Just a couple of things from writing prompts on facebook
“It was my turn to dig” – prompt
The morning sun was already growing hot as I watched my younger brother press his foot to the spade and press it into the dew dampened earth. Malcolm’s foot looked so small, the shovel almost comically large in his pale hands. He levered his clod up and out of the growing hole, tossing it carefully onto a canvas tarp. The pile of earth already growing, it still seemed an insurmountable task. Two acolytes stood ready at the side of the grave, ready to take up the task if we faltered. I swore we would do this ourselves.
My eyes were painfully dry. All my tears had been shed, and in one last act of love for my mother I had left my childhood behind me. But these acolytes knew none of that. They only saw a thirteen year old orphan and his ten year old brother who continued to valiantly work away at the dirt with a shovel too big for his hands.
I looked at my own hands. They were streaked with dark, rich earth, but in the vermilion light spreading across the sky my eyes could only see blood. I fought the urge to wipe them on my britches, didn’t want to let strangers see a flash of… not regret. I couldn’t even put a name to what I felt, other than it reflected the loss of my innocence. My mother was dead, and my actions hadn’t brought her back. Vengeance begets naught but the same, that is what Ameion’s priests would say, certainly. But I felt no regret.
I gently took the shovel from my brother, it was my turn to dig. It was my time to be a man, and I had to face up to the choices I had made and there were more hard choices I would have to make. For the rest of my life. As I rolled my neck on my shoulders I saw a dark shape settle on a nearby bench, looking like any other mourner. The Huntsman had come.
“Take a paragraph or a few from something you wrote when you first started writing, and rewrite it the way you would now. If you share it, post the original as well.” – prompt
Original from 1999
“Now that was pathetic, what a real sidhe would do is hit me where I’m bleeding, you know make it count.”
Kalita kissed him lightly on the cheek and punched his wounded arm with all her strength. Caulin fell backwards onto the crushed ferns, sending more of the earthy scent around them.
“Just remember who taught you that.”
Caulin sneered down his thin-bladed nose at her. “You slapped me,” he stated with a derisive and incredulous manner. She glared up at him, crimson rage fading from her face as she slowed her breathing. “Now, that was pathetic.” he added, copying the tones of his most sententious tutor. “What a real Sidhe would do is hit me where I’m bleeding. You have to make it count or everyone will know you are soft-hearted.” He smirked, “They already know you are soft-headed.”
Kalita looked up into his face, so close to hers still as he still gripped her by the shoulder. She surged forward and stuck her thumb into the sluggishly bleeding hole the arrow had punched through the meat of his shoulder. He grunted, not the pained howl she was hoping for, and shoved her away. Her thumb and most of her hand were wet with his strange pale blood, and she wiped it on her britches leg.
A slight smile quirked the corner of the prince’s mouth, “Just remember who taught you that and you’ll do just fine.”