Posts Tagged ‘Olivia B’

The Lady

by Olivia, 7th Grade – An excerpt from her short story.

They say that the old woman who told me this was an eccentric.  I am not so certain, for I, and I alone, saw a stranger go into the woods outside our village in the autumn of my eighth year, and not come out.  I know this because I waited for him for hours.   (Strangers are a rarity in our village, and I wanted the privilege of being the first to greet our guest).  I did not go into the forest after him, because, even if no one else believed the old woman’s story, (Hag, they call her), we have been taught to dread the creatures that make their home in the woods.  Wolves the size of men.  Bears the size of small cottages.  We call these things Killers.

File:Eugen Kampf Flämische Dorfstraße.jpgI told my account of the stranger to my mum, and she told me that “one of them Killers must’ve gotten him, poor feller,” but the Killers attack the feeble-minded who decide to venture into the fringes of the forest, and I heard no screams.  The man must have been farther in.

The Hag is the closest thing that I have to a friend.  I protect her from what the Vagrants would do to her and her home, and, in return, she tells me legends forgotten by everyone but her.  The half-magic people that make their homes in the moors to the west, who live in the shape of Men, and the corpses that rise from the unmarked graves once every hundred years, and the fiery bird that, it is said, will ride in with the end of time, setting the sky to fire.

I listen to her in awe, shivers running up and down my spine.  I had heard my parents discussing me, how it was not natural for me not to be playing with other boys my age, and instead listening to an old, half-insane woman tell ‘dark magyk stories’.  They think that it is because of her that I am “turning out strange.”

I do not know the Hag’s name, and have never asked it, and never will.  She is Hag.  No name would suit her better.

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-by Olivia B., 7th Grade

Photo Courtesy of WikiMedia Commons

Look up to where the trees meet the sky.  See the beautiful clouds, like dove’s wings, embracing, covering the Earth, set against the dark, twisted branches.  Snow is falling lightly to the ground, softly, hushed.  The world is asleep.

See the crystallized branches, dripping with icicles, their diamonds.

Smell the balsam fir, that unique scent, spicy and minty and wintry and warm.

Stand back a little from the crowd, and listen.  What do you hear?

Silence is not quite as silent as you thought, is it?

Feel the icy cold, as your breathing makes little puffs in the air.  It makes your lungs freeze when you draw breath.

You hear a branch snap.  The crowd is moving on, and you must follow – but follow slowly.

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