A Collection of Short Stories

The Deadly Songwriter

The colors that lit up the evening sky were breathtaking. I soaked in the final rays of today's sun and eagerly awaited tomorrows. I always felt a tug towards the ocean of lapping waves and calming water.

I walked back from the beach and crept through the multitude of trees. I came up to the wooden hut that I had masterfully crafted from boughs and patches of sod. I used clay from the river to seal the house together. 

I perched upon the cot of moss and coaxed the pile of logs to produce fire. I sighed, leaning back into my bed while I skin the rabbit that had caught in one of my snares earlier today. I set the meat upon the spit and threw the soft brown pelt into the growing pile of furs. I plan to make a jacket before the harsh winter months came. 

I rinsed my dirtied hands by thrusting them into the dome-shaped rock filled with water that I used as a sink. Then dry them in the moss that grew on a stone I had placed next to the basin.

I hummed softly, my voice rising in the familiarity of the song. The melody lept into a deep decrescendo and it ended as softly as it had begun. I closed my eyes, relishing in the whisps of music I try so hard to withdraw from. 

The song forced a memory from the depths of my mind. I could still hear the screams and pleas for help. The muffled gurgles as they fell beneath the waves and my hunger for more. I shook the thought out of my head.

The following morning, I rise from my slumber as the sun sprinkles light upon the morning dew. I harvest from my patch and pluck the large fish that got caught in my woven net. I hang the fish and put the produce in the food bin to roast tonight. 

I padded softly through the trees toward the beach. I go there when my pain wouldn't ease. The starvation of song was carved deep in my gut. 

This time. I was not alone. I could feel the heartbeat of another person long before I could see them. It's faint, but still pounding inside another's chest.

I fought every instinct and crept up to the boy about my age, who laid upon the sand surrounded in the wreckage. His brown hair, different from my white-blonde streaks, was covered in sand, his clothes were ripped, and blood poured from a cut just above his brow. He needed water and food.

I gathered some sturdy vines and tied them to a wooden pallet that had washed up with him. I dragged him onto the makeshift sled and began the trek to my hut. The sled kept getting caught in branches, dirt, and roots. A vine snapped, but I quickly found another strawn around a large trunk. 

I finally made it to my clearing where I dragged the boy-ridden pallet to the door. Then, I dragged him by hooking my arms under his and pulled him over to my mossy cot. I gently laid him down on the bedding and covered his cold body with my animal pelt blanket I had sewn last fall. 

I started the fire and hung two pots of water on the spit to boil. One I filled with herbs to make tea, the other with fresh rabbit meat, turnips, carrots, and rabbit bones to create flavor in the stew.

I pressed a damp cloth to his wound as he stirred. His eyes opened slowly. He winced from the light that filtered through the open doorway. He tried to sit up, but I pushed him back down.

His warm brown eyes swept the room until they landed on me. His eyebrows bunched together in concentration. I bowed my head in embarrassment.

His eyebrows pinched together and he raised a hand to his temple. I set the wet cloth upon his hand and nudged it as a silent 'stay here'.

I scooped tea into a hollowed trunk I used as a cup and the stew into a hallowed, crafted bowl.

I held the cup to his lips and he took it, gulping it down with alarming speed. I helped him sit up slowly and set his back against the woven, leafed pillows. I pushed the bowl of stew into his hands and he greedily ate.