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Husband, father, and writer working on a short story project and submitting my novel, The Windsmith, to agents.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Bonus Story: Sixty!

It's time once again for a bonus story, dear readers! That's right, I did Leah Petersen's five minute fiction again this week. If you're unfamilier with this weekly flash fiction contest, go check it out! It's pretty simple, we're given a one word prompt, and then must write a story using that prompt in five minutes. It's every Tuesday at 1:30pm Eastern.

http://www.leahpetersen.com/2010/10/5minutefiction-week-twenty-one/#content

I think this week's entry was good enough to post here. So, please, enjoy!

Sixty


Dazriel ducked as another arrow came at him. Three of the black shafted things had already shredded his right wing, making it impossible for him to fly away. He couldn’t use his magic either, making him believe that the arrows were cursed. With no other choice, he kept running. He was hoping to make it to the next village.

He could hear the barking of angel-hounds behind him. These men were professionals. Dazriel had been warned about angel hunters on the upper plain, but he never really expected to see them, never mind be their target. These men were ruthless. More arrows whizzed by, and this time one hit him in the shoulder. He cried out in pain, ducking to the side. His whole shoulder went dead, and he knew then that the arrows were cursed. He wasn’t going to make it.

Then, he broke through the woods and saw a village. He ran. There had to be a temple there, even a small one. The priest could use his magic to protect Dazriel, maybe even send him back to the upper plains. The sounds of the hounds got closer. He looked over his shoulder and saw the large, red beasts making their way through the trees. At least ducking into the forest slowed down their wings.

He turned and spotted the temple. He ran towards it, yelling for sanctuary as he did. A portly priest opened the door, a broad smile on his face.

“Ah, good,” he said. “You’re here.”

“Please, good priest,” Dazriel said. “Help me.”

“Help you?” the priest said. “I think not. I hired those hunters to bring you to me. You see, I wish to replace God as the supreme being, and to do that, I need the blood of angels. Sixty, to be precise. And you, my dear friend, are the last.”

The angel-hounds closed in from behind. Dazriel screamed as the fat monk laughed.

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