Modeled after Giovanni Boccaccio's classic from the 14th Century, this collection similarly brought 100+ short stories to Wattpad readers. The original's premise was simple: ten individuals entertained themselves over a span of ten days by telling a...
The crackling fire filled the silence among the group of strangers. Shadows danced around the surrounding forest, smoky embers rising into the cloudy night sky.
"This should do for now," said a tall, strong-jawed man. He dropped a few twigs onto the fire and then settled down, pulling his long coat tighter with a shiver. He cast a glance at a couple beside him, who smiled back. They had seemed to be the most useful so far, knowing how to start the fire and keep it from burning through the forest.
The rest of the group remained silent. Little had been said for some time.
It had been a few hours since their bus had crashed on the highway, swerving to avoid a deer. Although no one had seen the deer except for the driver, who had died sometime later. The only casualty. Now all that remained were the ten strangers. The bus was a turned-over wreck, and no cars had appeared on the dark highway, so all that remained was finding shelter and keeping warm. They just had to survive the night, then find a way back to civilisation.
"Does anyone have any stories?" said a young girl huddled beside her boyfriend. Her wide eyes sparkled in the fire light.
A rotund man with a goatee nodded, smiling. "What a good idea. It'll help pass the time." He glanced around the fire-lit group. "Anyone have anything?"
Another man shook his head. "You don't wanna hear my stories, man."
The strangers looked between each other; some looked away.
"I have a story." This came from an old, white-haired man who had yet to speak since the crash. "One of magic, immortality, and eternal tragedy."
"What, like a fairy tale?" someone said.
The old man shook his head, his frown creasing his wrinkled features. His eyes became fiercely intense. "Not a fairy tale. This is the story of a man named Mr. Big Stuff."
***
Snow fell over the small mountain town before me. White roofs were highlighted by the wavering lights coming from hundreds of little windows. The wind howled upon the cliff top, but I was numb to the bitter chill that night.
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I stood there, like I had many times before, overlooking the snowy town, my boots on the edge of the cliff. A moment that had once brought a serene bliss had now become a hollow, bitter resentment.
I have gone by many names in my hundreds of years, chained to this world as an immortal being. While my birth name has long been forgotten – if I was even born – the name that has stuck with me the longest is Mr. Big Stuff. A strange moniker, for sure, but one that came from a special person, so very long ago.
Immortals like me, of which there are few left, tended to go by nicknames or given names. Our origins had become lost throughout time. Some stories had been told of us, however, from the few that had seen more than our quiet human costumes.
