literature

Watching the Forest Burn

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Literature Text

When you've been around this long it's hard to tell where you end and the land begins. The water in the river is the blood in your veins. The trees are the hairs on your back. When they kill the land they kill a part of you as well. What good are you then, a walking corpse of a thing that doesn't fit in the grand scheme of their world?

I am the oldest being left to roam these parts. The one I killed- the one who bit me, he was the oldest before me. Strangely tranquil moment, that, waiting for the silver to do its work. He told me how it was and I listened. No regrets for either of us. He was so tired his mind welcomed the bullet even as his body struggled against the inevitable. The fire of immortality was creeping into my blood and I couldn't have been more excited.

Now I know how the old one felt. The body is young, but the mind knows different. You set down roots like a tree in the forest and you just go on and on and on and the world changes around you and you can't do anything about it.

There are others out there somewhere, hot-tempered young things that don't take kindly to human trespassers. We all fancy our little patch of earth is ours and ours alone until someone comes along to tell us different. The fire-starters don't fear them. They have strength in numbers and men with silver bullets at their backs. Call me a coward, but I don't see how anything is going to convince me it is a good idea to stand up to a man who makes himself rich selling our pelts for bounty.

Their wealth is a fleeting pleasure. Men are impatient creatures. Why pay hunters to pick us off one by one when you can sweep the land clean of us in one swift operation? When it comes to eliminating obstacles humans are the picture of efficiency. My own memories of such a way of looking at things have grown dim. Only the instinct to kill or to flee remains.

They need only wait for the fires to die down and it will be theirs for the taking, a whole new expanse of space to fill with their herds and fields of crops. We are no longer the terror of the night which threatens to devour their children or curse them to this lonely wilderness existence with our bite. How lucky men are these days, to have the strength to banish the boogeyman to extinction. It will go to their heads, I am sure. As if the race didn't have enough reasons to believe they are gods incarnate.
A little story-scribble of sorts. I am always telling myself stories in my head, often at night as I get ready for bed or am trying to fall asleep. They usually feature nameless characters in a variety of adventurous situations which are promptly forgotten when the next day comes. The voice of this tired old werewolf stood out for some reason, so I decided to write down something based on him before I forgot.

In some fantasy land there is a powerful king with a problem- an ancient forest full of werewolves. Tired of his subjects having to fear and avoid them, he sends an army of men to set fire to the forest, destroying their hideout and scattering them. Over the next few years hunters will pick them off until there is nothing left of them but scary stories parents tell to their children to keep them from straying too far from home.
© 2010 - 2024 Leonca
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TimtehGrey's avatar
That was really good! You don't expect so much philosophy and real world wisdom from werewolves, haha!