Creative short story writing contest—prize for winner! (2025-03-07)

I sweep my eyes across the single room cottage, truly taking it all in for the first time. It's a meager affair; the little table with shelves, the hearth with smoldering fire, and mud brick walls with simple adornments. So meagre and austere. I chuckle at my parental compunction to judge how my children choose to live and my heart warms with how much better I will provide for them. How they have struggled and persisted against the forces of the world that I will conquer.

On the wall there's a rough sketch - drawn quickly with loose hatch marks but a fine attention to detail. It is a homely scene of the cottage and my soon to be daughter as she tends to the garden. Amazing that a few marks can trick the eye into seeing neat rows of herbs. I remember seeing them on the way in, but now the garden is almost certainly trampled to death by the mob. It is truly a shameful display of neighborly love to ruin someone's tenderly cared for plants. Long years of effort wasted in an instant. Thankfully there's no need for it now or ever after. My children will instead only need my purest love to sustain them.

The fire's heat is rising up the wall and beginning to seep through; it curls the edge of the page. I can't have my child's drawing burned, so I pry the nail holding it from the wall and stuff the art into the inner pocket of my great coat. I turn to my boy, who is suspended across the single room, pinned to the wall where I impaled him. I'm across the room in a flash. His cold fingers are rough but I know the hands of a fellow artist, delicacy and dexterity in the muscle fibers despite the calluses of peasant life. I'm so proud of him. I entwine my fingers with his and then I adjust the pitchfork stuck through his chest to make sure that it won't be easy to remove. How long will the birth take? The mob's patience is finite and I can't protect my children forever, they'll need to face the world themselves.

A smell reaches me. Not the blood, though there's a lot of it; not the fire, though smoke is now pooling about the rafters; it's the odor of stew rich in fat. I'd not noticed it in the earlier frenzy but on the hearth near my pretty girl is a pot beginning to bubble over. Spatters of fatty broth burp over the edge and slosh onto the floor. I can't have my child scarred now! It would ruin her beauty forever. I dart to it and snatch the pot off from over the hearth. I stick a finger into the boiling stew and lick the sizzling stock from it. Delicious. Cooking, that's an underappreciated skill - least of all by me. Along the top of the stew is an unctuous and thick layer of fat from what must have been some freshly hunted rabbit. Arguably a tad overcooked, but that may just be my palate's preferences. I croon at her that she'll learn my tastes soon enough. Her lifeless face stares back. Slinging the hot pot under my arm I carry it to the wooden table that dominates the room. A mirthful mood is capturing me so I mutter to myself that I should set the table, maybe invite the mob in for supper. They surely would appreciate some warm stew after standing in the cold night. I begin to do it, the thought is so captivating. A bit of hospitality to show such crude and impudent people that they should just embrace my patronage and parentage.

As I pull the bowls and spoons from the shelves my fingers run over the rough whittled implements. The little crags and nooks speak to the hours of work to produce just one simple spoon; the countless knife strokes gouging little chips out long into the night. The final imperfections showing the hand of the artisan, the grain the history of the tree branch it came from, the stains the humble life of stew and lips. I feel the sublime nature of God in it. He has guided these peasants to make something so imperfect to remind me, his most perfect servant, of the humility one must possess to carry out his will. From the ultimate Father I've learned all that I will pass onto my children. God made me in his image and so my children are made in mine. I make the sign of the cross and his presence warms my skin with fiery prickles. It is the only heat I still feel.

I notice the fire has reached the rafters. Or perhaps the mob expedited the process with more accurately placed torches hefted onto the roof. This is a disaster! My children will burn up and no one will be able to appreciate my efforts. They have already taken my other children from me and chased me from my home. I must rebuild. I will start again with this two children here, that God caused me to stumble upon in my darkest hour. Why has God not released their souls back to me yet? I pace as doubt and panic encroach like the flames surrounding me, but no, I cannot waver. Tests of faith require resolve and it is through such perils we come to understand our true nature. The mob at the door cannot best me in matters of faith even as their priest begins his preparations. They cannot best me in matters of patience; as a parent of hundreds, my patience is infinite.

I pull a chair from the table over to my daughter on the floor and sit down; the smoke is beginning to cloud my vision and close off the world. It's just myself and my stillborn children now. A rafter collapses down and strikes my shoulder. I toss it aside and stir a whirl of ash and sparks. Some falls down on her pallid face so I stoop down to protect her and brush it off. My fingers graze her face. Please don't leave your parent alone in this angry world. The fire and mob I can withstand, but those damnable priests need more than what I can muster alone. I pray and kiss her forehead. There's a little flutter of the eyelids, nearly imperceptible through the smoke, and I smile. There's just enough time remaining before the priest's work will complete. I pull the drawing from my pocket and a finely gilded fountain pen along with it. It takes just a few quick marks. I add myself to the drawing. There I am, joining in on the pastoral life of farm tending, there with my children. My youthful boy twitches and then thrashes, perhaps an automatic, vestigial reaction to the fire engulfing him, fire which won't harm him anymore. Joyous births!

It's important to deal with newborns one at a time so I ignore his violent thrashing and crouch down to my lass. Parental love fills me as I see my eyes reflected in hers. Beastly eyes, the eyes of a predator, of one who will hunt the night peer up at me. They are calculating and sharp. With a practiced flick I cut myself on the pen's quill and offer her my blood. My daughter rises and bows to me. My son, rebellious in youth, requires some convincing so I twist the pitchfork until it presses like a stake against their heart. I show him the drawing which confuses him long enough to force the blood onto his lips. He calms and smiles, so I remove the pitchfork and the wound closes quickly. The cottage is ablaze as we leave it, finally strong enough to fight back. The priest's shout of "Begone vampi-" is cut short by my children as they have their first feast.