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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Shuffle off to Buffalo - 3. Prompt 3 - . . . In the Night
You are feeling very pleased with yourself
A one-armed woman
Grrrr
Prompt 3 – . . . In The Night
The dog growled menacingly, with a murderous, grrr! It was followed by a sharp bark of warning, as I opened the locked door with a pick. The jangle from the burglar tools threatened to betray me, but I silenced them with the soft, pliable leather pouch. Encasing them and fisting the metal implements tightly, I gradually slid the latch open, and pushed the door open slowly. A single creak filled the night air, which only preceded another threatening growl, this one louder.
I flipped open the bladder-skin bag which I’d conveniently left untied. The rich, bloody smell of goat meat filled the night air, and I heard the dog’s growl turn to a whimper. It was just as sharp and just as dangerous as the grrr in the night or the piercing bark, but it ended as I tossed the meat just behind the door.
The sounds of excited snorts, chomping, and clattering nails on the stone cobbles calmed me. I finally breathed deeply when I heard the animal thump on the floor. The dog wheezed softly. The tar of poppies had done its work. I waited a moment more, and stepped in through the door.
A low glow emanated from the hearth, dimly illuminating a bundle of brown and white fur slumped on the floor, ribs rising and falling slowly. A gentle burp was followed by steady breathing. Leaning in, I could smell the fading odors of cabbage, pork offal, and sage. I couldn’t see much past the low light of the coals still silently smoking up through a hole in the roof.
Stepping onto the stones, my soft, calfskin shoes clung to the stone while making no noise. The wisp of my cloak could only be noticed by me. I was as quiet as a moonbeam and as stealthy settling dust. I was confident my presence wouldn’t be noticed.
As I passed the dog, it sniffed once, and then calmed again. The shadows at the back of the hovel were frozen. I only needed to reach the bench barely visible and lift the box from its secreted spot.
My eyes remained to the back, waiting for a flicker of light and blackness to change. Nothing moved. I could hear the box calling to me, its contents waiting for liberation. Sniffing the air, I could sense no exertions or even permutations in the air in the hovel.
I crouched down, found the worn, smooth, glossy wood of the box containing the object I desired, no needed, and still trained my eyes on the back of the room.
There were no movements. No alarm was noted. No shadow twitched.
I crept back to the front door and it opened to my touch without a sound. Pressing it closed, I turned and slinked back through the garden with lush bunches of rosemary and lavender, tender lovage, and even jumping over a row of mandrake.
Into the woods I leapt.
I’d done it. I’d taken back what was mine and what was my family’s legacy. I breathed deeply for the first time as I passed the second row of willows, ‘round the pond, and beyond the gurgling spring.
Then I heard a cry, no, a shriek.
It wasn’t just a shriek of dismay or anger. It was a blood-curdling howl of fury. It was high and fever-pitched. I knew who it was and I ran faster, now in terror more than haste.
It was the witch of Siddow. She was sounding the alarm. With her one remaining arm, the woman started clanging her bell and calling for aid. In the distance, I heard the cacophony of a horde that made my blood curdle and my legs weaken.
I turned off from the path away from the village and toward the cliffs, and my only hope.
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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