I stand on the quarry rim, the still water black, oiled peacock feathers in the filtered light.
“Do it!” they dare, giggling, impatient.
I hold my nose, knobby knees bent, gazing up into oak leaves, surely facing my death.
Eyes squeezed shut, I shriek, I leap.
I open my wings and fly.
compliation of images from pixabay
Slayer’s sword splits the night, lightning sharp, severing the troll’s head. Other monsters flee the blaze, bloodied, dying, howling in terror.
Silk hair swirling, blade singing, Slayer spins. He strikes, lean, beautiful, emerald eyes flashing, screaming, “I shall know my secret, beast!”
Trolls cower, break before him. “Alas, revealed,” one wails. “You are the monster.”