If you came here looking for something cool, or really exciting or funny, walk away. . .walk away. If you do like it for some odd reason, then reply and tell me. Or, if there any other writers out there, somewhere over the rainbow, could you give me a few tips and some criticism?
Copyright ©2013 by FreelyTomorrow.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The sound of thunder reverberated throughout the large kiva. Faint shouts and screams of agony could be heard coming from outside, as the battle was still ongoing. The kiva was empty, and we all sat on the cold stone floor. Wrapped in quilts and coats, the boys and girls were all huddled together, apprehensive expressions on their faces. The dim, flickering light of the candle in my hands illuminated a small area of the kiva. The walls were adobe, the roof made of several long sticks and palm tree leaves. A small opening in the roof allowed a thin beam of moonlight to shine in the middle of the room. The head of a ten year old boy lay on my shoulder, and in my lap sat a one year old girl.
The village's children waited here, while the battle continued above the underground room. Most children my age were out fighting, but as I would be of no help to them, due to my lack of skills, they made me stay in the kiva to watch over the children. My job was to take care of the children and tend to them like a mother. Some said the job was not important and only given to people who could not manage anything else; however, in my eyes, I was responsible for the well-being of our village's next generation.
A girl of seven years kneeled behind me, braiding my waist-length black hair as she hummed softly. Her soft, sweet humming was the only sound in the kiva at this specific moment. A gentle breeze entered through the small opening and I shivered, embracing the small girl in my lap. Audrey, the eldest child at twelve years old, walked over to me with a baby in her arms. Her dark brown hair was piled unto her head in a messy updo, stripes painted on her pale cheeks with red paste. Her long-sleeved fox fur dress was knee-length and stained by dirt and mud.
"Genevieve," Audrey whispered, her voice as pleasant as the flowers of spring, but despair reflected within her eyes. She leaned closer, so that she could whisper in my ear, "I do not wish to scare anyone, nor am I lying, but I hear the battle loud and clear, and I hear a dragon."
"Madness," I muttered, a frown spread across my face. "I know you hear what you hear, but I believe it must be the sounds of angry men, for what dragon would side with any village, nonetheless the one we are battling."