moster story

Posted: April 24, 2015 in Uncategorized

*I’ll be working on this story for at least a few days in my 40 days of writing. I hope not all of them. Any and All input is appreciated, and will most likely affect where it goes, so, thanks, and, sorry.

She had been killing boys in this river for 75 years. If some of those boys that first came had had babies waiting at home, and they almost certainly had, then those now orphans left after leaving some girl fat with child… she figured she might have killed six generations of men. It had become a ritual in the summers. An army of young men would charge the river and try to Kill The Lady, or try to drive The Lady out. They’d come with nets and spears and boats, and then they’d die. They’d build dams and set fires or poison the river, and then they’d die.

The boys today weren’t an army, but they were very dead. They were a ragtag bunch of town boys with swords stolen from some Lord or given to them for some stupid war. They weren’t soldiers, and they weren’t trying to kill her, just trying to prove they were brave. Those dead boys were very brave. Only one had a silver blade, a tiny thing unfit for battle, the boy and the blade. They were baiting her, running their silver through the water in that pool. They had come for the stories that surrounded her. They had come to catch one of the magic fish that people swore swam around her. Whose scales granted wishes, and were said to feed forty people when cut and cooked right. There were no such fish, and no golden scales or healing water. She still listened to the men along the water, she heard them all the time. They told stories, half right and half remembered. When she was in a good mood, she let them ferry down her shores. When she was in a bad one, she overturned them. The river had run rough and ugly for a long time. She used to speak to men directly, in languages that moved in and out of fashion. She told men no silver was allowed on her river, and that was a rule she tried not to hold. Still.

A good man with an iron sword or a steel anything is more dangerous than an average man with silver, but the nature of the trespass offended her. A sword forged to kill you was as much a curse as muddled words and sacrifices.

She used to feel peaceful and strong when rafts would cross her waters with full armies clad in everything but silver. Before the towns came with their fish hungry children or dirty old men in boats, before the islands rose up in the delta and quit sending tributes of plump boys and rich spices the Old Lords offered her at the source. The blood and spices ran down her river and made it pure, and strong and hers. Now it was a bloody mess of other smells and stinks and rituals. A boy adding silver into that mix would not stand.

Armies came with steel now, and she knew that. She had rows and rows of swords lined up like crooked teeth in the jagged shores and crags of her cave at the source. They were positioned like sharks’ teeth, the ones nearest her den so old they were nearly shadows. Rusted outlines that hung like the opposite of skeletons. Like the husks of bugs. She wondered if the boys today’s fathers and grandfathers swords were in her shark’s mouth. She hoped so.

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