The Realms of Cloud & Fog - Jan. 14

   Thunder roared as the glowing clouds of the Illuminated realm collided with that of the swollen, dark mass of storm clouds that made up the Shadowed realm. Lightning crackled and shot across the surface of the dark clouds as the two realms clashed together, the friction releasing a torrent of energy and a deluge of water from the heavens upon the world below. The water collectors of the Undermist had the most dangerous of all jobs as they rushed to collect as much of this life giving liquid as they could while the unseen battle raged far above their heads. The fog layer danced and billowed as the tumult passed through to the empty void beyond the Undermist, creating temporary holes in their world. They had to be extra careful not to fall through these holes. Everyone else hid in their song spun homes of snow, and ice.

   The sun blazed between these various layers in the sky, revealing lush, vibrant rainbows rings. Birds fluttered to perch on the roof tops of the Undermist, looking for any form of shelter whenever the storms came. If one was to look down through the holes in the fog layer, they could catch a mesmerizing glimps of the sun reflecting off of the great orb of water that made up the core of their world. Its great mass rippled with the addition of fresh water.

   Every few years the scholars would join the collectors to have a chance such as this, so that they could study and record and change in size of the watery core, and to take samples of the falling water as well as mist, fog, and air samples. They were constantly trying to find out if the water would eventually rise high enough to wash away their world. This was a silly idea, but of course they knew no better. It was a constantly repeating cycle of evaporation and dispersion brought on by an endless war between the Illuminated and the Shadowed.

   Few had ever caught a glimpse of either race from the cloud kingdom above, but it did happen. One such case occurred when an Illuminated and a Shadowed became entangled in battle, and not paying attention to their surroundings, had lost their footing near the crack where their two realms had collided, sending them tumbling out of the sky like comets. They had both passed through the fog of Undermist, leaving a giant hole behind as they fell to give their essence to the watery core. They did not scream, nor did they flail, they simple accepted their fate as they fell, decorated in the golden and obsidian armor of their respective kingdoms. This is how the scholars of the Undermist came to believe that not all of the denizens that resided above were of celestial origin, as those would have had wings, or so it is thought. No one can be certain, for no one has ever seen the realms above for themselves. Not for a lack of trying mind you.

   A few of the scholars were deemed mad, for they often experimented with the giant birds that roosted on the small cloud pockets in between the Undermist and the realms above. They would wait until the giant birds flew too close to the fog layer, then they would launch snow harnesses at them. They would then anchor them to the fog layer, and climb up on their backs between their wings. They would secure themselves with ice bindings, then they would release the anchor and prod the giant birds with their heels, attempting to control their flight path to the realms above. None of these mad scholars have ever returned. Whether they ever made the journey successfully or not remains a mystery. Perhaps one day one will float down on their giant bird again to set the records straight on the matter, but until that day, they will continue to attempt the ascension.

Ingvar's Last Watch Part 2 - Jan. 9th

   Ingvar's eyes shot open as pain shot through his head. He brought his arms up from his side where he lay in the snow, and held his head in both hands as he sat up. Snow fell from his armor as he righted himself, and a wave of nausea rushed through his body. He looked about for his helmet as he realized it was not on his head, and he was freezing. Snow and ice matted his hair. He spotted his helmet sitting awkwardly and half buried in the snow a few feet away. There was a large dent in the top of it.
   He attempted to stand up so he could retrieve his helmet, but a fresh wave of nausea hit him, and he retched into the snow at his feet before falling back on his rump. He struggled to recall what had happened as his senses slowly returned. The top of his head felt like it had been hit with a splitting maul. His right hand brushed against the haft of his poleax which lay covered in the snow as he leaned back on his arms, partially propping himself up.
   He gripped the haft, and used the poleax to steady himself as he attempted to stand again. This time he managed to get up and stay up. He sighed heavily as he stood there for a moment before reaching to pick up his helmet with his left hand. He moved to lean against the wall of the nearby shop as he brushed the snow from the inside of the helmet, then placed it on his head. It didn't sit quite right anymore, but it would keep the cold out for now. He remained against the wall for a few moments longer as he found his bearings. The smell of smoke was heavy on the air, and he now noticed that warm light lit the night sky. He could not see the sky for all the smoke. Then it hit him. He remembered the events all at once. He looked about for the militia men that had been battling the giant creature back here behind the shops, but there was no sign of them, only drag marks in the snow towards the wall of the town. Claw marks marred its surface up the length of the giant logs that formed the barrier against the outside world. He had a sickening feeling that wasn't caused by his bump on the head. It made sense now. He must have been hit from behind by a second intruder. Not wanting to stick around to see if the creatures would return to drag him away as well, he wobbled on rubbery legs back through the dark alley towards the main street where he recalled the inn had been ablaze. There was no sign of anyone as he emerged into the street from the shadows. Multiple buildings beyond the inn on either side of the street were also engulfed in fire now. Debris from the shop interiors littered the street.
   Ingvar's first thought was joyful delight at the prospect of not having to deal with the dullards and drunkards that frequented the inn anymore, but was quickly replaced by fear. He had not felt fear in many, many years. Not since he was a child. It gripped his entire body, freezing him in place, leaning against his poleax, firelight reflecting off his helmet as he stood staring into the heart of chaos. Where was everyone, why were they not fighting the fires? These and a dozen other questions raced through his mind. An unnatural desire to flee the city beckoned him, and he listened. He backed away from the main street slowly at first, but within the span of a few heartbeats, had turned his back to the scene and ran towards the west gate. Luckily his home was on the west side of the city, and he made a quick stop only long enough to grab the coin pouch he had stashed under the floorboards beneath his straw lined bed, and a small travel pack which he filled with a change of clothes, some dried meat, cheese and bread. On his way out the door he grabbed a torch from the sconce on a torch post in the street. He had no idea where he was headed, but he knew he couldn't stay inside the city walls. He was no hero, nor did he desire to be. There was no chasing after unearthly beings through the night to save people he cared little about, just the will to survive. The exertion melted away the cold in his bones, and the rushed intake of fresh winter air cleared the fuzziness from his groggy mind. He flew through the small heavy door built into the west gate house, out into the farmlands beyond. The further he got from the city, the better he could see the stars in the sky, aiding in his navigation. Whether by instinct or by choice, he decided he would make for the western outpost along the coastline a few days journey from the city.
   He had never wanted a life with the militia, and had tried to leave a few times in the past, but each time his captain had somehow talked him out of it. He had been a conscript during his youth, when raiding bands threatened the borders of their kingdom. Perhaps this was his chance to abscond from his duties without anyone being any the wiser. He had saved enough coin over the years to survive for many years without having to worry about employment. He had always wanted to find a chunk of land, build a house, and perhaps open a smithy or a work shop. Only time would tell how that would play out, but for now, he would be happy if he made it away from this place alive and unnoticed.

Ingvar's Last Watch Part 1 - Jan. 8th

   Ingvar shifted his weight and paced around in a small circle in his watch tower as he rubbed his hands together, and pulled the long collar of his jerkin tight around his neck. He hated the night watch during the warm seasons, let alone having to do it during the height of the cold season. The brazier at the back of the perch along the log wall that looked out over the mountain village did little to fend off winter's cold bite. Over the years he had learned a few tricks to help keep the blood flowing, and the cold out of his bones, but despite his pacing and wolf skin lined armor, boots and gloves, failed to do so this night. He coughed once to clear his throat as he jumped up and down on the spot a few times, the condensation from his breath collected and froze in clumps on the whiskers of his mustache as he did so. The end of his watch could not come soon enough.

   A screech echoed over the rooftops of the city below, loud and shrill, coming from off in the distance to the south. What fool has gotten himself into trouble this time he thought as he retrieved his poleax from the weapon rack against one of the roof support beams. He looked out over the edge of the watch tower, straining to see anything in the moonlit darkness. Nothing but shadows cast across the snow covered streets. Not even a patrolling guard.

   Ingvar grunted to himself and furled his brow.

   "Lazy sodding buggers, probably snuck into the Inn for a drink near the fire while I'm stuck up here," he lamented to himself as he dismissed the situation with a forward wave of his free hand and turned back towards his vigilant watch of the north. "Probably just some drunkard slipping on the ice again anyways."

   The landscape dropped sharply not more than ten feet from the north wall all the way to the coastline a hundred feet below. It was littered with tall fir, pine, and jagged rocks. On a good night like this one, visibility allowed him to see hundreds of meters out into the open waters of the bay. The water was relatively calm, and the only boats in sight were those moored at the fishing docks. A single lantern hung from the harbor master's cabin, and was lit, indicating that he was in for the night.

   All was as it should be.

   Moments later, a series of even shriller and louder screams echoed across the night behind him, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end, and a shiver to race the length of his spine. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his gaze as he rushed to look out over the village once more.

   Flames poured from the windows of the inn, and the smoke billowed up in a large, dark pillar slowly wafting out to the west with the light breeze.

   "FIRE," he shouted as he reached for the warning bell's rope and tugged hard, repeatedly. "FIRE AT THE INN!"

   His shout was echoed by the west and east towers, and soon the streets were filled with people racing towards the inn. Ingvar leaped from the ladder half way through his decent from the watch tower, landing in a run. He barely noticed the impact in his aging bones. He kicked up snow behind him as he raced through the streets, rapping each door he passed with the butt of his poleax and shouted his warning.

   As he rounded the corner of a longhouse near the street the inn was on, he heard the distinctive clang of metal on metal off to his right, in one of the alleys beyond the inn, followed by a groan and a shout of defiance.

   What is going on he thought to himself as he redirected to asses the situation.

   Dark shadows washed over him as he entered the secluded, narrow alley between two shops, working his way around the back side of them, where the commotion continued. A dozen curses flitted through his mind as he edged up to the corner of the wall on his left, and snuck a peak around the corner. He was ready to deal with any number of types of miscreant the coastal mountain village had drawn in over the past few years due to favorable fishing seasons, and open trade with the colonies further to the south, but what he saw froze him in place. He felt his legs buckle slightly as he shrunk back towards the safety of his cover.

   A giant bear faced behemoth was squared off against two militia men, swinging a massive two handed hammer over his head in an arch at them. They were barely able to fend off the heavy blow with their shields. One of the militia men lost his footing as the weight of the impact knocked him off balanced. He hit the ground awkwardly, and the sound of snapping bone was clear. He wailed in pain, dropping his axe as he rolled to the side and reached for his broken arm with his shield hand. The only thing that saved his life was the patterned, metal reinforced, wooden shield which was still strapped to his left arm that protected him from a down swing which followed the initial arching blow. Before the beast could attempt another swing, Ingvar collected himself and raced out of the darkness, poleax lowered in front of him like a battering ram. The giant spike on the tip connected with the creature, but only scraped along the side of its ribs. It snarled and roared at him with such ferocity that he could feel his blood running cold in his veins as the beast bared its teeth, drool hanging between upper and lower jaws. The beast was huge. It towered over Ingvar and the remaining militia man that stood yelling at it as he flailed wildly with his own axe, but none of the strikes seemed to penetrate its thick hide.

   Ingvar circled the creature, trying to find an opening as it was distracted. The fallen militia man scrambled back from the encounter through the snow, moaning in agony. He heard a soft thump behind him, but before he could fully turn to see what the cause of the noise was, brilliant stars filled his vision as the snowy ground came up to meet him, then darkness.

Thordan Spiderhewer - Jan. 7th

   There's nothing more disturbing than the deafening sound of nothing. Even more so than the total darkness that enveloped Thordan Spiderhewer when the last bit of his head lamp's candle flickered out. The burly dwarf had been so engrossed in the chase after the rock spider attacked his digging crew, that he had not noticed the light getting dimmer until it was too late. All he could think about was his friends that were bitten, or spun up in silk and being dragged away into the depths beyond the giant cavern that was home to the stone forest of Rasthal Thokul.
   It was the kind of silence that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and drowned out the ringing in his ears from the blood pumping so fast to his head from exertion. He couldn't even hear his own breathing, or his heart beating like a marching drum in his chest.
   Thordan tightened his grip on the mining pick and his great double bladed axe to make sure they were still there. Despite his natural instinct to remember every tunnel he'd ever dug, natural caverns and winding tunnels on top of them was enough to cause any self respecting dwarf to get turned around. Especially with a burnt out head lamp.
   Even though he couldn't hear the rock spider's movements, he knew it was there, circling him in the darkness. This did not shake his resolve near as much as the embarrassing thought of not finding his way back to the hold where his wife, three sons and two daughters waited for his return.
   He was the fifth descendant of Thorgal Spiderhewer, and as the namesake entails, was part of a family legacy of spider hunting and the rigorous training that came with it. He had spent years honing his senses for such an occasion when he may have to fight blind.
   Thordan chewed on his lower lip as he listened intently for any indication of the spider's inevitable approach.
   "Ahk, come on then ye foul bug," he spat through his beard, "It'll be you or me left standing, not both, and I'll be a gear fiddlin' gnome before I let one of your kind bring me down!"



This was a tough prompt to attempt a non-outerspace approach with, and although I like the character and the setting that I came up with, it's not one of my strongest outings. Here's to stretching the writing muscles!
Today's prompt is: A guard protagonist.
Cheers,
Rob

The Kingdom of Shroom - Jan. 6th

   The Kingdom of Shroom once extended to all corners of the world, but that was a long time ago, back before the Cornstalk Revolution. Kernel Cob of the Corn folk didn't cease his war against the Shroomkin until he had forced every last one of them beneath the worlds surface, where he felt they belonged. In time he would grow to regret these actions, for cool dark, damp places is where the Shroomkin thrived best.
   And make good of a bad situation they did.
   They rebuilt their entire civilization in vast cavern networks filled with wondrous sites of glowing stalactites and stalagmites, bubbling springs, streams and pools of crystal clear water, and enormous glow worm farms which they cultivated for silk. The worm's slime also had many uses, from construction applications to medicine, and even food.
   The Shroomkin enjoyed a great many years of peace in their underworld, until the gem eaters came. These foul creatures discovered that the precious stones which they survived on were abundant in the cavern networks wherever the Shroomkin had settled. They were the best, and most precious stones they Rock Moles had ever seen.
   This is when the Gemstone Wars began. At first, the Shroomkin suffered horrible losses, but as they retreated deeper within their new kingdom, they started to notice that the moles couldn't chew or tunnel through the stone walls of their deepest caverns. When they tried, they chipped their nasty teeth and cracked their filthy claws.
   Upon this discovery, King Shroom, with his oyster shaped natural crown of fungus, ordered every spare Shroomkin stone worker to begin gathering bits of the this stone to craft craft into weapons and armor for a last stand. They would not give up anymore of their kingdom to interlopers. They worked non-stop for days, chiseling and grinding the stone to fit each Shrookin defender.
   The Rock Moles screeched furiously as they sniffed about the too small openings, peering in with their beady little eyes. One Mole got too close with his elongated snout, as he sniffed about in one of the holes in the stone, and was rewarded with a chipped tooth from an ever alert defender brandishing his newly carved stone hammer and armor.
   The Shroomkin bellowed defiantly from within their stone walls, taunting the Rock Moles until they were blind with anger. King Shroom noticed that the angrier the moles became, the more unorganized they were also. And this is how their plan came to fruition. The Shroomkin banged their weapons against their shields, and yelled at the tops of their lungs, taunting the moles over and over as they got into formation to make their advance. When they were ready, King Shroom signaled the advance.
   Every Shroomkin defender in the front line could hear their hearts beating in their ears as their final stand began. They charged as one from their tiny stone holes into the larger cavern beyond, shields raised together forming a wall, weapons held high and ready to strike out at any moles nearby. Tufts of fur, chunks of teeth and splinters of claws flew all around the advancing clump of fungus and fury. The moles squealed and hissed as they skittered and circled about. All they could do was scoop a few defenders up into the air with their dull claws, flinging them back against their allies who steadied them on their feet or caught them from the air without harm, and then they were back in the fray, pushing the advance. Skitter Snarl, the leader of the Rock Moles squealed a retreat, hissing oaths of vengeance upon the Shroomkin as he and his slunk back through the caverns. The Shroomkin gave chase, following them to the ends of their known caverns. Once the last of the moles had disappeared into the shadows of the earth tunnels beyond their realm, King Shroom ordered the tunnel's sealed with the same stone they had built their weapons and armor from.
   The King knew that it was only a matter of time before a new threat or challenge arose, but for now, the Kingdom of Shroom was safe once again.


Alright, I had fun with yesterday's prompt: A fantasy world without humans.
Today's prompt is: The silence of space. (does not have to be outer space, it could be a giant room)
Cheers,
Rob

After The Fallen World - Jan 5th

   Bruno couldn't remember the last time the welded seals around the entire perimeter of the giant fifty foot tall, by fifty foot wide, semi arched mechanical steel doors leading to the surface's access shaft were broken. He couldn't even rightly recall if it had occurred during his lifetime. Their whole lives had been in the side of this mountain, tucked away in a secluded valley in the northern Rockies. The Rocky Mountain Range was the least affected by the fallout that occurred at the height of the fallen world top side. The disaster that forced the survivors to retreat beneath the surface of the world was global, and entirely due to man's greed and naivete.
   'Nuclear power is safe,' they said, and they grew to believe it. Society chased after progress with an insatiable hunger, polluting every part of the world in the process.
   The facility research team had completed a study of the sensors that were wired to the facility through sealed pipes earlier in the week, which had indicated that the rad levels had dropped significantly. So much so that they figured a small team in protective suites could survive a journey top side for further analysis and study of the soil, vegetation, and surface water.
   Being head of maintenance, and the most knowledgeable with the cutting torch, Bruno had been requested for the breaking of the seal only hours after the lab rats had reported their study to the mayor. It took all involved two days to agree on a strategy for breaking the seal and closing the doors again behind the surface team with minimal exposure to the rest of the facility. Now it was time to put the plan into action.
   Bruno flipped his welding mask down over his face, and sparked the cutting torch to life. Sparks flew as the torch bit into the ancient welded seal. The surface team was finishing their gear preparations not too far from the giant metal portal, shadowed by the floodlights that lit Bruno's scaffolding. They would be sealed into their suits moments before the final bit of the seal was cut, and then the doors would be opened just enough for them to squeeze through with their equipment. The doors would be closed and sealed behind them as soon as they were through. A team of monitors would keep an eye on the video cameras that were wired all along the tunnel for visual confirmation of their return, when Bruno would once again cut the seal to allow them re-entry. Provided the readings were right of course.
   The surface team knew there was a risk that it would be a one way trip, but they had all dedicated their lives to the re-surfacing cause.
   Bruno signaled that he was almost done, and the team went about sealing each other's suites. No sooner had the last suite been sealed, then Bruno raised his right hand to signal the job was complete. His maintenance crew rushed to remove the last of the scaffolding as he jumped the last few feet to the floor. The mechanical hinges groaned and popped in protest as they began to retract the giant metal interlocking rods from the middle of the doors. The sound was deafening at first, but as the gears worked they protested less and less. The surface team rushed toward the now opening doors, and began passing through as soon as the opening was wide enough. The orange warning lamps bathed the giant entrance way in spinning pools of warm light. Within a few minutes, the last scientist passed beyond the barrier, and the doors began to close immediately behind him. The thwump-clunk of the giant interlocking rods slamming into place startled everyone.
   As quickly as it had been disassembled, the scaffolding was raised once again and Bruno set to work sealing the fate of the surface team.

***

   Anna and her team raced as quickly as they safely could up the tunnel to the surface. It was a mile up a winding cement encased tunnel, lit by guide lights that had not been lit in centuries. Pockets of dark shadows remained where some of the lights failed to return to life when they were switched on as the team began to leave the facility. A thick layer of soot had settled on the ground of the tunnel, and on the top of any jutting surface in the walls of the tunnel. She knew their window of opportunity was short, and that they would only have a few hours topside before having to return to the facility. She prayed that the readings were correct, and that they hadn't doomed themselves to a foolish death march. Her ear piece crackled as Renny transmitted a message from his helmet, startling her out of her own thoughts.

   "Rad level readings are holding steady so far Ann."

   "Thanks Renny, let's hope it stays that way."

   A short while later they emerged from the mouth of the tunnel that led down into the mountain. They were greeted by the most beautiful site Anna had ever seen. Crystal blue skies, blazing sunshine, and snow covered ground. The clearing around the mouth of the tunnel ended in a jagged cliff face that overlooked a river that wound between the mountains in the valley far below. She was struck dumb by the stunning view.

   A few moments passed with the team glued to the spot as they took it all in. Someone sneezed over their com, and she snapped out of her daydream.

   "Alright, let's get to work," she said as she began unpacking her testing kit, "Renny you are on soil, Janus on vegetation, Romen on air quality. I've got surface water."

   They confirmed their duties and set about their tasks as quickly as their bulky suites would allow. Anna decided to start with the raw crystallized water before moving on to melted samples. She scooped some snow into her petri dish and put it under her portable microscope. She attached the customized wide lens that would allow her to look at the sample with her helmet on, and adjusted the magnification to bring the crystals into focus.

   Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. At first she thought she was hallucinating. The entire molecular structure of the snow crystals moved. Little white bits swirling over and around each other in a slow, mechanical pattern, never stopping.

   "What the heck is that," she stammered to herself as she stepped back from her microscope shacking her head. "How are the rad levels Renny," she asked over her com.

   "No change, why," he replied.

   "Come have a look at this snow sample. I need to make sure I'm not seeing things."

   "Be right there."

   Renny jogged over from his own microscope where he had placed a chiseled piece of rock into a petri dish of his own. He leaned over and peered through the giant eye piece of the lens.

   "Whoa, what the heck is that," he asked as he jumped back.

   "Exactly," replied Anna. "I guess that confirms that, I'm not seeing things."

   Renny stared at her and blinked a few times, speechless.

   "Something isn't right," Anna voiced his concern for him.

   "Does it melt," asked Renny?

   "Good question."

   Anna grabbed her portable torch and a second petri dish. She scooped another small handful of snow into the dish and turned on the torch. Nothing happened. The snow remained un-melted.

   "Yeah, that's normal," she blurted in sarcastic shock.

   Renny gasped and looked on dumbfounded.

   Without hesitation, Anna pressed down on her com unit again.

   "Alright, grab the samples you've got, we're heading back in, NOW," she shouted as she began sealing the snow samples into a containment cube from her kit.

   Janus and Romen must have sensed the urgency in her voice as they didn't protest at all. The four of them hurriedly gathered and packed their samples into their kits, and jogged back toward the mouth of the tunnel into the mountain.

***

   Within minutes the surface team had rushed within view of the cameras. Bruno had only been a quarter of the way done sealing the doors when the shout came up that the surface team was returning already. Once again, they squeezed through as soon as there was enough room, and the doors shut behind them. Everyone except Bruno, who was wildly working on the sealing process again, stared at the suited scientists with a hundred questions in their eyes.


This was from yesterday's writing prompt (write a story about snow that isn't snow), and here is today's prompt: A fantasy world without humans. Bonus points if they aren't all furries.
Cheers,
Rob

The Hand in the Pond - Jan. 4th

   Two brothers walked along the shore of the pond not far from their farm house one summer evening with an old ice cream pail and their gumboots. It was tadpole season, and the brothers were searching for the biggest ones to collect and show off to their parents and two sisters.
   They sloshed along the shore line through the dark muck that was littered with old shells that crunched beneath their feet and drying algae left behind by the receding water level of the pond. It was an irrigation pond you see, and the water did not flow into it constantly throughout the summer.
   The younger brother was amazed by all the different insects, birds, and critters living in and around the pond. He became quite distracted from the task at hand. As his older brother continued about his task, the younger brother watched a couple of sand pipers hop along the edge of the pond as they foraged for dinner. Red Winged Black Birds fluttered about the reeds and cat tails; a few even perched on the log fence around the pond's bank and sang their songs. His attention was eventually drawn back to the pond as water skimmers skittered along the surface. A leech awkwardly glided up to his rubber boot and latched on. Being a young boy that didn't know any better, he panicked as he thought the leech was going to eat trough his boot, and began to sway dangerously back and forth as he tried to lift his feet, but his boots were stuck in the muck. They made horrible sucking sounds as he tried desperately to escape.
   His older brother saw what was happening. He knew he was too far out to reach without getting stuck himself, and knowing that his younger brother didn't know how to swim, he did the only thing left to do. He ran for help as fast as he could.
   The pond was on the edge of the yard near their farm house, but was behind a small hill out of sight of the kitchen window where he knew his mother would be visible as she was most likely doing the dishes from supper. It was her routine.
   Their mother was indeed  doing the dishes when her eldest son shot over the hill from the pond like lightning yell for her at the top of his lungs. Her instincts told her there was trouble before she had even heard what was happening. She flew from the house and bounded down the front steps in two giant paces, and was across the yard in seconds. She vaulted over the hill to the pond and saw her youngest boy teetering helplessly towards the deeper part of the pond. She raced to his aid. She reached out and grasped a fistful of shirt just as he was going to fall in, and with one hand lifted him out of his boots to safety on the shore.
   He was weeping uncontrollably, sniffling and hiccupping in terror from his ordeal. She comforted the boy, cradling him in her arms as she rocked him back and forth on the bank of the pond, consoling him until he stopped crying. When he was spent, she dried his eyes, hugged him and then took hold of his hand and ushered him back to the house and up to the bath to clean up.
   Later that evening, after thanking god for protecting her youngest son, she gathered all four of her children and sat them down on the couch. It was time to tell them a story to scare them from going near the pond unsupervised again. It was the story about the giant hand that lived in the deepest, darkest part of the pond.

***

   As the story goes, there once was a boy who lived near a pond. He used to wander alone along the water's edge, exploring everything he could. He was warned time and time again about the dangers of getting too close the water's edge for fear of the lurking hand that lived deep beneath the surface of the pond, but continued to venture off alone anyways. One such day, he was watching insects in the water and became mesmerized. He leaned further and further towards the water to get a better look at them, and that's when he fell in. He could not swim, and the pond dropped off to it's deepest, darkest depths where he fell. He had been entranced by the beams of sunlight that never seemed to reach the bottom of the pond. Before he could reach for the bank, his wet clothes and boots filled with water began to drag him under. No one was around to hear him scream. He fought to hold his head above the water, but it was too little too late. Something grasped his ankle and yanked him under, pulling him deeper and deeper out of sight. The clear surface of the water turned cloudy, then to murk. The cold and darkness closed in around him. He kicked and fought to get free, but to no avail. His mind raced with fear as the imagined the stories about the hand in the pond being real, even though he could not see what had grasped his ankle.

   This is it he thought, I should have listened. The last bit of air burning in his lungs escaped his lips and slid up past his face, and he remembered nothing beyond this point.

   Luckily for the boy, his father had come home just as he was going under, and had raced from his truck, jumping into the pond from the fence like a high diver, cowboy hat and all. He dove as fast as he could, reaching out all around him until he felt his finger tips brush over his son's arm. He grabbed hold and kicked frantically to the surface. The boy was motionless and turning blue. His father managed to get him to the bank of the pond and performed emergency CPR, praying he was not too late all the while. One attempt, two attempts, three- His boy sputtered water and vomited as his father turned him onto his side, breaking into tears of joy.

   Once the boy had recovered, his parents asked him what happened. He explained that the hand in the pond was real. That it had pulled him into the depths of the pond. To this day no one knows if it really was the hand, or if it was simply a root that got tangled around the boy's boot, but one thing remains true, it's dangerous to go to the pond unsupervised.

***

   When their mother had finished her tale, the children's mouths were agape with fear. She asked them if they had learned their lesson, and they unanimously agreed that they had. The youngest of her girls said to her youngest brother, "You were lucky," and that's the truth.

   So remember, whenever you are alone, young or old, be mindful of the water's edge. Do not take chances, and always, always fear the Hand That Lives in the Pond, lest it claim another victim.



I hope you enjoyed the story. Today's prompt (Jan 5th) is to write a story about snow that isn't snow.
Cheers,
Rob