Lit. Device Short Story

There’s a myth that everyone eventually hears in the town beside the forest. It is a classic, a story passed down from generation to generation. Every Sunday night, the story is spoken to the town’s children, when the fire is as high as a tree.

The story goes that deep in the forest, a woman, adorned with hair the color of the sky, dances. She was originally the queen of the kingdom, when arranged marriages were still a thing, and the king was mean and angry.

The queen was beautiful, a daughter of a noble from another country. They said she was the fairest of them all, with pale white skin that melted beautifully with her silver eyes. Her smile would send several men into a faint, for it was an honor to see her in person, let alone see her grin.

The queen, despite her smile, was not happy. She was but a doll now, a puppet being played by her husband. The only time she ever felt alive was when she danced, whether it was ballet, the tango or the waltz.

Every day, however, the king would grow angry. “How dare you,” The king would seethe at his wife. She would be silent, eyes downcast and miserable. Her once beautiful smile was a depressed frown, her cheeks ruby red from his slaps. “How dare you make them love you more!”

She would try to say sorry, but the king always cut her off. “I am the king of this land!” He would shout with a stone cold heart, “They are supposed to love ME! Not you, the doll!”

The queen would flinch at that remark, thoughts screaming about how worthless she was. For who was a person that acted like a doll?

One night, however, the king took it too far. Too invested in his rage, he took a knife and attacked his wife. Over and over, he slashed at her beautiful pale neck, lines of red appearing after each strike. The queen screamed, calling for the guards to hold him back. The guards came rushing, restraining the king as they motioned for her to run. And so she did.

She ran and ran, for miles and miles, blood, the color of the poppies she adored, running from her neck. After days of travel, she came upon the town near the forest, full of kind and pleasant people. They say that she walked through town once, talking with everyone she came across. She would always say the same thing, in a voice like a bird’s song.

“Please remember me, not as a doll, but as a person.”

The town’s people were baffled. Why would they think she was a doll? And why would she request they remember her?

They soon got their answer.

The day after she left, a child came running into town, yelling at the top of his lungs about how the woman, the beautiful, magical woman with the blue hair and the silver eyes and the pale skin, was seen walking into the forest with blood dripping down her clothes.

The noble of the town rushed towards the forest. No one was allowed in, for there were many dangerous beasts, like wolves and bears. However, she had disappeared, only leaving a trail of blood to mark a path. The citizens were too scared to go into the forest; just the week before, poor old Johnny Nicholas was seen walking in, and hadn’t been seen since!

Something peculiar happened after, however. The day the queen died, the story said, was the first day snow rained down from the heavens. It was like the clouds were crying frozen tears, and the sun came out to shine upon it.

So the people decided, with the noble family’s help, that every year, the first day of winter would be in honor of the queen’s memory. They called it the Winter Solstice, and a statue was erected in the middle of the village to remember her. At the end of the day, everyone would gather a blue rose and bring it to the statue to remember the woman, for they all believed that she lived somewhere deep in the forest, dancing her heart out.

And that was when the story stopped. One day, however, a foreigner came to town. He was an adventurer, with a lean body and tan skin, with warm hazel eyes and a brown cloak. He was mysterious, suave, yet kind and goofy. His smile would send women into a faint, just like the queen from long ago.

About a week after the man arrived, the story was told once more. When the man heard it, however, he was confused. If people said that the woman lived in the forest, why hadn’t anyone actually gone to see her? Were they too scared to go in, despite the evolution of technology?

As the man pondered that, he started to formulate a plan. He, with his trusty weapon, would travel into the forest to find the old queen. A few days later, he set out to the forest. As he got to the edge, he understood why the citizens wouldn’t dare to go in. The trail was dark, covered in flowers the color of black and navy, and the trees grew tall and ominously. It was basically the entrance to someone’s worst nightmare.

Something stood out from the scene though. A bright red poppy was growing off to the side, hard to spot if you were just glancing around. The man stepped glancing, flashing back to an overlooked part of the story. Weren’t poppies the queen’s favorite flower?

The man’s eyes widened. He rushed toward the tiny flower, spotting another one not far away, hidden like the first one. The man smiled to himself; the poppies were creating a path!

He ran through the forest at top speed, dirt nipping at his heels. His black hair whipped through the air, his hazel eyes gleaming with determination. Finally, after minutes of traveling, he arrived at a clearing.

The clearing was covered in poppies. Dark red, light red, neon red, blood red, cherry- every shade imaginable. The grass was a bright pastel, compared to the hunter green it was before. Different types of metal littered the ground, the sun shining on them like a mirror. A thin trail led to the middle of the clearing, where a woman danced.

The woman was different than what the story depicted her as. Instead of blue hair, she had bronze hair and brown eyes that looked like gold. Her skin was pale and she had a smattering of freckles on her cheeks and nose. She wore a short white dress, and her feet were bare, dirt covering them as she spun and spun. And on her neck...

And on her neck was a necklace of scars.

Big ones, small ones, ones that crisscrossed, ones that were still healing- they all were on display. The man was horrified; who would dare do this to her? Perhaps the legend was true in one aspect…

The woman stopped when she noticed the man on the edge of the clearing. Her golden eyes looked at him curiously as she slowly lowered herself from pointe. She smiled suddenly, a giggle escaping her. She reached a hand out towards him.

“Hello there! What’s your name?”