He was young when he finally tasted freedom. And it was bad. Really bad.
He’d been at an amusement park when it happened. An amusement park is a wonderful place, and when you’re a young boy with lots of energy, it’s a place of mystery and wonder. All those dark alleys and tents that your parents pull you past, instead of letting you in to soak in all the different joys that mystery has to offer. He wanted to taste them, and he knew, just knew, that it would be wonderful and fun. Parents are there for a reason – to take away fun. Therefore, by extension, anything that his parents denied him must be fun.
He never told them that though, for fear of being punished. Parents, you know.
So when the roving amusement park came to town again, and they were queuing for a ride, he waited for them to be distracted with his sister’s incessant questions, and then he ran. He ran.
He listened as the chocolate cake screamed.
He watched it writhe in its box, the screams bursting out every few seconds. He covered his ears, but his eyes continued to watch the cake dancing, vibrating in its agony. He wanted it to stop. He had to make it stop.
I stepped to the bar, and he looked at me,
A rag in hand, a smile for free,
I asked if he knew how to make any drink in the world,
He nodded, and said he’d give anything a whirl.
The king stood gleaming in his obsidian armour, staring down at his men-at-arms as they arrayed themselves in rows in front of him. Their black armour gleamed in the light, and they stood ready, quiet, poised to attack the enemy at his command. His other men stood to either side of him, the only sounds, the snorting of horses, or the creaking of the siege engines.
She smiled at him, and reached her hands across the table. He smiled back, reaching over to hold her hands tightly, never wanting to let go.
“There’s a dragon in the attic.” The son comes up to the father and announces it seriously one day.
The waves crashed against the rocks, and the gulls screamed as they circled overhead.
The old man sat atop one of the bigger rocks. He cast his line into the stormy waters, even as he stayed out of reach of the salty spray that splashed up against the shoreline. He waited, as the incessant wind plucked at his hat, like the playful hands of a small child. He didn’t have to wait for long.
The archer stood still, the wind gently pulling at his clothes, the string taut next to his cheek, his fingers tensed, with the arrow pointing at the target. No one could detect that slight tremble, that slight twitch in his muscles, that minute wavering of his eyes. No one saw the little bead of sweat slowly trickle down the back of his neck.
He released the arrow. With a thunk, it hit the target, just shy of the red circle in the middle.