This was the first story idea that came to my mind. Is that concerning? I'm sure you've all heard of Charlie Hawthorne. She lives on a hill about a half-mile outside town. In a small castle, so small in fact, it shouldn't really be called a castle, except that no one knows really what else to call it, it really is just like one, contrasting the small wood orr sometimes brick houses of our village. It is so small, in fact, it only has three rooms: One about twenty square feet, empty except for a throne that at first appears to be made out of ivory, but once you get close, you realize that it's really made of bone. And then you look up at the woman in the thone, with dirty blond hair-literally dirty, that is, with blood- and you maybe notice her grimacing, sharply angled face, and then notice her, almost in pain, reach for he knife, and then, before you can even think to say your last words, your dead body clashes on the stone floor and echos so loud your companion waiting outside runs without a second thought and only thinks to cry once he reaches the bottom of the hill. Back in the tinly castle, Charlie throws your body into one of the adjoining rooms and closes the door, upon which the specially made devices will emit gases and heat so that within a few days, your body will be reduced to bones that she will add to her throne. She then sighs, wipes tears from her eyes, and moves to her living space, the last and smallest room, with only a bed, a bookshelf, and a sink, with which she washes her bloody hands and knife and splashes water on her face, attempting to stop the tears. But they do not cease. They flow endlessly down her face, aging her features much like water flowing through a canyon does. She curls up on her bed and cries, and when she opens he mouth so sob once more, the now-familiar taste of salt water flows into her mouth. And so go her days. But, children, I know what you think. Charlide Hawthorne is human. She is not a witch or a devil. She does not wish to kill any more than you do, of that, if only that, I am sure. Then what is she? Good question. I am glad to have such an attentive audience. She is no more than a girl, though she looks much older. She should turn seventeen in a week. How do I know all this? That, my child, is simple. I am her mother. Yes, I know, I look much too old to be a mother of a sixteen-year-old girl, but sadness has aged me as well as her. And, yes, I do know how her situation has come to be. It seems so long ago she was but a carefree child. You was only a baby then, too long ago for you to remember. We lived in another village, then, and she would play in the square with the other children as soon as she came home from school and until it was so dark she could see no more what she was playing, and I called he in for supper. One day in early September, just before the school year began, she was playing in the square as always. It was around dusk, and all the other children had gone home, but I let her have a much later curfew than the neighbors, after all, what's the harm, I thought. Anyhow, this particular day, I was making her favorite stew for dinner, as a special treat, and I couldn't leave the stew on the stove and walk all the way to the square, and during the walk, I would have been obligated to stop and chat with Mr. So-and-so, and Mrs. This-or-that, and every other neighbor I couldn't give a hoot about. What was that? Yes, I suppose I am rather introverted. And you want me to hurry up and get to the good part already? Well, I will, and you'll have to be patient. As I was saying, I couldn't just as well walk all the way to the square and let the stew burn, but I had a neighbor that owed me a favor, and I had him go and fetch young Charlie. So off he went, and I looked after the stew. Fifteen minutes later or thereabouts, another neighbor runs in and starts yelling to come quick and that my daughter's murderded someone in cold blood, and so I tell her to calm herself already and how in the world would my Charlie ever kill someone, for she's the sweetest child there ever was. But she won't, and she keeps telling me I have to come and see, and I'm afraid she's about to hurt me, so I take one last look at the special stew and follow her out the door. As we're walking through the village, I see everyone in such a state of distress, murmuring and crying out, and running around like rabid animals. People are whispering, too, and pointing, saying things like "Did you hear?-" "She's the Mum of that Charlie girl-" "Ripped his head clean off, I heard-" "You reckon it's cause her father was never around?" And all the while I'm getting more and more nervous about what I'm about to see, so much so that when the neighbor and I finally reached the square, I shielded my eyes with my hands before curiosity got the better of me. terrified of what I would see, I slowly turned to look. The story got too long, please continue in the credits.
Thank you to @sono22 for the contest. (You should join!) Please let me know if you catch any typos, anything that doesn't work, or if you have any suggestions. *Continuation of story* There, in the center of the town square, was the man I'd sent to fetch Charlie. And a dead man, if I ever saw one. I go and kneel beside him to get a closer look. The back of his head is bleeding, and his nose is broken. My father was a doctor, and he taught me some things, so I can tell that no one hit his head; it broke open when he hit the pavement. I can also tell that the bridge of his nose is broken in the exact way that soldiers learn, so that it penetrates the brain and kills the victim instantly. Trembling, I stand up and call out, "What happened here?" And of couse all at once, every single villager wants to tell me what they swore was the real story that only they knew. But after much hassling and parting the crowd, I found the tanner whose cottage was closest to where it all went down, and managed to siphon from him everything he had seen. He had seen Charlie, after all the other children had gone home, begin to pace slowly around the square, looking all the time at the ground, studying it. It was, in fact, something he did quite often, looking for smooth stones or other treasures in the dust. He saw her do this from the kitchen table, where he was having a short drink before getting back to work. "And then," he said, "The strangest thing happened. The lass bent down to pick something up, and everything got all cold all of a sudden. You woulda thought it was January, not September. But the next second, the cold was gone, just like that. Ain't that strange?" "Yes, sure," I replied impatiently, "but what happened next?" "Well, here comes along poor old Jimmy, and she's running toward him, yelling, 'Look what I found, isn't it pretty?' An' then she stopped all of a sudden, and I thought she had twisted her ankle or somethin' 'cause she looked like she was in pain, and then, just like that, she punched him, and down he went. And then she looked terrified, she did, and looked around, though I don't think she saw me, and then ran right into the bushes. Now, I could hardly believe what I had heard, and for a second, I thought they were playing a joke on me, but they all looked so serious, I was forced to believe it. So I cleared my throat and told the people of the village: "Go back to your homes. I will deal with this. By noon tomorrow, you will have no reason to worry." As you all know, I can be very persuasive when I want to, and all the villagers did as I said. And I went back home to find my precious stew in ashes. And I went to my daughter's bedroom, and sat down on her bed, and cried. But after an hour or two of wailing, I came to the conclusion that I had to do something. So I went to my old mahogany bookshelf, stood on my tiptoes, and retrieved from the top shelf as soon as the sun set, I got dressed in my darkest clothes and rubbed my face with mud. I loaded my pockets with apples and meatpies. Then I crept into the woods at the outskirts of the village and called out softly, "Charlie?" But no reply came. I tried again, "Charlie dear?" A bush rustled to my left. "Charlie, if you can hear me, don't look! shield your eyes!" and then I hear a barely audible wimper, "Mum?" My heart begins to pound. "Don't worry, dear, I'm here now. But don't look!" I add sharply. "Mum, what am I going to do? I unload the food from my pockets and lay them gingerly on the ground.
