Wattys Shortlist 2022! | Kyla Shepard, a sixteen-year-old orphan who conjures massive ink-like creatures with her thoughts, must learn to tame the monsters before they consume everything in their path, including her.
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Trouble is like the light of the land as it always seems to find me. Even as I run and cower, it creeps around the nearest corner to paralyze me in its grip. In the Scalded, trouble knows no bounds and is forever on the prowl.
Much like the hunters.
The half dozen angry men fueled by fear go forth and terminate anything that threatens their status quo. Last week, the creatures of the night were also on the prowl and dwindled the hunters down from eight to two.
Standing behind the thick tree that has become twisted and distorted along with the rest of the vegetation within the scalded radius, its abundant needle-like leaves puffed in a delicate rotund of separate patches, concealing me in its rich shadow.
My thin frame, dark complexion, and big, kinky hair mimicked a forest tree. I lengthened my spine, aiming to stand as tall and still as them, allowing a faint waft of ricocheted breath to blow the isolated smooth strands of hair at the nape of my neck.
Footsteps approached and I held my breath when flashlight beams swept past me. Although the darkness hid the hunter's weapons and firearms, memory allowed me to see them vividly as they carried them in their palms, ready to shoot or strike.
The closer they moved, the longer I held my breath. Closer still, so close the smell of rancid liquor permeated off of them and threatened to catch in my throat whenever I inhaled. My eyes closed as the light swept over me from right to left. My heart thumped violently at the thought of being caught in their sights like trouble.
I opened my eyes only to lock them on the set of eyes belonging to one of the men. Fair skin, thick facial hair, and a dark cap. His eyes widened in shock. Fear stunned me in place.
Out of my periphery, a misshaped dark form snatched my attention from a distance and the hunter snapped his gaze to the figure. The crackling of freshly broken branches startled the hunters, stopping them in their tracks.
"Is that one of 'em?" One of the men raised his firearm in the direction of the noise.
The stink of scorched sugar singed my nostrils and the awareness that I was too late sunk in. I lowered my lids just as the nearby man's scream ascended through and above the forest trees along with his body that accompanied it.
The other hunters retreated the way they came, clamoring and shouting as they scurried like nocturnal insects caught in a spontaneous ray of light.
The sweet yet offensive odor grew stronger, and the sound of raking gravel grew louder and closer, only to pass me and retreat after the men. The tearing of thick, luscious roots as the massive claws pulled them from the soil and snapped them in half resonated through the night.
Still, as the men called out in fear, pleading for their lives, I refused to bear witness. I refused to see a repeat of the carnage that had been burned into my memory since day one.
