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Thread: Flash Fiction: The Devil and His Pet

  1. #1
    Registered User krebiehlr1's Avatar
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    Flash Fiction: The Devil and His Pet

    An old one. Let me know what you think.


    Garrow stalked through the forest, a town of bothered people behind him. Some carried canoes over their heads, others lead white-dressed girls, for they were blindfolded, over the gritty terrain. The empty-handed raised torches above their heads and softened the bark of the trees in the surrounding area. Quietly they sung and they wept, but carried on all the same.
    Garrow, the wisest in the village, carried a black, cloth bag in one hand and a thick walking staff in the other. Old and weary were his bones; moaning with each pivot and swivel on his joints. Skin sagged from worry and hung like leathery blankets on his frame. He remained silent on their journey to the river where the maidens in pure clothing would be left to drift on into oblivion. All by his doing.
    Villagers, still humming their tune, would come up and caress the elder’s shoulder in a it has to be done sort of way. He would look back and nod, and they would fall back into ranks. This was the hardest part of it all, pretending to be a mere pawn in this twisted game.
    The devil sent his minions upon blackened steeds to feed upon the glee that was once thriving in between these trees. Now, the fireflies hardly come out to play at night for they are unable to find enough happiness to fuel their lights. Meadows brown, wind sags, and deer die by the dozen. His Wretchedness needs his feedings, and until He his quenched; love will wither, dreams will raisin, and happiness with be carried like dust in the wind. Blood of a deaf child spelled out the slaughter needed to cure His hunger.
    Garrow could hear the demons salivating in his mind, ready to feast upon the flesh unspoiled from lust and preserved in purity. The crackle of the flame was much too loud, the shuffling of feet scraped in his ear, and the gurgling of the river in the near-distance churned his intestines into sludge. Slowly, they approached the riverbed.
    Canoes splashed into the water and mothers began to sob. Fathers pulled their wives’ hands off their daughters and struggled to keep them stationary. Torches were placed at the heads of the canoes and the white-dressed girls were lain delicately down in their wooden coffins. Side by side they sat like meals at a dining hall.
    Garrow and other men stood behind the canoes and silently moved into the black water. Up to the knees the water rose, frigid in the fall night; dead maple leaves littered the surface. By mid waist, the girl in front of Garrow began to cry in a dignified way. She did not plead for reconsideration or substitution, nor did she become violent to save her own life. No, she merely rose her hand upwards from her bed and laid it upon the veiny hand of the one who drove her to her death.
    The other men pushed their canoes further into the murky water, but Garrow had stopped. Curiously he looked down at his aged hand, now covered by the ghostly grip of his lamb. “It’s okay,” she chimed to Garrow, who was inevitably leaking tears onto her forehead. He had not realized this and swiftly removed them from his eyes before another fell.
    How could she be the one to comfort me, when it is I sending her life to a perilous plummet? Garrow gripped her hand in his as if returning the gesture. The abysmal water now girdled his waist and he and the other men stopped. From his pouch, Garrow withdrew black rose petals and scattered them in the crisp breeze, fading into the dark river. He looked to his left and right, for he was in the middle, and nodded to the other drivers. Sobs bursted from the shore, and the canoes were let go to be caught by the current; all except Garrow’s.
    He had not released his yet because his hands were still holding onto the maiden. Her hand relaxed, but Garrow’s did not. So willing she is to die for a cause. And suddenly, he envied her. The Beast awaited just ahead and she did not want to keep Him waiting because she knew she was destined to die for the betterment of her family and village. What did Garrow have to live for?
    Regret, guilt, and pain festering inside of him. Ten lives for the price of one. He could have put an end to this chaos a long time ago, but he refused, valuing his own life over the lives of others. Oh, He works in twisted ways. He came to Garrow with a bargain, forfeit his life and the village would be a splendid place, no longer tainted by the likes of His creatures. The villagers shall frolic merrily in overly vegetated fields, and feast upon more cattle than their delightful little stomachs would be able to handle. But if Garrow did not want to give up his own life; he wanted to enjoy that gleefulness, he deserved it. After all, he was the oldest and wisest in the village, it should have been he that was rewarded. Why was he meant to die?
    But oh, He saw right through Garrow’s weakness and smiled a wide-toothed smile at his declination. The poor child did not even hear the wretched beast creep into his room and slice his airway; he did not have a chance to protest. Orders were given and Garrow took the boys remains and did the Devil’s work.
    The evil can still be undone! Lunge you fool, and take with the current! Reverse the foul demon’s wickedness and reclaim your dignity! Garrow seemed to reintroduce himself to reality and looked back at his hand that still gripped the girl. “Thank you,” he whispered into her pale ear, and let go.
    The last amber glowing torch fell over the horizon and the voice of something sinister hissed in his head, “Oh, thaaank you. Your corruption is the most tasty treat of all.”

  2. #2
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    Same treatment as before (see your other post):

    Garrow stalked through the forest, a town of bothered strange word choice people behind him. Some carried canoes over their heads, others lead led white-dressed girls, for they who? those doing the leading or the girls? were blindfolded, over the gritty terrain this adverbial clause needs to be much closer to the verb 'led' for it to make any sense. The empty-handed raised torches if they're empty-handed how are they holding the tprches? above their heads and softened the bark of the trees in the surrounding area Uh? How do they do that?. Quietly they sung and they wept, but carried on all the same.

    This paragraph needs a lot of work I think you'll agree.

    Old and weary were his bones - back to front writing is never a good idea.

    And you tell us he's moaning yet also remained silent... It's contradictory is it not?

    in a it has to be done sort of way - yeugh. Dreadful expression.

    I didn't read any more of this one. It's really hard going. You seemed to get bogged down in trying to portray some time in the distant past where people carried out sacrifices (not sure) by writing in a convoluted style. It's overwritten.

    You say this is an old one and it shows. It needs a lot of polishing to match your other work.

    H

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