Creative Writing

I push my way through the crowd, hoping to get a better view of the wooden platform. My eyes aren’t as good as my older brother’s. Whenever we’d go out to hunt he always saw the deer before I did. But he wasn’t here with me today. He hadn’t given an explanation when he left three weeks ago; he just walked out the door.
My mother’s concern when he left was evident instantly, yet my father calmed her quickly. He was good with that kind of stuff. Traveling horseback from hour home in Lyon to Paris was only a three day trip, but to take two weeks, began to worry my father too. They feared the worst, so my father left two days ago, hoping to bring back my brother; alive.
As I reached the stage, I learned that my father was successful. Kinda.
Standing before me was my brother, looking ragged. His new white cravat was blood stained from noticeable cuts and scrapes on his face. How did this happen? Why would they take my brother? What could he have done to credit a noose around his neck?
I scream towards him, praying he hears my voice but if he does he doesn’t let on. He stands tall and confident, almost proud; as if his death means something positive. It doesn’t hit me until he turns to his left. My father stands there with him.
Why? What could my father have done? He fought nobly for that disgusting King Louis the XIV during his shitty war against Spain. Why would they want to hang a well-respected war veteran? He hasn’t done anything at all to warrant such disrespect.
As I plan to rush the stage, a strong callused hand covers my mouth as another one pulls me by the shoulder backwards. “Shhhh stay silent, I am a friend of your father’s,” is whispered in my ear as the hands slowly remove themselves from my body. “Follow me, but stay back,” he says over his shoulder as he begins making his way back away from the platform.
I stand still though, almost immobilized by the shock of seeing my father and brother with a noose around their neck. I stare blankly at them; watch as the wooden stand falls from beneath their feet. As their bodies become limp I turn around, I feel different, stronger almost. I begin making my way to the callused man.

This entry was posted on Monday, December 5th, 2011 at 10:24 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.