It was the middle of the night. Still. Perfectly still.
No birds tweeting, no breeze blowing. No rowdy drunks, wandering back from the tavern. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Except for the children.
They awoke, all at once. They awoke to the most beautiful melody, that only they could hear. Their parents wouldn't rise, no matter how hard they shook and shouted. They were dead to the world, for that night.
The music was powerful, and soon the children were lulled away.
Away from their safe homes, away from their loving families. Towards the dark forest, at the edge of town.
A man stood waiting, watching them herd past. He was invisible, as noticeable as the trees gently swaying to his song.
The children were happy, smiling.
Their feet bled as they danced on the rough ground, but they didn’t notice.
Trees bruised them, but they didn't care.
The cliffs came closer, but they didn’t see. They were lost in the music.
Cries came in the morning. Screams of parents, of fear and agony.
The children were long gone. They wouldn’t be seen again.
Alive.
About the Creator
Maddy Haywood
Hi there! My name's Maddy and I'm an aspiring author. I really enjoy reading modernised fairy tales, and retellings of classic stories, and I hope to write my own in the future. Fantasy stories are my go-to reads.
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More stories from Maddy Haywood and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Stop, Thief
“STOP! THIEF!” Running through the heavy crowd, the boy turned to see three guards pursuing him. Though their height and long legs were obvious advantages for them, the boy was nimble and quick, and weaved between patrons with ease. His view was mainly of legs and skirts, and the occasional wheel as he dodged out of the way of a heavy-laden cart.
By Maddy Haywood3 years ago in Fiction
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Sunlight danced softly across the frost-crusted fields, making the little blades of grass sparkle like emeralds. The faraway chirrup of a songbird was the only disruption to the quiet of the morning. An icy chill, the last vestige of the dying winter, clung to the air, settling in a thick white mist at the far side of the open field. The heavy stench of decay hung in that mist, punctuation by the sharp tang of freshly spilled blood.
By A. J. Schoenfeld7 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
This is entered into the Micro Heist Challenge. I hope you enjoy it!