–”Little, little girl…I am going to kill you,” he said. She let out a cry that gave her hiding place away. He pulled back a fallen partition to find the small child, huddled up, shaking violently in her red cloak. “Do you know why you wear that color, girl? Long ago, someone died. That is why! Your race and your symbols!” he growled in repulsion and spat on her hood. ‘This will hurt you. It will be…painful. But you will be dead soon after,” he said, sure of himself. “Without question, you will bleed. Your blood will spill over your cloak and become one with it, just as the beginnings of your history. However, no honor will accompany you,” the young beast said softly, grinning. Confused at his words she could only ask, “Where is my Gramma?!” “Dead. You will soon join her, I assure you. Would you die for your Logos? Your Granny did. That is what I’m here for,” he said callously as he raised his long-fingered hand and pressed his claws to her face. One finger pushed into her forehead, breaking the skin. She let out a cry, a slow and steady one. Deliberately he joined two more fingers with the first, tearing her skin in two ripping the flesh away. She screamed. He did not muffle her and her voice echoed loudly through the trees. But no one could hear her calls. As the claws neared her eye, she closed them tightly. He whispered into her ear: “No. Before you die, I want you to see your assassin. Open your eyes.” His claws then made their way over her right eye and resumed the cutting into the skin on her cheek. “I wonder if I can mark even your skull. Perhaps I shall keep it…my prize,” he said, heavily invested in his actions. “No, no. Labadon would crush your skull like the dust it is made of. He would revile at the sight of it in his land!” he said softly, taunting her.
He hunched over her on his hind legs and almost surveyed the damage he had inflicted as a painter to his canvas. His lips quivered as he looked into her eyes. He delighted in this kill. He lifted his bloodied claws directly in front of her face as if to brag. She attempted to scream as she covered her face. Her hands were soon diverting the blood from her torn flesh on her face down her hands and arms. He then swiped at her torso numerous times while growling a muted growl. It was a horrible attack. Cold, and with no remorse. She was becoming weak. The intense pain made her unable to cry anymore. She was in shock and her eyes were glassed over. She seemed to stare at him. The sheer strength of his blows knocked her unconscious. She was only nine. The wolf assassin stood up, wiped his sharp claws on her cloak and left, swiftly, after his leader. “She is dead! It is finished and yet, we have only just begun!” he yelled to his master.
What was once a home filled with joy, laughter and love was now one of silence…and run. Two innocents lay disfigured. Dead. It was a massacre. Only a beast full of evil could have carried out such an attack. The rain poured down heavily almost as loud as stampeding catoblepas. The sound drowned out L’orrah’s whimpers as she awakened, an hour or so later. Her eyes widened and she let out a visceral yell. Then silence. Grandma, she thought and looked out towards the front of the house. A bit of strength entered her body. It was as if her very soul cried out to her and caused her to move. If I can just see Gramma…once more, she thought to herself. The lightning crashed and with each flash a small, broken and bloodied figure was revealed, arising in the darkness. Her knees buckled under her and she fell to the floor. With every inch she moved, it felt like a mile. She pressed on and made her way through the mud and rubble and crawled towards her grandmother’s body. Finally, with the numbing pain in her body and loss of blood an afterthought, she saw Sarah. “I’m coming,” she whispered. Closer and closer still. Through the mud and rain falling ever harder, she winced from the water hitting her open wounds. “I’m here, Gramma,”…she whispered as she grabbed Sarah’s shawl in her little fingers and squeezed as tight as possible. “Gramma…I love you…the stories you t-told me…it was…you…wasn’t it?” she moaned painfully, her grip loosened and L’orrah…the little girl with the red hood…was gone.
The sound of thunder whipped the ground, shaking the earth floor beneath them. The rain fell on their lifeless bodies as equally as on the trampled flowers nearby.
It knew no better.
The Stories:Book One.
The tales you heard as a child? Only rumors of what really happened. God willing this will be on your next must-have list. |m| Because in this fantasy…legends have been reborn.
Tymothy Longoria loves God, his wife and his two children. While working two jobs two years ago he decided he could be what God had been calling him to be.
Since then he has written numerous poems, a childrens picture book called The Sad Little Robut and a dark fantasy, the first in a series called The Stories, where he says, legends will be reborn. All his works are written with passion and a poetic prose.
He calls Texas home, where music and art inspire him. He is bringing his calling and his dream of being a career and prolific writer to fruition.
Tymothy is represented by Bree Ogden of Martin Literary Management and is on the road to bringing The Stories to publication.