captured while they were fleeing the new fortress of the enemy. She had been a worker in the scullery, doing what she liked to do best, helping the cooks with their work. They had surrounded the castle and ordered the nobles out. The High prince had come willingly, almost as if he had planned for this to happen. The queen and her children soon followed. But the king didn’t come. Soldiers went in and, she winced at the thought, they had killed him. She had fled to the back tower, hoping that she could escape. She could hardly remember what happened next. And now she was here in the black and lonely hall. She heard a few sets of footsteps. A small door cracked open. A crack of light spilled over the smooth marble floor. A soldier stepped through, then two more. The first had a more elaborate uniform, he was probably a commander of some sort. They turned on a light near the end of the great room. Her eyes fluttered to stay open when it came on, the light seemed much brighter than it really was. One of the lesser soldiers went over to the grand fireplace and let a warm glow settle over everything. The men worked their way up the lines of people that they had set there what felt like days ago, even though it had only been eight hours. They seemed to inspect everyone, as if evaluating them. They came to her and stood for about thirty seconds, then nodded. They might be planning to sell her back in their country. A fear lifted, at least they can’t be planning to hurt me too badly if they want to sell me. She hoped what she just thought was true.

Sarah Grace Patrick

Times had changed. A gorgeous landscape turned horrid by war time had brought, a dark and deep dusted cover it had laid across it all. Yet even as the sun began to set and the magnificent colors were sketched across the sky by an unseen hand, the people were reminded of what had once been. Before it all fell, before the darkness came and covered it all for good.

A small figure, dressed in white, cut through the fading sunset, her eyes on the ground and her footsteps silent. Some may have thought her a ghost, an illusion, a trick of the light as night descended upon the place. She was neither, only a girl, almost a memory.

She moved along the edge of a wooded area, walking close to the path but never quite stepping upon it. She kept her distance from the village and crossed the same distance over and over, back and forth as if waiting for something.

That something was the sun—or more accurately—its departure from the sky above. Only once the light had faded altogether and only the moon’s glow remained did she enter the village.

Men from elsewhere knew the poor town had nothing left to give, no grand secrets waiting to be uncovered, no riches left to spare, but it did appear as though the girl either did not know or did not care. For she descended upon the place with a hunger like a beast from stories mothers tell to their children to keep them behaved.

The townspeople did not fear the dark, nor did they believe they should. As so, they wandered about with their torches and candles, continuing on as though the sun were merely another distraction nature provided man during his time. And the girl wandered about them and slipped into their midst without notice. In the darkness, she was shrouded from view; she did not carry any sort of light to show her the path ahead. One could only see her dress, as it stood out amongst the dark colors of the street and its inhabitants.

It wasn’t long before she was recognized as a stranger, but even then, most paid her no mind save to step aside and stare for a moment before continuing on. They did not know she was a girl with a mission. They did not know of the monsters she knew.

It was coming.

She had to prepare.

First, she found her way to the center of the village. She found the heart of the market with its shops and its stands, all run by humble country folk and their blissfully ignorant minds. She made a silent promise not to disturb them if she could manage it. The hunger inside of her persisted, urged on by the coming crisis and what it could mean for her life, but she tamed it as best she could and held back. Now was not the time to lose control, but the time was fast approaching her.

Taking a long look around, she managed to find what it was she sought—a great many things that was, but for that moment, it was simple. She gathered herself and slipped through the crowds, reaching a silent and unseen hand to snatch a loaf of bread, a cloak, a knife meant for whittling wood. She found a long staff, alone and unattended, leaning beside a building. She gathered what she could and tucked it all away, out of reach, using the staff as a walking stick to hold herself up and appear fragile as to be paid even less attention than before.

This village, she knew, had seen its days of war and hunger, a time of oppression, empty promises of freedom. She would make none of that, for they had suffered enough. And if she was to fail, if her enemy was to take the town into its clutches and burn it to ash, then she would not prolong their fear and worry—there was no point to it. Any amount of terror would not save them if she could not hold it back.

She had found what she could and then sought out a quiet alleyway in which to lay down her burdens. She did so, taking a quick account to be sure she knew what was at her disposal. Then, turning her eyes skyward, she sought out the moon.

It had changed, as time often made things, and shrunk in size, climbing high to the center of the sky where it peaked and stood ever so still and stoic.

For the girl, everything froze.

The time had come.

Just as the thought came upon her, a grand crack split the sky, and the ground began to quiver. The girl jumped to her feet and gathered in her arms what she had acquired. The cloak became a shield against any light that could give her away. The knives became tiny warriors around her belt that she could deploy. Her staff became a spear in her hands—its ends whittled to points as sharp as she could make them. Her heart pounded in her chest, threatening to give out beneath the strain of anticipation. Her hunger would be cured this night.

She set off back the way she had come, moving wordlessly, keeping her eyes away from the men and women who stood and stared—at the sky, at the forest, at each other—all looking for answers of their own and wondering whether or not to fear.

Finally, the girl reached the edge of the village and gazed off into the forest from which she had come. For a long moment, the very stars held their breath and awaited the next strike of lightning across the nighttime sky. No one but she knew the darkness that was coming, and no one but she could stop it.

Each time, she said, “One last battle.” A wish? A prayer? A lie? It was never quite true, as the one last battle bled into the next and the next, turning the tides back and forth between her and an ancient foe. They had battled for centuries, and so they would continue for centuries more to come.

And yet, she still believed that time came for them all eventually.

The curious murmurs turned to shrieks in an instant, and running footsteps sounded behind her as all retreated in fear. A figure stepped out from the treeline, almost like smoke rising from a fire and swirling about in the atmosphere. The girl held herself steady and tried to keep her breathing even.

“Hello,” she said softly.

No reply came.

“Time comes for us all, my friend,” she whispered again, bowing her head almost in resignation.

And then the creature launched itself at her, and the battle began.

Rhianna Ring-Howell

Shadows cascade across the ground and ripple off the water. My bow sits squarely across my back, arrows in their container. The only light left comes from the sliver of the moon showing through the clouds.

Nothing is familiar.

The eerie sounds of the forest cause the hair on my neck to stand on end. My boots step hard on the leaves, causing them to crackle like fireworks and my heart to skip a beat.

The place is unrecognizable in the cover of darkness. The bright-colored flowers and shrubs seem menacing. My stomach flips, knees knocking together.

I’m reminded of the time when I was a child, living at the edge of the forest. Where my only worry was whether or not I was having fun.

But I’m no longer a child, and the stories I’ve heard are real.

Too real.

It doesn’t matter that I have the power to manipulate the world around me, bending it to my will. It doesn’t matter that I’ve trained for years under the best of teachers.

Instead, it’s a weakness.

The creatures can smell it. The magic dripping from my fingertips. Oozing out from every part of my being.

It’s a call to them.

The creatures of the night.

More dangerous than anything I’ve ever heard about in the stories my mother told me. And they come from the most innocent and pure of places. A place I spent years trying to find, hoping that it would reveal the secrets of my gift.

A bush rustles behind me, and I jump, practically flying across the grass. Blood rushes in my ears, and my body thrums with energy. I tug my bow off my back with shaking fingers.

Knocking an arrow on the string, I draw it back gently.

I remember the first time I saw this place. Alight and alive with magic.

Light streaming through the trees. The laughing brook.

Something snorts behind me.

I spin around, dirt flying about my heels.

The pure bliss. The dancing. The birds. The fairies.

And the snow-white creatures with pearly horns.

Soft footsteps sound behind me, and my bowstring creaks. I dig my heels in, taking slow, measured breaths.

The Empress had told me it would be dangerous. Gaius warned me not to go, telling me I would be no match for the creatures. And that I wouldn’t be able to take in what I saw. That the world was not the same at night.

My pulse quickens at the piercing screech, that sends the birds flying from the trees.

Perhaps he was right.

Something steps out of the shadows, and my muscles tense, urging me to run. But I can’t take my eyes off of it.

A horse-like creature looms with a black hide that seems to ooze darkness onto the ground. A jagged horn that appears to be made of the sharpest of metals sticks out of its head. And its eyes. They stare into my soul like an abyss.

How could a creature of hope and light become so dark?

The magic in me thrums, and the creature sniffs the air, turning its head towards me.

My hands shake as it rears. I aim the arrow carefully, trying to forget what it looked like when I first saw it.

It hits the ground and starts at a run, screaming loudly.

I squeeze my eyes shut and release the shaft. It whistles through the air, cutting through the space like a sharp knife.

Gaius was right.

Even the most beautiful places turn dark during the night.

Caleb Renich

The mist swirled through the dusky pine forest. Clear glacial streams cut winding pathways in the soft earth of the mountainside. Their quiet bubbling underscored the soft twittering of birds, filling the air with the rhythmic hum of life. Dew dressed the stout needles of the conifers, and the setting sun set the treetops ablaze with a steady fire. Skies streaked with blue, gold, and pink were a canvas for the outstretched fingers of the mountain. The mossy root of the trees drank deep in the soil, the tips grazing the bedrock below, but shying away from its cold touch.

A soft breeze caressed the trees, sending a shiver down the spine of the mountains. A squirrel poked out from his hollow in a lonely pine, whiskers twitching. His bushy silhouette was outlined against the stark orange sunset as it sank through the clouds. With a start, he bounded down the rough bark of his haven and set foot on the cool moss. He flicked his tail momentarily, and darted off. The little creature came to rest by a stream, where he dipped his tongue in the water and began to drink as the sun began to dip below the horizon. For a moment, all was at peace. The light grew dimmer. The mountains groaned softly.  The air became chill in an instant. The light went out. The squirrel, sensing the change, scuttled away into the underbrush. A silence wrapped the mountains like a fog, for just a moment. Then the Eyes of the Night emerged from slumber. Dew froze on pine needles as they passed, the glowing emerald points of light, the hovering specters like cold distant starlight. The trees twisted away from their ghostly march and the creeping things of the night sought solace in burrows and hidden clefts.  They search, and the waters run cold as they move. The air sits uneasy as they comb the night for the one who can unseal their bonds. They hunger for freedom they were once denied. The light of the moon shines upon those that were cast out, and they search, how they search, for the Unbinding and the End of Days.