Holiday Classics: Short Stories & Poems!

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The holiday season is upon us, and in the spirit of the times, a few CVHS students contributed to this article for a large collection of Holiday Classics: Poems and Short Stories! The following includes great works of literary art anywhere from Halloween to Christmas to New Year’s Eve! We hope you enjoy our writing!

Winter Love
By: Nicholas Nagle
Listen closely
Do you hear it?
Nothing…
Absolute nothingness…
This isn’t the love I imagined
Nor the love we share
What we have is warmth and joy
What is this feeling of winter that fills my room?
Coldness, without your hugs to encase me
Darkness, without your light to guide me
Silence, without your voice to kiss me
Your words, oh how they flutter in the wind
I reach and I fall
Trying to capture them in my hands
They are quick, perhaps too quick in this winter air
This air that is too dead and desolate
It bites my very skin when I wander outside alone
So, I stay inside
Waiting for my love
To arrive at my doorstep
And then when she is here, I will have no more worries
Her kisses will bring back the summer
She will melt away the snow and send away the wind with three simple words:
“I love you.”
And just like that,
Winter was over.
Holiday Poem
By: Edward Kim

Ah, New Year’s Eve

A time when one never grieves

The holiday where people want to believe

And by believe, I mean saying your resolutions and probably not doing them anyways

Everyone’s in a daze

After their Christmas tree was taken down previously when the lights set it ablaze

After acquiring the spoils of the near-ending year

Pressure rises as people have 6 days to think about their resolutions with fear

As the days pass away

Slumber and sleep is everyone’s way

However, the days fade one by one

New Year’s Eve is never any fun!

New Year’s Eve is here and nothing feels weird

No fat man in a red suit with beard will come here

Instead everyone waits until midnight for the big reveal

The start of a new year has been unveiled!

Untitled

By: Ben Martin

A night so calm

The snow radiates the warmth of the buried lights

The smell of cookies lingers –still– from baking with mom

The dogs snuggle up; how they love winter nights

The fire crackles, puddles of melted snow sit by the door

The garlands, the lights, the tree radiates Christmas energy

Children pry and poke at presents; hoping they find what’s asked for

Moments like these, I pray, never slip my memory

The mood, the company, the evening

Nothing expresses the serenity of the season of believing.

National Alzheimer’s Awareness Month

By: Gabby Martis

“She would persevere to help others by the kindness of her soul, with her daughter’s image in the back of her head…”
She felt the eyes gazing at her with hope she was not aware of. The figure around her felt familiar, but she couldn’t decipher who it was. The woman had forgotten everything and lost the meaning in her eyes; her life was quicksand and she had fallen through.
I had a glimmer of hope that she might remember those precious moments we had. Her eyes were glued to the trees, the wind crashing on the window like salty waves on bitters rocks. A pair of glazed eyes traced my outline, no clues had rung in her head. She couldn’t solve the puzzle of her daughter in her mind.
I was a stranger in her eyes, and the only thing that held us together was the clover birthmarks below our eyes, she was a vision of my past and future all crumbled together right in my midst.
A counselor, my mother was a patient shoulder for those to cry on with the kindness she exuberant that I respected so dearly. As years went on, I started noticing the forgetfulness of my mother as we believed the fact that she was getting older. We would ask her questions and she would dismiss them; ignoring the facts she was given and denying the internal struggle she went through. Honest to the bone we too, tried to forget the truth at hand; wanting nothing to change and her to stay the same. But you can’t reverse the past and the denial we gave for the truth only made my mother worse.
As she realized that she couldn’t remember words, dysphoric thoughts abruptly came into her confusing mind. She couldn’t tell anyone, what will they say? For Lord, she couldn’t even remember her own daughter’s middle name. Her heart was beating faster than humanly possible as she recalled her father succumbing to this illness, but she thought she would be different. The symptoms were received earlier than her father’s and she was scared of what her family would think. She was dedicated to her passion of counseling and worried that her life was over. Tears were overflowing, and she knew she was losing herself and it was time to get help.
I saw her crying once. She was forcing herself to realize what she was going through and it was overtaking her. For me, I knew my mother would never be the same but an assurance came over me. Why does her life have to be a sob story, she has lived a fulfilling life and given me morals I could never lose? I remember that night vividly, us rushing to her arms to comfort her. But I felt the numbness implode inside of her, eyes puffed and forehead the home for wrinkles. She knew she would soon forget the life she had, and I knew her life would never be the same. I hugged her as if it was our last, because it felt like it truly was.
Her life was gifted with a caregiver and soon it was the only person she could remember. As years went by, she became at peace with the truth that laid in front of her. She was told her life was beautiful and she gave help to others who truly needed it. When she would remember moments, glimpses of her daughter’s life she was filled with joy. Those moments she cherished so much, because it gave her a vision of what her life was like; more specifically what her daughter was like.
When she left to get help, I felt lost and abandoned. It was a long time of grieving and absolute understanding until I could see her again. I knew the deprivation would sadden my mother, but I would rather be ready than hurt her with non-healing wounds. I had built a barrier of hope even when I knew she couldn’t help me even if she tried. Every week went by, losing hope for remembrance. Tokens I would bring, to symbolize the stories I would tell to her hoping she would remember the endings. I was scared of my future. Could I survive knowing my mother’s end will turn out to be mine? This day would be different. The smell of fall would assure me as I walked through the doors. Her glazed eyes dazed at me; I knew she hadn’t a clue of who I was. But I persevered knowing I could give her a piece of happiness through my sadness. I sat next to her and began to tell her the story of how a woman became a counselor and carried her daughter on her back as her problems arose; keeping it anonymous to give her a person to inspire her to fight.
A girl comes into her room every Friday; along with her, she brings stories of a woman who conquered her mind and persevered to help others with her daughter carrying her along. This story gave her hope to be positive no matter the outcome of her illness; for the end of the climb will include her daughter who would be standing there arms opened, filled with love.

Christmas Eve

By: Maddie Miles

Day had fallen and the sun crept slowly down as the moon’s beams blazed, illuminating thousands of twinkling stars shining in the open air. Now on a small piece of land at the edge of the earth lay a vast valley. And on a hill in the almost barren land sat a small white church, a blazing gold cross at its top. Filling the muteness of the hills were voices, hymns being sung, faint but heard, that swept through the silent air. And below this church, at the bottom of the hill, lay a small town where pots of soup burned smoke out the cottages’ chimneys and in each one was a family. An area where there lived a close community and, every year and on this day, all will join at its center. On a stage made of brick and dirt there stands a tall and mighty evergreen. On every bristle lay a cup of light, creating a body that breathes the tree to life. Hope they call it, for tonight, darkness may never creep through, for the heart of the town will never burn out.

Bells began to ring as the clock started to ding. All dispersed to make their way home. Now, in a rundown cottage next to the tree, lived a small family of three. Heavy thumps ran across the stairs as the little girl skidded across the floor. Clipped to the top of her fishtail braid lay a three peddled flower encompassed by a circle. Her tiny shoes clicked across the wooden floor as her red and white striped dress gently skimmed her ankles with every step she took. At the table patiently sat her parents, but they were not the only ones. This year the little girl’s mother had invited many neighbors to join their feast; neighbors who had no one but themselves. In front of them, sat soup so hot, steam could still be seen coming out of the pot. On the other side of the table, lay a basket of bread, the sweet smell of butter and dough dancing across the little girl’s nose. In the center of the table, lay large roasted chicken encompassed by a forest of steamed, green broccoli. With all her strength, the little girl propped herself into her seat but was so short her little toes still tangled by a foot. Everyone sat, the room crowded and full. They all took each other’s hands and squeezed them into their own, slowly bending their heads.

“I wanted to say thank you,” started the little girl’s father. He paused giving time to look at all of the faces in the room. “Look at us. How many times can I say that I’ve seen all of you throughout the year? How many times can I say that this many people have been in here to sit down and share a meal with one another? Not very often. I look at all these people today and give praise. Praise that God has given me all that I could ever want in life. A daughter, a wife.” He stopped focusing his eyes on his family. “You two have given me something only a miracle could, and for that I’m grateful.” Her father stopped and started again making his way to the eyes of every person at the table. “John, Ruby, Jack, Sally, Denny, Jill, Victoria, Debbie, Hank, Joe, Phil, Dawn, for all of you to be here means a lot. I know most of this group had nowhere to go tonight and no one to spend it with. There were many who would have chosen not to come, but that is not the case for all of you. A long time ago a beautiful thing happened on this night, and I think something equally beautiful has happened right now.” A sigh of relief escaped the speaker’s mouth; his face returning to its light-hearten smile. “Amen.”

Untitled

By: Audrey Smith

Red, orange, yellow, and brown. Leaves are changing with each passing day, piling onto the frosty ground. Chills are going down everyone’s spine as they step out into the crisp air. Cold air is inhaled, a cold burning feeling filling your lungs; warm breath is exhaled into the air, a visible puff expelled into the atmosphere. The potential for snow is hanging over everybody’s heads, excitement rising in lieu of the upcoming holidays and new year. Children pile up leaves and play in them, leaves getting in their hair and shoes. Houses begin to put up inflatable decorations and strings of lights. Candy is bought by the pound, and darkness falls an hour earlier. The biggest pumpkins in the patch are bought, carved into funny faces and lit up, casting a shadow across their faces. Kids dress up as superheroes and princesses, running around in groups of 5 and going door to door. Pillowcases drag along the ground by tired arms, the littlest children being carried by their parents. Stomachs are filled with chocolates and nougat, waistbands tight and dreams deep. Turkey, stuffing, potatoes, pie filling, and cranberries are bought by the pound; houses cleaned and prepped for family from far away. Houses grow warmer from the burning heat of ovens and boiling water. A chorus of beeps can be heard from every room as food is cooked to completion. Doorbells ring as guests arrive; bundles of sweaters and scarves hung on coat-racks. Dishes are placed around the table, glasses filled with fizzy soda and wine. Mouths are stuffed with stuffing and pie, seconds and thirds are piled onto plates. Dessert is served to still hungry stomachs, children pleading for “more!” Parting phrases are spoken as relatives from afar make their way back home. ‘Tis the season to be thankful for all that you have.

The Day of Thanks

By: Zetta-Blue Roberts and Tina Yoon

The soft crunch of leaves,

The faint fall breeze,

The smell of autumn air,

The other houses,

Their windows open,

Fresh apple pies laying there,

The distant smells,

Of roasted meat,

Spiced with rosemary and thyme,

Woven baskets filled to the brim,

With jars of cranberry jam,

Made specially for this day,

The beautiful gleam,

The delicious cuisine,

What is there not to love?

Dancing in the Moonlight

By: Sara Greenly

The moonlight sparkled across the new fallen snow on the ground, and everything was lit up like it was noon in daylight. A white rabbit skittered across the snow; so white it was almost invisible except for the pink ears and the brown nose. As it moved across, it disturbed the blanket of snow and left footprints behind like it was a blank sheet of paper being printed with invisible ink. As Clarisse looked out across the snow, a dainty deer bounded and leapt. It was more graceful than a prima ballerina, and Clarisse hoped that one day she could be just as graceful as the deer. She looked back behind her into her room and gazed upon the room.

In the corner was her pastel rose pink dresser with a pink ballerina in front of a mirror on top of a gold music box. Her walls were cream-colored, and her closet was full of tutus. She gazed upon where her bed should be, and then realized that it was currently in the moving truck outside. She wished her family could at least stay for Christmas in their cozy home of Wisconsin instead of moving to a busy place like California where there is eternal summer. After gazing wistfully out the window one more time, Clarisse turned and got into bed on the mattress on the floor.

When Clarisse woke up, the smell of eggs and pancakes was in the air. Pancakes were usually served when something special happened. What was so special about moving? Clarisse slumped down the stairs and into the kitchen. Unlike her mood, the kitchen was a pleasant, cheery yellow. The sunlight was slanted in the kitchen, and everything was glinting like a reflecting pool of water. Her mom was at the stove, mixing and churning the pancake batter. Then, she watched her mother pour the batter onto the pan and listened to the sizzling sound it made. Her mother was humming a cheerful Christmas song. Clarisse glared at her mother for being glad they were moving and stomped out of the kitchen. She pulled on her warm boots, her fuzzy red mittens, and her pink fluffy ballerina jacket. Last, but not least, Clarisse took her prima ballerina doll. She slammed the door and raced out into the snow. After finding the path she had traveled so often, she went to her hiding place in the woods.

After dancing with her doll for a few hours, Clarisse went back inside the house to eat. She found a sandwich on the counter her mother had made for her and wolfed down the sandwich and gulped down the milk. Then, she bounded back outside again. This time, instead of heading towards her hiding place, Clarisse decided to explore the woods surrounding her. After walking for a few minutes, Clarisse came upon a clearing, and in it, was a family of deer. The deer gazed at her, and then continued to search for a spot of sweet grass to eat in the snow. Clarisse sat right down, the hard, cold ground not bothering her, and watched the deer contently.

When the sun started to set, Clarisse finally realized she had been outside for a while. She started to head back towards home and realized that she did not know the direction on where home was. She also realized she did not have her doll. Everything in the dark looked different than what it was in the bright sunlight. Clarisse slumped down to the ground and started to cry. She thought that she would be spending Christmas Eve alone and cold, outside in the dark.

All of a sudden, Clarisse looked up. She did not know why she decided to look up at that exact moment. In front of her was the family of deer that had been grazing on the grass earlier. They gazed at her and started to walk, then, turned around and looked back at her as if they were waiting for her to follow. Clarisse stood up and started to walk cautiously after them. They brought her back to her hiding spot, and then bounded back off into the woods. Clarisse heard her name being called and looked in front of her. Her mother was standing with Clarisse’s doll in her hands and a beaming smile on her face. She gathered Clarisse up in her arms and showered her with kisses and hugs. Her mother was smiling because of the news she had. Clarisse’s father transferred jobs, so they would be able to stay in Wisconsin. Clarisse would get her wish of wanting to spend Christmas at home and not having to move. She smiled and began to dance with her doll in the moonlight. She hoped that one day, she could be the prima ballerina, dancing on stage in the spotlight, just like now, she was dancing in the moonlight.

He Who Reigns

By: Kathryn Artis

Snow drifted lightly beneath a glowing moon, dancing through the air with small flutters and twirls as it fell.  Nearby, tall and ever looming birch trees waved softly to the cool breeze offered by the Dacian night.  With all in deep winter’s slumber, there was nothing else apparent but peace.

Ever watchful of this peaceful night; however, sat a fortress of stone, its entrance a steady slope from the valley of trees now covered in a thick blanket of white.  Flickering torches lined the perimeter of this city’s walls, and armed guards stood post atop them for the entirety of the night, always alert for any foreign activity.  Within the walls laid a multitude of small huts and shops, the two always surrounded with nearby houses and stables. In the life of day, the city would be bustling and booming. Vendors could be heard screaming and shouting their sales while the constant stomping of hooves and feet rattled the earth below. In the dead of night; however, there was only silence.

Deep in the heart of the city laid the impending stone castle, an ancient and prominent landmark that rose high above the valley- nearly reaching the height of the surrounding sierra.  It was an astounding sight to behold, and it was often the topic of conversation among the city’s people.  The gates enclosing the magnificent structure, despite the life of day or the dead of night, were always closed.  It was, therefore, apparent to the people of Dacia that whoever presided in the massive stronghold preferred to have their rule in secret.  What those secrets held behind the dark stone were; however, no one had ever known.  The royal family of Dacia had once been an affluent presence in the city’s affairs, the matriarchs often taking time out of their day to stroll through the outer villages while the men themselves assisted in the training of the city’s very own guardsmen. During this time the city was in great prosperity – the people were jubilee, the crops were yielding more than they ever had in past years, and the royals were looked up to and loved by all who was subject to their rule. It was a time that had long since passed; however, winters were now much harsher and longer than usual, leaving most crops to fail.  The royals themselves seemed to have just disappeared overnight.  It seemed as though the people no longer had any reason to rejoice.

Off in the distance, atop a hill overlooking the forest to the West and the city to the East, sat a lone rider.  Encased in a deep green cloak, the traveller had finally reached the end of a long and grueling journey.  Having been in the family fur trading business since he was a young lad, the man by the name of Darius Labournia was not unaccustomed to long and weary travels.  The hunter, in fact, more often than not looked forward to his journeys abroad, relishing in the various cultures and sites that spanned the lands.

Glancing down, the man’s dark brows suddenly furrowed in confusion. In most cities he had journeyed through, there was never absolute peace and quiet.  The city below him, contrary to most others, held no life to it.  With the exception of the guard patrolling around, torches had been put out, homes were dark and all shops and taverns were shrouded in silence.  There was no midnight hustle and bustle, no drunkards stumbling about like entertaining fools.  It was, to Darius, an enticing enigma.

Shaking his dark locks softly, the hunter urged his steed forward, the obedient appaloosa nickering softly but complying nonetheless.  Once the pair arrived at the city gates, a guard stepped forward quickly, forcing the hunter and his gelding to halt.

“No travellers are permitted in the city after dusk,” his gruff voice broke the deafening silence of the night.

The hunter furrowed his brows, eyes narrowing in annoyance.

“You are to turn me away? To where?” He questioned incredulously.

The guard was quick to unsheath his long sword, pointing it angrily at the now furious hunter.

“What is it about, ‘No travellers are permitted in the city after dusk,’ that you don’t understand? I have no mind for where you turn to, foreigner, but you must leave.” His voice had raised an octave, his face screwed up into a menacing scowl.

The hunter, eyes hardening, nodded stiffly.

“As it is, then, I see. Goodnight fellows.”

The angry expression on the guard’s features  never once faltered as the hunter turned away from the scene.  Nor, Darius noted, did he lower his sword.

***

The following day, after the sun had just begun to crest over the mountains, the hunter had begun his journey back towards the city of Dacia.  He had spent the previous night camped out in the nearby forests. Having been used to such meager provisions along his journey, it did not bother him so much as the attitudes of the guards who had not-so-kindly turned him away.  Darius found it equally maddening and confusing.  The kingdom had not been at war for decades- what reason could they have possibly had to turn him away.

Regardless of his conflicting thoughts, Darius entered the city with ease and noted immediately how lively it had become. Even in the earliest of the morrow, the cityfolk were up and about, merchants shouting their sales, bakers baking their treats, taverns housing the lowliest of drunkards – it was all there – alive and there. Darius continued, walking slowly down the cobblestone street atop his trusted steed.  He was to meet a man by the name of Dorran at the Duke’s Palace – a quaint hostile snuffed in between two rather rowdy taverns.

Vaguely, Darius had an idea of where to find it, his uncle having told him stories of a few successful business ventures he’d had at the place. A few minutes later, therefore, Darius had dismounted his steed, tied him to a sturdy post, and proceeded to unload his cargo meant for sale.  The furs were of the highest quality, made from an assortment of fox, raccoon, possum, stag- you name it and the hunter would probably have it. It was a trade invaluable to Darius – a livelihood spanning the width of thirteen generations and counting, if the hunter had anything to do with it.

The bell attached to the door let out a quiet ring as Darius strode through the room. His client, a lean old man with a bushing grey beard, sat patiently in the corner, a table sat in front of him. Giving a small and unreplied wave to the hostess, Darius continued on towards his client- or rather, his hopefully future client. A kind smile lit up the hunter’s face as he firmly introduced himself. Dorran, however, remained eerily stoic.

Darius, then, was quick to unroll his batch of furs, laying them out for Dorran to see, pick, and choose. The deal was over with quickly, Dorran having already had a mind for what he had wanted. After his client had departed, Darius began to pack up his things with a sigh. The meeting hadn’t gone as well as he had hoped. No promise of repurchasing and, much to Darius’ dismay, no emotion displayed over the quality of his and his uncle’s furs. Feeling a bit dejected, Darius loaded up his steed and began to lead her towards an inn a few buildings down. It was much less crowded than the hostile had been and, from the looks of it, seemed a bit more intact as well.

Smiling to himself to cheer his spirits, Darius’ first priority was seeing to his horse’s care. After talking to the inn’s stable hands about renting his horse a stall for the night, Darius began to untack and groom the gelding. The hunter, ever appreciative of his loyal companion, ensured that he was well groomed, fed, and watered before he returned to the main building of the inn, bags in hand. After being given a room and key by the keeper, Darius proceeded up the small wooden stairs, finding that his modest and simple room was tucked in the back corner of the hallway.

In all, the inn wasn’t half bad.  It hadn’t seemed shabby from the outside, and it certainly didn’t look shabby from the inside, merely modest in decorum, according to Darius. What puzzled the man, however, was how empty it was. He was quite literally the only person occupying the inn, and he found it rather strange. The more he thought about it, the more he began to realise that his entire time residing in the city had, in fact, seemed to follow the same pattern.

***

It was not until later that night that Darius had finally decided to return to the inn. All throughout the day he’d been off seeing the city, gazing at the majestic castle that had been rumored to loom over the people of Dacia. The rumors, he had learned, had been true.

Now back inside his room, Darius had dressed down to a simple tunic and trousers – an outfit comfortable enough to sleep, yet appropriate enough to allow him to leave first thing in the morning the following day. The moment the hunter blew his candle out, however, something shifted.

Darius, ever careful but not fearful, glanced around the now darkened room at the slight sound.  When his trained eyes spotted nothing in the shadows, he simply shrugged it off, deeming it a mere trick of the mind.  Slowly but surely, Darius’ tension eased, sleep licking at the forefront of his mind before a loud bang smacked behind him. Startled, the hunter flipped over onto his side, fully expecting an attack of some sort by a local thief preying on foreign travelers. Instead, the door to his room- which had before been locked and barred- now sat wide open, a dent laying in the wall where in had hit but with no thief in sight. Slowly, silently, Darius approached the door. After peering out into the hallway both directions, he concluded that perhaps his travels had left his mind much more weary than he’d thought. He concluded that rest would be the best remedy for his mind.

So, shaking it off, Darius closed the door for what felt like the second time, locking and barring it in the process. When he turned around, however, a strangled cry left his lips as he jumped back against the wood in fright. There, stood in front of him, was a man dressed in deep purple robes. A crown had been placed atop his head, but what frightened Darius the most was the fact that every inch of the man was dripping in a thick, red liquid.  It almost seemed to seep from him, a never ending a flow that seemed to come from nowhere and yet everywhere all at once. Eyes wide with fright and heart quaking in his chest, Darius stared openly at the stranger before reaching over to grab and unsheath his curved dagger.  Even as he held the weapon in front of him threateningly, the man covered in the foul liquid did not respond, merely met the hunter’s gaze with a placid expression.

Seeing that the man made no move, Darius began to grow entirely confused. What was this man here for? How had he managed to get into his room undetected? What in God’s name was that foul liquid?

“Who are you?”

Darius’ voice remained strong yet stiff, his worries unassuaged when the only response given by the stranger was a slight tilt of the head. Blood boiling at the confusion of the situation, Darius stepped forward, holding the knife out as a warning to the man that his mood had turned testy.

“Speak, man! Who are you, and what is your business in my quarters?”

Yet again, the stranger made no move to respond, urging Darius to step forward yet again. Intent on gripping the man by the collar of his dirtied robes, the hunter reached out, startled when his palm smacked against what felt like a solid surface. The stranger’s eyes followed the hunter’s gaze to his hand, which now pressed flat against something.

Darius’ eyes shot towards the man, confusion swirling within them.

“Who…what are you?” His question was slow this time, filled with more confusion than anger.

The man opened his mouth to speak suddenly, the dark liquid pooling grotesquely in the hollow cavern between his lips.

“I am King, foreigner.”

The man’s mouth, Darius noted, did not move once as his deep and guttural voice sounded harshly throughout the room. It echoed all around, seeming to surround Darius. When the hunter’s gaze shot around the room then, he suddenly realized the reason the man’s voice surrounded him. It was not because of a mere echo, but because the man himself was all around him. In every reflective surface that littered the room stood the man, all feral eyes trained on the hunter as a dark expression overtook his marred features.

Darius, fear pumping his heart faster than that of the rabbits he skinned, lunged forward with his weapon. As soon as the hunter was upon the so-called ‘King’, however, he seemed to vanish – gone just as fast as he had suddenly appeared. Darius whirled around angrily, only to release a startled yell when a searing pain tore through his gut.

Deep and wild eyes bore down into the vibrant hunter’s as his very own knife now lay embedded in his own abdomen. Slowly, a menacing smirk began to crawl onto the King’s face, leaving Darius to wonder in fear and confusion before his world went black and the only thing he could feel was pure agony. Another searing pain had torn through his gut just as a cry wrenched from his throat. Eyes snapping open wide as his cries continued, Darius realized that the cynical creature in front of him had screwed the blade further into his torso.

Darius, lacking the sudden energy needed to stand, collapsed to his knees at the feet of the King, a strangled yelp releasing from his wide-opened mouth. A deep, almost growl-like chuckle followed from above him, striking a paralyzing fear in the heart of the hunter. Whoever this King was, he was sadistic and powerful- a very dangerous combination.

“All I ask if for the people to bow down to me. Tis a shame it takes steel and blood to do so.”

Darius, spurred by his anger, tore the blade from his flesh, eliciting a sharp cry before slicing at the ankles of the demon-like King. There was no way, he resolved, he would go down without a fight.  The King released a deep hiss as the same dark liquid that coated him began to seep from the cuts. Now encouraged by his minor victory, Darius gazed up at the distracted creature before diving up from the ground, throwing all his body weight to impale the King through the heart.

As soon as the hunter’s blade hit its target, a smirk of his own began to slither onto his face. The King, now standing with gooey mouth agape, began to clutch at his chest. The dark liquid that once seeped from every pore now flowed to the ground, laying in a large puddle at the man’s now dirty but clear face.  A look of shock prevailed on his features before he fell to the ground, uttering the words that had been passed down for centuries.

“You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Within moments of the man uttering those words, the dark liquid began to seep towards the hunter.  Smirk still marring his features, the hunter merely chuckled as the liquid began to consume his body.  Dark eyes glinting in the night, the hunter smiled as the liquid reached his face.

“I believe I know exactly what I’ve done.  I’ve become King, peasant.”

 

And thus concludes our holiday collection article. We hope you enjoyed all of our writing and continue to write along with us. If you are interested in submitting your own writing for publication to the Centreville Sentinel, please email us at centrevillesentinel@gmail.com.

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