Bonus points if the story will have macabre vibes!
Don’t forget to tag me if you follow along with the challenge.
Alone in my attic, my brush met the white canvas. The visceral nightmares of last night fueled my strokes. They felt so real; a man with a knife, a woman's cries, and shattered glass.
My palms sweated as the brush transferred the violent images from my mind to the blank slate. It moved by itself, darkness its only guide. The color soon mixed with tears.
Panting, I stepped away. My eyes watered as I stared at the painting of our childhood home bathed in red and blue lights. There on the stairs sat a little girl in red, a little me, a remnant of the past.
This is actually a spin on the very first micro-fiction I’ve ever written! Which is pretty nostalgic remnant of the past by itself.
The king had marked him personally. His future was bright.
And seventy-three days later, that future was gone.
The last tattered remnants of the Hodrir were on the run. Their great hero Kareva was dead—as were his sons, who had quickly raised the largest army Ikune had seen in a generation to go north and avenge their father’s murder. Six nights ago, they had crashed headlong into an even larger force, a massive, bristling, leaderless mob of northerners who threw themselves into the fray with a desperate fearlessness that the disciplined, organized Ikunir soldiers could not overcome. The Pohyor died in horribly, impossibly large numbers. And they took the entire army of Ikune with them.
(Excerpted from EPILOGUE: Seeking Shelter in the Scorpion’s Lair—read the rest here:
THE WAKE UP - 100MG OF A REMNANT
It was 3:21am when Annie awoke.
She found this time particularly unsettling considering it was both well into the night, but still a distance from daybreak.
This wasn’t the first time her sleep was disturbed, but it wasn’t often enough to be concerning.
The sound that broke Annies sleep was a light tapping sound consistent with the cadence of a grandfather clock, and just as unassuming.
She laid on her side perfectly still and watched the crucifix of the rosary that was wrapped around her bedpost.
It swayed back and forth guided by no breeze, but perhaps a remnant of the past.
Tanaz had not flinched, had not blinked.
The king had marked him personally. His future was bright.
And seventy-three days later, that future was gone.
The last tattered remnants of the Hodrir were on the run. Their great hero Kareva was dead—as were his sons, who had quickly raised the largest army Ikune had seen in a generation to go north and avenge their father’s murder. Six nights ago, they had crashed headlong into an even larger force, a massive, bristling, leaderless mob of northerners who threw themselves into the fray with a desperate fearlessness that the disciplined, organized Ikunir soldiers could not overcome. The Pohyor died in horribly, impossibly large numbers. And they took the entire army of Ikune with them.
(Excerpted from EPILOGUE: Seeking Shelter in the Scorpion’s Lair—read the rest here:
https://shieldbreakersaga.substack.com/p/epilogue-seeking-shelter-in-the-scorpions)