ZellJr
04-19-2011, 11:36 AM
Please don't be alarmed by the "narrator 1", "narrator2 " things. This is just guide reader so they won't be confused. For the final, fully edited story I'll find a way to switch between perspectives in a more dignified manner. But this will have to serve as a place holder. Thanks.
The Day They Arrived
Narrator 1
The first time they came it wasn't so bad. There were a few break ins and Aunt Julia had her purse stolen and flower patches trampled. But other than that, the outsiders left fairly quickly. Of course being such a small village, there wasn't much to take. We didn't expect to see them again.
There was little knowledge of the area around us. Outside of the hills, I mean. We often thought of it as we do the clouds, a bit of wonder, a bit of fear. Fear being the wisest choice. Within our village, however, it was just us. And for a while, this worked out just fine.
Upon the Hills
Narrator 2
The cattle were up earlier than usual, interrupting the languid pace of my sleep. It was from my window that I placed my wrinkled hands upon the wall and peered through at the herd, panicking, wandering in place. Had I left the barn door open?
My Mother
Narrator 1
She wore flowing gowns to the fields each day where she'd be found in the schoolhouse at the back of the village, just behind the pub and the mill. As odd as it may seem , she was the same woman in the classroom as she was at home; or atleast she wore the same mask. She wore the same smile everyday, to the classroom, to the field, to the shepherd's house, to her mother's funeral. It was something she tried to teach me to do, always insisting it was a light that could brighten one's day. I never could do it like her, despite my efforts, as I was too young to have any use for it.
My father
Narrator 1
My father was a hunter. He was one of eight men in the village allowed to own a gun, so in a way he was an important man. He came through the door, hands covered in blood each day.
Beneath the Moon
Narrator 2
There was a warmth to the atmosphere as I lied down on the wool cloth of my bed. My eyes stared at the roof as the howling of wolves was embedded in the grey sky. I couldn't sleep that night.
The Storm
Narrator 1
We never imagined a situation when the outsiders would return. We were a small village with nothing to offer. No jewels, no bank, just small farms and a blue sky. We never could imagine a person who would want anything from us, let alone want it enough to hurdle the hills embroidering us. We'd never encountered such a people but they were certainly kind enough to teach us, or perhaps just me, of the ways of the outside world.
I was at home that night, so I could only hear the proceedings of the events that transpired that night. Young as I was it was oddly reminiscent of a storm. First came the thunder, rumbling hooves stampeding down a slope, though faint, as if too far away to be real. Then there was the lightning, lighting up the blackness just outside my window, Each flash accompanying a screech, a crackling.
And then there was the rain, the moans creeping through the sill of my window and fogging up the glass. Soon after it was my mother, bursting into my room and leaping on top of me, burying my head into her chest and whispering into my ear. I could feel the rain wetting my forehead, a slow, steady drizzle.
I awoke that morning, back aching, to a purple sky. The sheep seemed to gaze at it as did I during the morning herding. They were particularly fascinated by its persistence, as though if they stared long enough it would return to normal. Their fixation made it difficult to contain them, and their cries would drown out my own. So I decided to oblige them by leaving them be to scatter and stare, unobstructed by the voice of a frail old man. To my dismay, they remained scattered and in disarray until well into the night.
The Following Day
Narrator 1
I woke up to my mother's smile. She didn't say anything to me, assuming I'd forgotten, or didn't know.
I didn't go to school that day, but it was okay. I don't think anyone did. However, the usually silent streets were paved with cries and women and men alike shouting and banging on the door to town hall.
That night
Narrator 1
I waited in bed, deep into the night to hear the sound of the door open and the rifle ****, with my mother to my side, rocking in her chair with her hands placed gently over her ears. She smiled, but I knew she was listening for the sound of the storm.
A good shepherd
Narrator 2
I lost two of them. Two of my sheep didn't make it through that night. And I wanted to curse that sky for it, but when that didn't work, I proceeded to curse myself. But as I gathered myself and proceeded to the rest of the herd, it became clear to me the ones who were to blame.
A Plan
Narrator 1
It was three days since the last event and the village began to return its normal levels. I hadn't seen my father during those days, but he returned today with a group of five others, all bearing guns. My mother and I were in the village hall listening to the mayor speak gently, wearing my mother's smile as he attempted to ground us, his herd. We were told the village hunters would be sent out each night to patrol till the day time. We were told they would find these outsiders and kill them And we believed them.
Beetle
Narrator 2
I raised this dog since birth, beings its mother, father, and protector. Few times was it ever found without the company of my presence. And as it grew, it became clear it wanted nothing to do but to protect me.
Beneath the Eyes of Heaven
Narrator 1
It hadn't been a week since the village meeting, but I woke up that morning to the sounds of screaming. I hesitated to get out of bed, but after noticing the lack of my mother's presence in the chair beside me, I propelled myself away from the sheets and through the front door.
Gathered before the village hall was a crowd of the locals. They huddled up, screaming and shouting, as they seemed to be staring at something on the ground. My innocent curiosity replaced my worry from before and I lunged into the crowd, pushing my way through to the center. All the while I wondered what I would find, my mind fluttering around the thought of a dead dog or a strange creature. But I quickly began to make out the faint semblance of a hand, fingers twisted like the legs of a dead spider. That hand led to an arm, which lead to a body, naked and soiled in blood. And that body led to a head, the head of the mayor, whose eyes were closed and whose mouth was pried open in a whimper. That mouth led to the promise which we would all soon enough forget.
In the Woods
Narrator 2
The smoke from my rifle burned hot and the air smelled of fire. Beetle sniffed at the wolf's carcass, around the bloodied hole burned into its body. I never did locate the sheep that went missing, but Beetle encouraged me that this carcass would prove to be a suitable replacement. And though the blackened woods tried dearly to conceal it, I could see the killer in his eyes.
It was then I was certain that smell of fire was from my heart.
My Mother
Narrator 1
She wore flowing gowns to the fields each day where she would be found burying bodies with Ms. Yates and her son. I just watched. I hadn't been to school in two weeks or so so I spent much of my time at home, watching. And she still wore that smile, to the church, to the mill, to the mayor's funeral. But over time, unbeknownst to her, I began to see the cracks in her mask.
My Father
Narrator 1
He used to go on hunting trips during the winter with two of the other hunters in the village so we were used to him being gone for many weeks at a time. Often times we'd await his return and rush to the door as we could hear his faint pawing at the door. It was his mits that made the sound, and it happened often enough that he started doing it whenever he would return. Gun in one hand, he'd stumble in as my mother would open, the door, her smile nearly blinding him. Covered in snow, he'd fall onto the couch and brush his self, gun still held stiffly in the other hand. He would gaze at me carefully, then at my mother, as if looking for something, and he would find it. But it was okay. He had a gun so we were never worried about him.
My Daughter
Narrator 2
She only visited me once. She was a grown woman then, and brought her son with her, though he didn't say a word. We didn't say much, as I'm sure neither of us had much to say. I could see she had a family now, a husband, a son. I had my own family, Beetle here and the cows, the sheep, the pigs. We didn't have anything to say. However, before she returned to the village, she left me a smile. Unfortunately it's a smile I've since forgotten.
It's been a week
Narrator 1
No one ever slept anymore. I could see the lights in every room in every home on every night. There was never a soul to be found on the street, and the ever lively pub was abandoned and let out not even a whisper. And in the mornings when my mother would come to wake me, she'd pause, as she noticed me awake, peering to my right through the window looking down upon the mangled village.
That night, I was lying in bed, reading a book, as my mother sat by my side, her body covering the window. She only watched me and would give the occasional peek to see what page I was on. Every light in the house was off, and our breaths floated heavily through the air. All the while we listened, downstairs, as we could here the violent pawing at the door. And on occasion we could here muffled shouting. My mother and I just hid there, in the darkness, as I read my book and as she watched. The pawing at the door never grew louder, and never faded. We heard it well into the day time. And even as we left the house. It was always the same. Except in my sleep. It was loudest in my sleep.
Porched
Narrator 2
Beetle ran off. I was inside, sipping steadily on my tea when I heard his barking. He shot the air multiple times, calling for my attention. I did little. He shot again, hoping I would hear. My hand returned to cup and brought it to my lips. It wasn't until the moon returned that I noticed he hadn't returned. And so I sat down, in front of my home, looking over the village beneath me, empty, desolate.
And I watched. And waited.
My Father
Narrator 1
We found him and the five other patrols in the mill. They were hanging from a wooden beam, drenched in what appeared to be water. They were naked, and each one of them, peered at me, eyes wide open. The stench was unbearable, but it grabbed me and sucked me in. I wanted to go nearer, and to touch one of my father's dangling limbs, but my mother quickly grabbed me and pulled me in. The sound of the dripping water was a roar in the seemingly endless silence.
Oddly, as my mother dragged me away from the scene with a mighty tug, she didn't cover my eyes. She let me stare. She wanted me to stare. It was as if she somehow knew that this would plant a seed in me. There was no way she should know. How did she know?
My Mother
Narrator 1
With the guns of the six hunters gone, and the mayor’s gun gone, there was only one gun left in the area. Up on the hill my mother always told me of the shepherd. She said he watches over us, to make sure things like this didn't happen, and though she spoke of him like a myth, I always believed her. I always believed there was a shepherd watching us all. The eighth gun must belong to him. The rest of the village believed we were defenseless now, and would often curse each other and fight, wishing the mayor had allowed each household to own a gun. Personally, I didn't think it would make a difference. The outsiders were here to teach us. They're here to show us true pain and how little control we have. We are little people.
My mother hadn't spoken to me since that day at the mill. Neither did she look me in the eyes. I noticed some nights, a subtle noise coming from the recently empty pub. The voices seemed burst out in increments,, disguised in the form of laughter or frolicking. I was certain they were just in my head, or maybe ghosts. But these thoughts were dispelled as I noticed my mother could also hear them, as she'd frequently glance in that direction out of the corner of her eye. They were there. We knew it.
Should Have Known
Narrator 1
I suppose we were lucky to have not been attacked up until that point. Many of the other houses and building in the village were burned down and of course many of the families were killed or went missing. We were very fortunate to have lasted that long.
So I shouldn't have been surprised when I heard banging and pawing out our door. My mother and I should have been ready instead of hiding under the bed, peeking just beneath the dangling sheet. We should have seen it coming. We should have been ready for when they shot the door down, and busted their way in, shouting and asking where we were. The sounds of broken wood spattering onto the floor shouldn't have made me cringe. This was to be expected, after all. And the hollow foot steps growing louder and louder, I regret to say, squeezed a tear out of me. If not for my mother's hand, would have squeezed a scream out of me as well.
Nearer
Narrator 1
She was ready though. She didn't cringe at the sound of the loudening footsteps, or the cries of “come out!”. She sat there, frozen in place, burying me deep into her side. And I felt safe. I felt safe even after they shot down my bedroom door, and kicked the wooden pieces about. I could here the sounds of glass crashing, my toys falling from the dresser, the dresser tipping over and shattering to pieces. And of course, I could hear clearly the growing intensity of my heartbeats as my room was kicked about.
But as the bed was lifted, I felt my heart drop to my stomach, as if I swallowed it. There was nothing more that could be done and I should have seen this coming. Sadly I only remember screaming as my mother lunged at one of them, grabbing his shirt, shouting, crying, an explosion of emotion erupting from a life's worth illusions. There were four of them, all large, all shrouded in darkness, but it was the one struggling with my mother that I could see clearly.
From the depths of the darkness I could hear repeated barks, like shots of gunfire in a pale silence. And in a moment of brevity, there was a dog hanging from the arm that grabbed my mother's throat. It was going to be okay, I thought. We would make it.
A Good Shepherd
Narrator 1
I was foolish. I was foolish to think that a moment of hope would be enough to stop the inevitable. It was clear that the dog would be shot by one of the other outsiders, and I'm sure my mother knew she would be shot briefly after. I didn't see any of it though. Atleast not outside of my head. My mother was screaming for me to run the moment the dog showed up, and so I did, right out the window.
I did hear the gunshots, and I did hear the ensuing silence, a confirmation. I could hear everything: the pieces of her mask shattering on the floor, the barking and gunshots blending as they erupted through the window and pores of the home, and my mother's cry, “I hope the shepherd finds and kills you all.” The gunshot ensued.
Three days
Narrator 2
I had been waiting three days. Three days for this dog and it was on this third, that I was obliged, much to my dismay. I watched carefully as a small boy climbed up my hill, tears flowing down his face. But he was strong. I knew he was a strong boy.
No one from the village had traveled all the way up the hill to visit me before, so I found myself to be a bit welcoming. Dark as it was, his eyes shone brightly, and he bore a heavy weight on his heart. I tapped my fingers on my seat, watching his ascension, his eyes glowing as would two stars in a perilous night. And his smile, of course, was reminiscent of one I'd seen before. A smile I'd long forgotten.
Vestige
Narrator 1
The man was old. He looked to me to be eighty years, with a beard down to his chest, ragged and worn, and a hat worn tightly on his head, perhaps to conceal baldness. I wiped my eyes, smiling brightly, a memento of my mother. As I got closer to him, I began to notice his size, as he appeared to be large, almost abnormally so. My legs grew heavy, perhaps intimidated by his presence, his eyes meeting and locking into mine, not budging in the slightest. By his side was a rifle, dusty and worn, yet glowing. I climbed up the steps to his porch, neither man's eyes leaving the other's. The scent of fire burned the tip of my nose, and I wiped my hands on my shirt before I sat down next to him. And I spoke to him. Of my father. Of my mother. And of the dog.
He shut his eyes as I spoke and breathed in heavily, yet calmly, as if absorbing the words through his skin. He exhaled gently, and grabbed firmly the gun to his right.
The Hunt
Narrator 1
I was pacing behind him, almost hiding as we trekked down the daunting hill. Each step he took rumbled like a growing thunder. The air was thick and hot, distorting the landscape before me. But he kept looking forward, walking steadily and calmly, his brown duster fluttering in the air much like my mother's gowns.
He stopped as we stepped foot in town, and his eyes peered across the remnants of the peaceful village. Though I wasn't sure of his intentions, I could hear some hollering from the pub, the same voices from those nights. He could hear it too but didn't move. He proceeded forward, strutting his way through the rubble and debris, stepping over the occasional corpse here and there.
“Which one's your house?” He asked. His voice was rugged. It was heavy. It was powerful. I pointed to my right, to which he obliged with a nod. Cocking his gun, he began towards the building I once called home. The front door was reduced to little more than chips of wood jutting from the frame, and within you could see toppled dressers, broken glass, large holes in the walls, and torn down lanterns.
We stepped on the doorstep, and the heat pervaded. A glance hear and there, and he entered. I entered after him, at which point I heard a gunshot, and jutted my eye over in the direction. To the left of the old man, on the ground, was an outsider, squirming in pain. There was a large whole in his body, and smoke rising from the mouth of the the old man's rifle. Though the man remained peering forward, seemingly oblivious to the outsider's presence. Another gunshot crackled and blood erupted from the outsider's body and onto the old man's sleeve. He proceeded into my room.
Beetle
Narrator 2
I stepped over the rubble that formed a doormat to the room. Two bodies lied upon the ground: a woman and a dog. There was no stench, but I tasted their blood in my mouth. It was a scene my heart was familiar with. I knew who was responsible. And I knew what to do.
The Hunt
Narrator 1
The man didn't touch the bodies or even seem to care. But I did. I could still see the smile on my mother's face, and it was a smile she didn't need a mask for. I felt a warmth in the room, and nearly went to touch her, but the old man was already on his way out, his pace noticeably faster.
He was heading in the direction of the pub and it was clear now what he was going to do. His jacket flowed as he picked up his pace, and as he approached the pub, he cocked his gun. The noise had calmed down to a silence from within, but the man remained peering through the window. In an instant, a head popped up in the window and exploded the same moment. The old man lowered his rifle and continued. I tried to follow but he gestured for me to stay put.
He crept p to the side of the pub, back to the wall, and rifle up, occasionally peeking through the window to his left. It wasn't until one of the outsiders popper up in the same window, gun aimed at me, that I was afraid. The man aimed carefully at me, then lowered his gun before squinting and looking about. And just like that, a bullet went through the side of his head. I covered my ears and fell to my knees but the sound of gunshots still crept through. Over and over, as the old man made his way around the pub, shooting through this wall, shooting through that window. The pub was almost entirely shrouded in smoke. But I could still see and hear everything clearly. And it was then he entered the building and three strikes of lightning rattled through the air. He stepped out, his duster and hat covered in blood, and rifle breathing smoke. In his other hand was an outsider, being grasped tightly by his hair, limbs dangling freely.
A Good Shepherd
Narrator 2
There were nine of them in the pub. But I saw thirteen guns. None of the men would tell me where the others were so I brought one home with me. The little boy dragged behind as we trudged back up the hill, and I occasionally wondered if he'd seen to much. But he was strong. He was very strong.
Upon arriving at home, I hung the man's body in front of my porch. I hung it up high so everyone can see it, so the man can peer down at the village beneath him, and so everyone below can see him up above in the sky. I want them all to see it. And I'll be here, waiting.
The boy wiped his hands on his shirt and sat by me. He smiled, a beautiful smile. But I could see the killer in his eyes.
The Day They Arrived
Narrator 1
The first time they came it wasn't so bad. There were a few break ins and Aunt Julia had her purse stolen and flower patches trampled. But other than that, the outsiders left fairly quickly. Of course being such a small village, there wasn't much to take. We didn't expect to see them again.
There was little knowledge of the area around us. Outside of the hills, I mean. We often thought of it as we do the clouds, a bit of wonder, a bit of fear. Fear being the wisest choice. Within our village, however, it was just us. And for a while, this worked out just fine.
Upon the Hills
Narrator 2
The cattle were up earlier than usual, interrupting the languid pace of my sleep. It was from my window that I placed my wrinkled hands upon the wall and peered through at the herd, panicking, wandering in place. Had I left the barn door open?
My Mother
Narrator 1
She wore flowing gowns to the fields each day where she'd be found in the schoolhouse at the back of the village, just behind the pub and the mill. As odd as it may seem , she was the same woman in the classroom as she was at home; or atleast she wore the same mask. She wore the same smile everyday, to the classroom, to the field, to the shepherd's house, to her mother's funeral. It was something she tried to teach me to do, always insisting it was a light that could brighten one's day. I never could do it like her, despite my efforts, as I was too young to have any use for it.
My father
Narrator 1
My father was a hunter. He was one of eight men in the village allowed to own a gun, so in a way he was an important man. He came through the door, hands covered in blood each day.
Beneath the Moon
Narrator 2
There was a warmth to the atmosphere as I lied down on the wool cloth of my bed. My eyes stared at the roof as the howling of wolves was embedded in the grey sky. I couldn't sleep that night.
The Storm
Narrator 1
We never imagined a situation when the outsiders would return. We were a small village with nothing to offer. No jewels, no bank, just small farms and a blue sky. We never could imagine a person who would want anything from us, let alone want it enough to hurdle the hills embroidering us. We'd never encountered such a people but they were certainly kind enough to teach us, or perhaps just me, of the ways of the outside world.
I was at home that night, so I could only hear the proceedings of the events that transpired that night. Young as I was it was oddly reminiscent of a storm. First came the thunder, rumbling hooves stampeding down a slope, though faint, as if too far away to be real. Then there was the lightning, lighting up the blackness just outside my window, Each flash accompanying a screech, a crackling.
And then there was the rain, the moans creeping through the sill of my window and fogging up the glass. Soon after it was my mother, bursting into my room and leaping on top of me, burying my head into her chest and whispering into my ear. I could feel the rain wetting my forehead, a slow, steady drizzle.
I awoke that morning, back aching, to a purple sky. The sheep seemed to gaze at it as did I during the morning herding. They were particularly fascinated by its persistence, as though if they stared long enough it would return to normal. Their fixation made it difficult to contain them, and their cries would drown out my own. So I decided to oblige them by leaving them be to scatter and stare, unobstructed by the voice of a frail old man. To my dismay, they remained scattered and in disarray until well into the night.
The Following Day
Narrator 1
I woke up to my mother's smile. She didn't say anything to me, assuming I'd forgotten, or didn't know.
I didn't go to school that day, but it was okay. I don't think anyone did. However, the usually silent streets were paved with cries and women and men alike shouting and banging on the door to town hall.
That night
Narrator 1
I waited in bed, deep into the night to hear the sound of the door open and the rifle ****, with my mother to my side, rocking in her chair with her hands placed gently over her ears. She smiled, but I knew she was listening for the sound of the storm.
A good shepherd
Narrator 2
I lost two of them. Two of my sheep didn't make it through that night. And I wanted to curse that sky for it, but when that didn't work, I proceeded to curse myself. But as I gathered myself and proceeded to the rest of the herd, it became clear to me the ones who were to blame.
A Plan
Narrator 1
It was three days since the last event and the village began to return its normal levels. I hadn't seen my father during those days, but he returned today with a group of five others, all bearing guns. My mother and I were in the village hall listening to the mayor speak gently, wearing my mother's smile as he attempted to ground us, his herd. We were told the village hunters would be sent out each night to patrol till the day time. We were told they would find these outsiders and kill them And we believed them.
Beetle
Narrator 2
I raised this dog since birth, beings its mother, father, and protector. Few times was it ever found without the company of my presence. And as it grew, it became clear it wanted nothing to do but to protect me.
Beneath the Eyes of Heaven
Narrator 1
It hadn't been a week since the village meeting, but I woke up that morning to the sounds of screaming. I hesitated to get out of bed, but after noticing the lack of my mother's presence in the chair beside me, I propelled myself away from the sheets and through the front door.
Gathered before the village hall was a crowd of the locals. They huddled up, screaming and shouting, as they seemed to be staring at something on the ground. My innocent curiosity replaced my worry from before and I lunged into the crowd, pushing my way through to the center. All the while I wondered what I would find, my mind fluttering around the thought of a dead dog or a strange creature. But I quickly began to make out the faint semblance of a hand, fingers twisted like the legs of a dead spider. That hand led to an arm, which lead to a body, naked and soiled in blood. And that body led to a head, the head of the mayor, whose eyes were closed and whose mouth was pried open in a whimper. That mouth led to the promise which we would all soon enough forget.
In the Woods
Narrator 2
The smoke from my rifle burned hot and the air smelled of fire. Beetle sniffed at the wolf's carcass, around the bloodied hole burned into its body. I never did locate the sheep that went missing, but Beetle encouraged me that this carcass would prove to be a suitable replacement. And though the blackened woods tried dearly to conceal it, I could see the killer in his eyes.
It was then I was certain that smell of fire was from my heart.
My Mother
Narrator 1
She wore flowing gowns to the fields each day where she would be found burying bodies with Ms. Yates and her son. I just watched. I hadn't been to school in two weeks or so so I spent much of my time at home, watching. And she still wore that smile, to the church, to the mill, to the mayor's funeral. But over time, unbeknownst to her, I began to see the cracks in her mask.
My Father
Narrator 1
He used to go on hunting trips during the winter with two of the other hunters in the village so we were used to him being gone for many weeks at a time. Often times we'd await his return and rush to the door as we could hear his faint pawing at the door. It was his mits that made the sound, and it happened often enough that he started doing it whenever he would return. Gun in one hand, he'd stumble in as my mother would open, the door, her smile nearly blinding him. Covered in snow, he'd fall onto the couch and brush his self, gun still held stiffly in the other hand. He would gaze at me carefully, then at my mother, as if looking for something, and he would find it. But it was okay. He had a gun so we were never worried about him.
My Daughter
Narrator 2
She only visited me once. She was a grown woman then, and brought her son with her, though he didn't say a word. We didn't say much, as I'm sure neither of us had much to say. I could see she had a family now, a husband, a son. I had my own family, Beetle here and the cows, the sheep, the pigs. We didn't have anything to say. However, before she returned to the village, she left me a smile. Unfortunately it's a smile I've since forgotten.
It's been a week
Narrator 1
No one ever slept anymore. I could see the lights in every room in every home on every night. There was never a soul to be found on the street, and the ever lively pub was abandoned and let out not even a whisper. And in the mornings when my mother would come to wake me, she'd pause, as she noticed me awake, peering to my right through the window looking down upon the mangled village.
That night, I was lying in bed, reading a book, as my mother sat by my side, her body covering the window. She only watched me and would give the occasional peek to see what page I was on. Every light in the house was off, and our breaths floated heavily through the air. All the while we listened, downstairs, as we could here the violent pawing at the door. And on occasion we could here muffled shouting. My mother and I just hid there, in the darkness, as I read my book and as she watched. The pawing at the door never grew louder, and never faded. We heard it well into the day time. And even as we left the house. It was always the same. Except in my sleep. It was loudest in my sleep.
Porched
Narrator 2
Beetle ran off. I was inside, sipping steadily on my tea when I heard his barking. He shot the air multiple times, calling for my attention. I did little. He shot again, hoping I would hear. My hand returned to cup and brought it to my lips. It wasn't until the moon returned that I noticed he hadn't returned. And so I sat down, in front of my home, looking over the village beneath me, empty, desolate.
And I watched. And waited.
My Father
Narrator 1
We found him and the five other patrols in the mill. They were hanging from a wooden beam, drenched in what appeared to be water. They were naked, and each one of them, peered at me, eyes wide open. The stench was unbearable, but it grabbed me and sucked me in. I wanted to go nearer, and to touch one of my father's dangling limbs, but my mother quickly grabbed me and pulled me in. The sound of the dripping water was a roar in the seemingly endless silence.
Oddly, as my mother dragged me away from the scene with a mighty tug, she didn't cover my eyes. She let me stare. She wanted me to stare. It was as if she somehow knew that this would plant a seed in me. There was no way she should know. How did she know?
My Mother
Narrator 1
With the guns of the six hunters gone, and the mayor’s gun gone, there was only one gun left in the area. Up on the hill my mother always told me of the shepherd. She said he watches over us, to make sure things like this didn't happen, and though she spoke of him like a myth, I always believed her. I always believed there was a shepherd watching us all. The eighth gun must belong to him. The rest of the village believed we were defenseless now, and would often curse each other and fight, wishing the mayor had allowed each household to own a gun. Personally, I didn't think it would make a difference. The outsiders were here to teach us. They're here to show us true pain and how little control we have. We are little people.
My mother hadn't spoken to me since that day at the mill. Neither did she look me in the eyes. I noticed some nights, a subtle noise coming from the recently empty pub. The voices seemed burst out in increments,, disguised in the form of laughter or frolicking. I was certain they were just in my head, or maybe ghosts. But these thoughts were dispelled as I noticed my mother could also hear them, as she'd frequently glance in that direction out of the corner of her eye. They were there. We knew it.
Should Have Known
Narrator 1
I suppose we were lucky to have not been attacked up until that point. Many of the other houses and building in the village were burned down and of course many of the families were killed or went missing. We were very fortunate to have lasted that long.
So I shouldn't have been surprised when I heard banging and pawing out our door. My mother and I should have been ready instead of hiding under the bed, peeking just beneath the dangling sheet. We should have seen it coming. We should have been ready for when they shot the door down, and busted their way in, shouting and asking where we were. The sounds of broken wood spattering onto the floor shouldn't have made me cringe. This was to be expected, after all. And the hollow foot steps growing louder and louder, I regret to say, squeezed a tear out of me. If not for my mother's hand, would have squeezed a scream out of me as well.
Nearer
Narrator 1
She was ready though. She didn't cringe at the sound of the loudening footsteps, or the cries of “come out!”. She sat there, frozen in place, burying me deep into her side. And I felt safe. I felt safe even after they shot down my bedroom door, and kicked the wooden pieces about. I could here the sounds of glass crashing, my toys falling from the dresser, the dresser tipping over and shattering to pieces. And of course, I could hear clearly the growing intensity of my heartbeats as my room was kicked about.
But as the bed was lifted, I felt my heart drop to my stomach, as if I swallowed it. There was nothing more that could be done and I should have seen this coming. Sadly I only remember screaming as my mother lunged at one of them, grabbing his shirt, shouting, crying, an explosion of emotion erupting from a life's worth illusions. There were four of them, all large, all shrouded in darkness, but it was the one struggling with my mother that I could see clearly.
From the depths of the darkness I could hear repeated barks, like shots of gunfire in a pale silence. And in a moment of brevity, there was a dog hanging from the arm that grabbed my mother's throat. It was going to be okay, I thought. We would make it.
A Good Shepherd
Narrator 1
I was foolish. I was foolish to think that a moment of hope would be enough to stop the inevitable. It was clear that the dog would be shot by one of the other outsiders, and I'm sure my mother knew she would be shot briefly after. I didn't see any of it though. Atleast not outside of my head. My mother was screaming for me to run the moment the dog showed up, and so I did, right out the window.
I did hear the gunshots, and I did hear the ensuing silence, a confirmation. I could hear everything: the pieces of her mask shattering on the floor, the barking and gunshots blending as they erupted through the window and pores of the home, and my mother's cry, “I hope the shepherd finds and kills you all.” The gunshot ensued.
Three days
Narrator 2
I had been waiting three days. Three days for this dog and it was on this third, that I was obliged, much to my dismay. I watched carefully as a small boy climbed up my hill, tears flowing down his face. But he was strong. I knew he was a strong boy.
No one from the village had traveled all the way up the hill to visit me before, so I found myself to be a bit welcoming. Dark as it was, his eyes shone brightly, and he bore a heavy weight on his heart. I tapped my fingers on my seat, watching his ascension, his eyes glowing as would two stars in a perilous night. And his smile, of course, was reminiscent of one I'd seen before. A smile I'd long forgotten.
Vestige
Narrator 1
The man was old. He looked to me to be eighty years, with a beard down to his chest, ragged and worn, and a hat worn tightly on his head, perhaps to conceal baldness. I wiped my eyes, smiling brightly, a memento of my mother. As I got closer to him, I began to notice his size, as he appeared to be large, almost abnormally so. My legs grew heavy, perhaps intimidated by his presence, his eyes meeting and locking into mine, not budging in the slightest. By his side was a rifle, dusty and worn, yet glowing. I climbed up the steps to his porch, neither man's eyes leaving the other's. The scent of fire burned the tip of my nose, and I wiped my hands on my shirt before I sat down next to him. And I spoke to him. Of my father. Of my mother. And of the dog.
He shut his eyes as I spoke and breathed in heavily, yet calmly, as if absorbing the words through his skin. He exhaled gently, and grabbed firmly the gun to his right.
The Hunt
Narrator 1
I was pacing behind him, almost hiding as we trekked down the daunting hill. Each step he took rumbled like a growing thunder. The air was thick and hot, distorting the landscape before me. But he kept looking forward, walking steadily and calmly, his brown duster fluttering in the air much like my mother's gowns.
He stopped as we stepped foot in town, and his eyes peered across the remnants of the peaceful village. Though I wasn't sure of his intentions, I could hear some hollering from the pub, the same voices from those nights. He could hear it too but didn't move. He proceeded forward, strutting his way through the rubble and debris, stepping over the occasional corpse here and there.
“Which one's your house?” He asked. His voice was rugged. It was heavy. It was powerful. I pointed to my right, to which he obliged with a nod. Cocking his gun, he began towards the building I once called home. The front door was reduced to little more than chips of wood jutting from the frame, and within you could see toppled dressers, broken glass, large holes in the walls, and torn down lanterns.
We stepped on the doorstep, and the heat pervaded. A glance hear and there, and he entered. I entered after him, at which point I heard a gunshot, and jutted my eye over in the direction. To the left of the old man, on the ground, was an outsider, squirming in pain. There was a large whole in his body, and smoke rising from the mouth of the the old man's rifle. Though the man remained peering forward, seemingly oblivious to the outsider's presence. Another gunshot crackled and blood erupted from the outsider's body and onto the old man's sleeve. He proceeded into my room.
Beetle
Narrator 2
I stepped over the rubble that formed a doormat to the room. Two bodies lied upon the ground: a woman and a dog. There was no stench, but I tasted their blood in my mouth. It was a scene my heart was familiar with. I knew who was responsible. And I knew what to do.
The Hunt
Narrator 1
The man didn't touch the bodies or even seem to care. But I did. I could still see the smile on my mother's face, and it was a smile she didn't need a mask for. I felt a warmth in the room, and nearly went to touch her, but the old man was already on his way out, his pace noticeably faster.
He was heading in the direction of the pub and it was clear now what he was going to do. His jacket flowed as he picked up his pace, and as he approached the pub, he cocked his gun. The noise had calmed down to a silence from within, but the man remained peering through the window. In an instant, a head popped up in the window and exploded the same moment. The old man lowered his rifle and continued. I tried to follow but he gestured for me to stay put.
He crept p to the side of the pub, back to the wall, and rifle up, occasionally peeking through the window to his left. It wasn't until one of the outsiders popper up in the same window, gun aimed at me, that I was afraid. The man aimed carefully at me, then lowered his gun before squinting and looking about. And just like that, a bullet went through the side of his head. I covered my ears and fell to my knees but the sound of gunshots still crept through. Over and over, as the old man made his way around the pub, shooting through this wall, shooting through that window. The pub was almost entirely shrouded in smoke. But I could still see and hear everything clearly. And it was then he entered the building and three strikes of lightning rattled through the air. He stepped out, his duster and hat covered in blood, and rifle breathing smoke. In his other hand was an outsider, being grasped tightly by his hair, limbs dangling freely.
A Good Shepherd
Narrator 2
There were nine of them in the pub. But I saw thirteen guns. None of the men would tell me where the others were so I brought one home with me. The little boy dragged behind as we trudged back up the hill, and I occasionally wondered if he'd seen to much. But he was strong. He was very strong.
Upon arriving at home, I hung the man's body in front of my porch. I hung it up high so everyone can see it, so the man can peer down at the village beneath him, and so everyone below can see him up above in the sky. I want them all to see it. And I'll be here, waiting.
The boy wiped his hands on his shirt and sat by me. He smiled, a beautiful smile. But I could see the killer in his eyes.