I host a writing group made up of former SEALs. It’s a super rewarding and educational experience. Recently, a couple of cohorts invited me to partake in a NYCmidnight writing challenge. The challenge is to write a short story given only 3 things. A genre, an action, and an object. These are chosen at random, and the bard must spin their yarn in 500 words or less. Unable to join because of a conflicting event, I elected to recreate the contest inside our writing group. Everyone who submitted absolutely crushed it. Below you’ll find mine. The genre was dystopian. The action, dismantle, and the object was drums. As always, thank you so much for reading. If you can’t or don’t have time, I recorded an audio version. Enjoy.
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A soft knock at the door. Mother ignored it. She continued to carve into the hindquarter of the deer I killed, separating muscle from bone.
“What are you going to do, mother?”
She ignored me. Village custom was clear. When a ranger doesn’t return, his wife is fair game for suitors. The leaves had turned, the snows came and melted, and light green shoots darkened since his departure. Everyone swore he was dead, but mother held hope. I did, too. I prayed to hear the tower drums signaling his return but remained disappointed.
“Lexina,” father’s best friend, Solchus, spoke through the closed door. “Please let me in.”
Mother stopped. Her eyes fixed on sinew, blood, and bone. I waited for her to acquiesce and lead us into the new life I did not want.
Silence. Then the sound of knife on flesh.
Solchus was powerful, ambitious. Father told stories of his prowess beyond the forests, in the dusky plains where death lurks behind every knoll, and in every ditch. Father told lots of stories. Times of his great-grandfather when great governments warred in the sky, raining death. When men took their families underground and fought for scant shelter and food. When sickness ruled the earth, and trust between men died. He spoke about grandfather and how his strength surpassed even Solchus.
“Gordy,” Solchus gave up on mother, addressing me instead. “Your father is with God. We honored him with games last night. Your mother should’ve been there. She would’ve seen my victory. One suitor stood to challenge me, but only your father could match my strength. The village has spoken. The elders gave their blessing. You and your mother are mine to care for.”
I looked at mother. She did not return my gaze. Her hands trembled as she put down the knife. A clean femur lay among crimson blocks of meat. Beams of morning sun shone through the apertures of our hut, highlighting tears hanging in her eyes. I knew why Solchus wanted her. Mother was vibrant, beautiful. A capable hunter and fierce fighter. I was surprised to hear only one stood in Solchus’ way.
“Lexina, I know you’re listening,” Solchus calmly entreated. “I loved Grytos like a brother, and I will love and honor his family like I did my own before the Toth raids last year.”
Mother’s shoulders racked. Her bloody hand covered her face stifling violent sobs. The air felt unbearingly heavy. We held hope, prayed when all gave up. Now, the unthinkable was knocking at our door. Capitulation. Acceptance that father was dead, and life must go on.
“Lexina. . .” Solchus’ voice trailed off while he gently drummed a doleful fist against the door. He felt it too.
I stood to open the door. Mother didn’t protest. I reached to open it, but she pulled me away. Then I heard it. Tower drums mixed with the soft pounding of Solchus’ fist. I didn’t have to surrender. Our prayers were answered. Father was coming home.
***And please check out Substacks from our writing group’s most active characters. Pat Mulderrig; SmackyPat@Substack. Adam Karaoguz; Renaissance Humans. And Sam Alaimo; What Then? ***
The Drums of Faith