Category: Fiction

Posted in Fiction

At Sea: Part 2 of 3

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is the second instalment of my latest short-story.

It is difficult to believe such a simple traditional-looking girl like her could kill anyone. But what do I know? My own traditional-looking fiancée ran away with another guy, shredding my heart into pieces, not even bothering to throw it in a landfill.

I choose to be quiet.

“Not so keen on hanging around me for eternity anymore, huh?” She looks smug.

“Let’s just say I don’t like the idea of following you to hell. I don’t even love you to risk that for you.”

I think I would have risked that for my wife–well, ex-fiancée…if not out of love, then out of sense of duty. But she chose to bestow that honour on someone else. If only she had said something during our numerous romantic phone calls after our marriage was arranged. She made me believe she wanted me as much as I wanted her and then eloped with her lover while her family was visiting mine for the Tilak ceremony.

The only reason I travelled here today was to run away from pitying eyes. They would probably think I committed suicide.

The thought of dying is looking closer to reality now since higher waves are wetting our ankles frequently and the spray of water is constantly keeping us wet. I have waited all my life working hard, believing that once I am better situated in work, I would get my chance at love.

Now, here I am at sea, dying, right after I am dumped by the woman I finally set my hopes on.

The Sun is dipping on the horizon much like our lives. The thought of never finding love hurts much more than the rejection itself. I don’t want to die but, more than that, I don’t want to give her the satisfaction that she affected me strongly enough to drive me to suicide. She chose to dump me. She doesn’t deserve the credit for my death.

The stranger on my side stands quietly and lets me have my ‘moment’. She seems to sense there is more to my story but doesn’t have the heart to tease it out of me anymore.

A phone call pierces the space around us. Her phone screen blinks.

“You get phone reception here?”

“My phone does, it seems. How else do you think I made that phone call for help?”

“Oh yes. I think you should answer the call. Your husband from the landfill might not like being ignored.” I point at her phone, smiling—”Hubby” is calling.

She huffs and accepts the phone call. I can’t help being curious enough to listen in. We are huddling too close in the center of the peak of the rock now to avoid overhearing anyway.

“What do want?”

Pause

“Why do you care where I am?”

Pause

“In middle of the sea. Probably drowning in the next few minutes.”

Pause

“Huh, you wish. I am not coming back to haunt you! Four years were more than enough. I am not wasting another minute on you. Now hang up. You are ruining my first post-divorce vacation. I don’t want to drown thinking of you.”

Pause

“Yes, she told you the truth. Yesterday, I went to a striptease bar, drank half-a-bottle of wine and hired a man to spend the night with.”

Pause

“Stop laughing. I am telling the truth!”

Pause

“Fine, I did try though. I can cheat, just like you cheated on me for so many years.”

Pause

“Okay, it’s not cheating anymore that we are not married but the thought counts. I just need a little more practice. I am alone with a man right now.”

She looks at me guiltily as I raise my eyebrow. Would I help someone take revenge for being cheated on? The fellowship rises its head within my chest, and I smile back encouragingly.

Pause

Her voice is softer this time, “No, I can’t return. I can’t forget it. I might have if I hadn’t caught you in the act; say, if someone else had told me. But I saw you both, and I keep thinking about it. Even after an year, it is all I see whenever I close my eyes. Please stop calling me and move on. Let me move on…”

Her begging tone cuts through my core–“Even after an year…“

I had been there only three days and I feel half-dead. Is there no hope?

Pause

“No, I am done with repeating myself. I am moving on.” She looks back at me in apologising manner, “I am going to make out with this guy here. And I will send you a photo as proof. May be then you will stop calling me.”

With those words, she hangs up. I can feel my eyebrows reach my hairline. She just shrugs, “It felt good to say it out loud and hear him squirm one last time before I die.”

To be continued

Photo by Kush Dwivedi on Unsplash

Posted in Fiction

At Sea: Part 1 of 3

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is the first instalments of my latest short-story.

She is shivering violently and blabbering, “I am flying to Switzerland tonight.”

“You mean if we are rescued?” I try a gentle tone. I am scared stiff too, so I can understand her denial.

She manages a smile, though the strain of the effort is clearly visible on her face. “No. If they rescue me, I have a crap job to go back to in three days and a mean manager to hate. But if they don’t find us in time, well, I am no mermaid. It is all well to see one sunset at the sea. An eternity of sunset view is too much! If I die, I am going to travel—there are so many places I want to see—”

If she is trying to make light of our impending demise to avoid a meltdown, two could play at this game. “Aren’t ghosts supposed to stay and haunt a single place?” I shiver at my own ill-timed joke. If only I could turn back time a couple of hours.

*****

It was a bad idea to seek out a stranded place on the shore to sleep in when I had never been to the sea before. All I wanted was a couple of hours of peace from the continuous phone calls—people offering sympathies or advice to move on. I didn’t want to switch-off my phone. It felt wrong to turn my back on my well-wishers. Going out of network coverage area for a bit had seemed like a good excuse at that time. So, I had walked until the network bars had stopped showing.

Then I saw a road sign of what seemed like sun setting in the sea and found this large rock rising gradually from the sand. The highest point was nearly two-metres high providing an amazing view of the sea ahead. It seemed like an ideal spot to sit down and settle my thoughts. There was enough room for me and one other person here on the other side of the rock, sleeping in the sun. I had walked up on the slowly rising rock to this highest point. Then, exhausted after three sleepless nights, I had closed my eyes to rest them for a few moments…

An urgent voice woke me up, “Hey, do you know how to swim?”

My eyes wanted to stay glued together but the fear in the voice made me sit up, “Why? What happened?”

The stranger’s face looked scared, “If you can swim, I think you should leave now. My travel agent told me this rock gets submerged during high tide.”

The high tide was in. The rock that had been so far away from the sea earlier during the day was now almost-submerged. The lower part from where I had walked up here were now under at least five feet of water. Waves were rolling in and there was half a mile of sea in the direction I had come from.

There was no way we could walk back.

“I don’t know how to swim. Do you?”

“No.” She sighed, “I have called my travel agent. He said he will contact the local rescue team. Let’s hope they find us real soon. He said locals usually avoid this rock since the area is lower than others. He said there is a danger sign on the main road, but tourists seem to be ignoring it.”

“Danger sign? So that sign showed the rock getting submerged?”

“You saw the sign too? It looks so much like the sun setting in the sea.” She shook her head in a mocking way, but her voice was shaky.

I sent a quick prayer to the skies. Yes, I was heart-broken, but I wasn’t ready to die yet.

*****

Returning to this moment, I can see she is considering how to answer my ‘haunting the place’ question without having a meltdown, “I think it depends on personal preferences, whether a ghost wants to stay put or drift. I want to travel. What about you? Are you planning to haunt this rock?”

“Well, I haven’t decided yet. Do you want company on your journey to Switzerland?” I smile, joining in this crazy one-on-one. I am tired of fuming for the past three days.

I want to cry but I was raised being told that guys don’t. My eyes are hurting from the effort of keeping tears at bay and I don’t remember the last time I ate. I think it was three days back during my Tilak ceremony. The thought of the happiness of that moment makes my eyes tear up.

I look away at the rising water around us.

She seems to have sensed my mood, “Naah, I’m good. I don’t want to give my shoulder to a drunk guy to cry on.”

The salt spray from a high wave hits me on the face and I stagger, “Seriously? I don’t think ghosts can drink. Moreover, you don’t even know if I do drink at all! You only met me five minutes ago.”

“Well, you are a man, and men take to drinking when they need to tell their wives on their honeymoon that they are into men? How else would they gather enough courage?”

“Into men? Who said that?”

“Really? What are you doing alone, sleeping on random rocks, in the country’s most hyped honeymoon spot while on honeymoon (gesturing at the mehendi tattoos on my palm)? Why did you agree to go to Switzerland with me? Why aren’t you calling your wife to tell her you are dying and that you love her?”

“May be because I don’t have a wife to call? May be because I never got around to getting married!” Some of the higher waves have started to push at our ankles. My nerves are getting at me and I am cranky.

“So, is it because you’re gay?”

“No. Why would you presume so?” She is getting on my nerves worse than the waves.

“If I had presumed, I wouldn’t have asked!” She is smiling. Now, I can see she is trying to make light of my non-existent marriage as well as our impending demise, while trying not to freak out by the water being so close.

I challenge her back, “Well, what if I am. Do you have a problem with me?”

“No. I will still not be the shoulder you cry on, and I will still not carry you when you are drunk.”

“Fine. I promise not to cry or drink once I am dead. By the way, why aren’t you calling your husband to tell him you are into girls, huh? From what I remember, you are also alone in the country’s most hyped honeymoon spot and sleeping on the same random rock as I.”

“I am not parading around with mehendi tattoos on my palms, am I? And may be, I am not calling him because I killed him, cut him into pieces and threw them in a landfill? May be, I came here to hide from the Police?”

The reply makes me do a once over.

Is she telling the truth? Or is she trying to scare me so I wouldn’t try anything funny while we are alone?

To be continued

Photo by Kush Dwivedi on Unsplash

Posted in Fiction

Alone

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Disclaimer: The story has some content about abuse and some violent visuals, which might be disturbing. Discretion requested.

The tree standing alone in the middle of the field calls to me. Through tunneled vision, I can see myself approaching it, wanting to touch its shining leaves with reverence. But every time I come close enough, wolf’s howling wakes me up, as usual.

While I am used to this nightly howling since I was a baby, I am beginning to begrudge it lately.

My father can never know about the dream. He never allows anything outside the ordinary for me. He considers me evil incarnate because of my eyes—one brown and the other blue. The only reason he didn’t manage to kill me the day I was born was my mother, who had shielded me with her body, tolerating his rage alone quietly. I still can’t look at him straight in the eyes without being punished for being “scary”, and I am always just a breath away from being beaten into pulp.

So, he must not find out about the tree. Talking about a magical tree would confirm his assumptions about me.

But the dream is insistent, catching me every night and leaving a longing so deep that I can’t stop myself from looking for the tree around the village. Maybe, if I could see it in reality and touch it, I would see the silliness of it all. I can’t find it though, and the longing is growing into a deep ache every day, until I feel like I can’t fit into my own skin.

I have to talk to someone…

Anyone…

My mother is sweet. She often tries to shield me from my father’s beating—not that it stops him from taking a swipe at me. Worse, he then turns on her and beats her senseless. But she tries anyway, every single time. I trust her to understand.

So, today, I have returned home a little early while my father is still out cutting wood for the fire. Once he returns, he will beat me again for ditching him early… But it’s nothing new and, at least, I will get some answers.

I wait for my mother to light the fire in the kitchen before asking the question, trying to be casual, “Mother, do you ever dream of trees?”

She looks up, startled, “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering…”

She hesitates for a moment, “Well, just one. It’s a memory really,” she admits sheepishly. She can probably see the question on my face, so she adds, “The faery tree at the eastern end of the village…”

Of course, why didn’t I think about it? People in our village avoid that area at all cost because of the tree’s reputation. Could it be my tree?

Mother’s brown eyes, so much like my right one, are far away, “Years ago, I went there when I was married for a couple of years. I was tired of your father’s daily beatings and accusations for being barren. So I went there hoping to die. But I met a stranger instead.”

I don’t want to hear anymore, but my mother goes on, like a dam has broken, and she is unable to contain the flood.

“For hours, we sat under that tree, just talking and holding hands. By the end of the day, he promised to stay with me forever. I never went there again,” she sighed and continued, “Sometimes, I dream of us holding hands under that tree—more often on the days when your father beats me. It gives me hope that I have promise of an eternity with the man who never told me his name.”

Words tumble out unbidden, “But why didn’t you return to him?” She would have been so much better off with him…anyone who wasn’t my father would be better…

“I was still married to your father till death parts us,” she sighed. “Anyway, you were born nine months later. Sometimes I wonder if he was fae—you look so much like him, but I don’t know how else he could be your father unless—”

“You slut!” My father’s voice rings through the doorway. “You bore this bastard son of a monster in my house! I’ll kill him! I’ll kill you both!”

Shaking with rage and raising his axe, he strides towards me. His face is contorted with passion like I’ve never seen before. He is going to kill me, kill us…

I cower in the corner, shaking and eyes wide with fear, waiting for the axe to fall. But my mother covers me with her body yet again.

“NO!”

Senses overwhelm me—the tang in the air tells me that mother is bleeding before the blood trickles down her chest on my shirt. I am not sure how, but I can hear her pulse slow down.

Grief and pain—physical pain like I had never felt before—send ripples through my entire being. For the first time, I wish I am the monster my father always made me out to be. I sway where I stand, angry beyond words.

Through tunneled vision, I see my father taking a step back, eyes wide, raising his axe over his head again to kill me.

For the first time, I hit my father back…with claws…on a hairy hand…a paw…

His body falls where he stood as his head flies to the wall, blood oozing freely from his severed neck.

I wheel around on all fours to check on my mother. Her pained brown eyes are looking at the door as she smiles, relieved. The blue-eyed wolf I’d heard howl all my life is right there, whimpering now.

Mother whispers with an effort, “I always wondered…eternity…meet you…tree…” Her eyes roll in her head, heart still, pulse dead.

The wolf howls like someone had driven an axe through it too. A few heartbeats later, it dissolves into nothingness in front of my eyes.

I can still hear a howl though, shocked to realise it’s mine. I wonder for a moment and then run on all fours towards the eastern end of the village. Something tells me when I reach my tree, my mother and my true father will be waiting for me.

This is a photo-prompt story. Thank you, JR Korpa (on Unsplash) for fueling my imagination with your photograph.

Posted in Fiction, Tiny stories

Deep Within

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

He threw the trophy on the floor—useless piece of metal!

Can’t even sell the stupid thing to buy his family a meal. Should have taken a waiter’s job instead of playing football all these years—it would have paid the bills. Heck! He would look for a job today.

Meaning to throw it out of the window, he picked up the trophy…but, eyes glistening, hugged it tight instead.

Author’s note: This is a 5-minute photo-prompt story. I started with a trophy lying on the bed and what I saw, what seemed to be missing and what it made me feel. And Bingo!

Thanks to Robin Edqvist for an amazing photo (found on Unsplash).

Posted in Fiction

The Predator

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

I knew she was a predator the moment I saw her.

How I could tell, I can’t explain—it was just the way her whole being swayed in the wind, leaving behind the alluring fragrance that had me following her every move with my eyes. Her smooth skin glistened in the rain, calling to my mesmerized brain as I moved closer to touch her. Her full lips—red and enticing—were clamped shut and stretched into a wide, inviting smile as I reached forward to hold her face in my extended palm.

She let me get close…close enough to not allow any space to back off…

Her fingers entwined around my torso slowly, but I couldn’t find it in me to break off the tightening grip. She looked at me straight in the eyes and opened her mouth—I half-expected it to be full of incisors.

She kissed me senseless instead, as always. And then she went for the kill, “The chapel is available this Sunday. You will be able to arrange everything else by then, right?”

Of course, she knew I would nod dazedly. She was a practiced hunter—I was her prey.

Author’s note: This is a 5-minute word-prompt story. I started with “Carnivorous plant: Venus flytrap” and ended up into a “bride”. Who could have thought there was so much in common?

Thanks to Jessie McCall for the awesome photo (via Unsplash).

Posted in Fiction, Tiny stories

Accomplice

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

We dragged the body along together–my twin and I. One by one we pulled, taking turns to haul the dead-weight over the hill.

And we were close…

So close!

But he panted and pulled us off, and sat down on the grass instead.

Stupid human!

Posted in Fiction, Nature stories

My Neighbour: The Exasperated Princess

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Is our cat weird?

Or is it because she is ours?

Author’s note: All incidents in this story are real and told with the least possible artistic liberty as possible.

Why do they have to change the bowl again? The water tastes all wrong! I don’t understand all this craze about different coloured water bowls.

First, it was shiny silver. I hated it. It tasted too sparkly clean.

Then it was white and red. It didn’t taste anything like red, just plain white!

So, I drank from Dadi‘s foot tub. It tasted amazing with a green undertone! But then Dadi stopped leaving water in it. What is wrong with these humans?

That is when I moved to the bathroom floor. It has such an earthy smell, and the roughened tiles tickle my tongue. Initially, the humans tried to keep the doors closed. But I refused to drink anything at all.

Finally, a couple of them started letting me drink from the bathroom floor, throwing fresh water on the floor for me to drink when no one else was looking. The best part was that the water tasted different, based on the soap and shampoo they were using. They tried to scrub out the fragrance but couldn’t do it entirely. I was so happy!

But then, I think I went a bit too far.

You see, mom (my real mom who taught me all things worth knowing) once told us of the time she drank from the toilet–the devine taste, sense of adventure, the rush of adrenaline at having to drink upside down… Well, I thought the toilet was right there for the taking, so I did what any cat worth her mice would do–I tried to drink too.

Honestly, I only managed to get on the rim of the commode. I was peeking in, looking for a way to get to the water without getting soaked, but that dratted Tai Ammi caught me before I could reach the water. Didn’t even get a sip!

Now they have started locking up the bathroom door all the time! They also called me “Bad Kitty” for drinking from the toilet! I don’t call them “Bad Kitty” when they drink all the black and orange sparkly water that makes your tongue go all tingly! (Well, I had to try it, so I licked a couple of drops from the floor. Ugh!)

Well, why can’t they give me the same space!

Sigh! I don’t understand humans. There is water lying around everywhere, fragrant and calling, but they have to drink tasteless stuff from bottles!

Next, they got me a food tray with a large and flat water area (since I was drinking from the floor). As if I care about a bunch stupid cockroach-sized animals waving at me from my food plate! I couldn’t leave any food around, afraid they would steal it behind my back! So, I declined to drink from it too. They forced me but I was resolute.

And then the neighbours gave them a plant. Since they didn’t have a pot and earth for it ready yet, they planted it in the brown mug with water. God! I love this stuff! The plant makes it taste exotic. I couldn’t stop myself and just had to take another sip and another, until I was always going back for more. When the little one spotted me in the act and started giggling and complaining, I thought this was it–the humans would take away my private heaven. But they all just sighed and went back to work.

So, obviously, I thought I got away with it.

Boy, was I mistaken! A couple of hours later, they bought a red earthen pot for me to drink in. Well, it did recreate the earthy smell well, but it didn’t have the wonderful brown flavor to it like the mug–plant water does taste good. I would have turned vegan, had my constitution allowed. So, I continued sipping from the plant mug to make a point.

So today, they moved the plant into my earthen pot and gave me the mug to drink!

Blasted people! When will they ever learn?!

Psst… About the toilet water, may be, it is an age-restriction thing. I inspected the commode again and the bowl seems to be built deeper, so you have to have a longer neck to drink. May be, I will try again next month. If nothing else, I will jump straight in. I’m not afraid to get my feet wet in the face of an adventure!

Author’s note: There is no greater happiness than seeing your children happy. I asked my daughter–now 9- years old and a fast reader–to be my first audience. The way she guffawed while reading was worth all the effort.

Posted in Fiction, Poetry, Tiny stories

The Hospice

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: I wrote this story within 5 minutes for a Talent Show at my office. I hope it lives up to your expectations.

A quiet house at the end of the driveway;

Too quiet…

Windows shuttered;

No one mutters inside;

No life stirs within.

Long forgotten—clean but stale;

A house no one loves.

Posted in Fiction, Published, Twisted fairytales

Not a Lore: Part 3 of 3

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is the third and final installment of a Twisted Fairytale from my fifth short-story compilation, Ugly: Twisted fairytales. It is a spinoff of the old Grimm’s tale, The Sleeping Beauty.

It is almost dawn when we finally find the princess in an antechamber. The room is immaculate, clearly magical.

The princess is breathtaking. She sleeps with both her hands on her heart and a peaceful smile on her face, oblivious of the century she has left behind. Her face is alight with the glow of the dawn, her long golden hair braided with fresh flowers, looking as if she has been frozen in time since the day she turned sixteen.

All that is left to be done is to kiss her. I feel blood leave my face as I consider what I am supposed to do.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Reese is concerned but his heart is drumming louder than mine, and I hear a hint of jealousy again. Does he want to kiss her? Should I let him?

The thought pushes a dagger through my heart. I straighten my back and walk up to the sleeping princess and kiss her, first tentatively, then anxiously, over and over again. I shake her, desperate for her to wake up. But nothing happens! The princess stays fast asleep blissfully unaware of my existence.

Reese lets out a breath of relief and says meaningfully, “She needs true love’s kiss!”

It’s no use pretending anymore. I slump down on the floor next to the bed in defeat, “I just needed to try. If the world’s most beautiful woman can’t make me fall in love with her…”

“It’s alright!” Hesitating, he adds, “We can report back to the king that the princess is already dead. Nobody would know.”

“I would know,” I wish the ground would swallow me!

Reese looks concerned as he offers me his hand, “Come, we must get out before the dragon comes looking for breakfast.”

“And go back where? To my parents who sent me on the quest to become dragon fodder? They know I can never marry her.”

Twenty‑eight years of walls I had built carefully around me are crumbling. I hate myself for not being strong enough. Once I return, the world would know for sure. The whispers would become louder and clearer, shaming my parents even further. “They’ll never love me. I have failed them yet again by failing to die.”

Reese’s face is a mask of pain mirroring mine, as if someone has stabbed him in the heart. He is opening and closing his fists like he wants to punch a wall or kill someone. But when he finally looks at me, his eyes are not angry—they hold strength. He offers hesitatingly, “If you don’t want to go back, nobody needs to know we survived the quest. The soldiers have their orders to leave for home if we don’t return in three days.”

He sits down next to me and holds my hand tenderly, erasing the past eleven years in one touch, “We can go away together; sell the armour to buy a farm; run it together like my parents did. It will be a difficult life though—one with a lot of hard work and sparce meals.”

As I look at our joined hands, I can finally breathe again, “I don’t care about luxury. I will have you.”

“Me too!”

END

Author’s note: If you would rather read it all together in the book, Ugly: Twisted Fairytales is available for free download here: Link

Photo by Sean Thomas on Unsplash

Posted in Fiction, Published, Twisted fairytales

Not a Lore: Part 2 of 3

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Author’s note: This is first installment of a Twisted Fairytale from my fifth short-story compilation, Ugly: Twisted fairytales. It is a spinoff of the old Grimm’s tale, The Sleeping Beauty.

Even now Rese is risking his life yet again, standing outside the castle grounds with me without the army. I had proposed to come alone but Reese wouldn’t hear of it. The dragon’s smoke is thicker here. I survey the scene quietly, trying to hide my emotions. Of course, I am having second thoughts. Reese’s face is a kaleidoscope of emotions, and I wonder what he is thinking when he finally speaks, “Your Majesty! This whole thing is an exercise in futility.”

“Are you questioning my plan?”

“No! I think the plan is excellent. Since there is no way to kill the dragon, there is no point bringing all the men to the castle. Their noise would inform the dragon of our presence, and its fire can melt their armour easily. So why risk their lives? Only you need to kiss the princess to wake her up while I watch your back. What I am questioning is the worth of this quest—the folklore is at least a century old, which means that the princess is either already dead of old age or at least 116 years old. Do you think, you would like to kiss someone who is the age of your great‑grandmother?”

It is nice to see his sense of humour returning. Smiling, I counter, “You are forgetting the last part of the folklore—that the princess is sixteen and she’ll wake with a prince’s kiss. Since the part of the lore about the dragon and silver castle is true, she must still be alive and young enough to be kissed.”

Reese’s face falls for a second but he persists, “Come on! She may not even be beautiful. I mean, these folklores tend to exaggerate things. She could be any commonplace princess who was glorified in stories. Not to forget, she has been sleeping for a hundred years—she could be smelly and drooling over herself; her hair and dress could be in cobwebs. She may not even be your true love, you know.”

He is trying hard to sound objective, but I hear the tiniest hint of jealousy. Who is he jealous of? It’s not like I am going to come out of it a hero. I am just a sacrificial lamb. Gah! These princesses have it so easy. They just have to wait in their castle for their true love to arrive while princes die fighting dragons.

Honestly, Reese is reflecting the same thoughts that I have had since the beginning of the quest. But why now—after two years? Not that it changes anything.

“Father’s orders were clear enough—I have to marry her or die trying.”

“He is just trying to get rid of you—sending you on a quest that could mean a lifetime of search and failure. He didn’t even know if the princess existed. It was just an easy way to exile you.”

Is Reese reading my mind? And where is his loyalty to the king? “Reese! You are overstepping.”

“Please don’t try to shut me out. I have maintained my silence so far. But this may be the last day of our lives—our last day together. You know I’d walk on hot coals for you. You can at least hear me. Your father makes no secret that he detests your decision to stay a celibate. But you are his eldest son and the heir to the throne by birthright. So, he just wants you out of the way for an excuse to hand over the kingdom to one of your younger brothers.”

Though I had known it forever, the truth cut deeply, “I don’t care about the throne anyway.”

“True, but that doesn’t change the fact that your parents have sent you here to die. Dying for them won’t make them love you.” 

“You are crossing the line!”

“I care for you. I don’t want you to die for someone who doesn’t love you alive.”

“Silence, Squire! We are going in now.”

*****

We have hidden the bulky armour outside the castle walls since it makes a lot of noise and dragon fire can melt armour anyway. Together, we scale the walls easily—there are too many footholds in the stones cracking by exposure to the elements—and enter undetected in the castle backyard.

A massive dragon sleeps fretfully at a distance in front of the main gate. A cloud of smoke rises from its nostrils. It looks weak from hunger—skin stretched over bones—after a century of imprisonment in this forsaken place. No wonder it is irritable and inhospitable to any armies that venture in.

The massive wooden gates on the door leading to the hall are hanging open on their hinges, but we enter through a broken window on the side wall, giving the dragon a wide berth. The place reeks of death. Walls are charred in places and broken human bones litter the place. The castle feels haunted. The hallways glimmer eerily in the low light wherever the metal armour of countless soldiers has melted and become one with the stone path. We avoid stepping on it for the fear of making a noise. We take a torch from a metal bracket and light it up with a flint—it will take all night.

Author’s note: To be continued…

If you would rather read it all together in the book, Ugly: Twisted fairytales is available for free download here: Link

Photo by Sean Thomas on Unsplash