The WtbR Monthly Story Challenge: July

This is the second month for this story challenge and the going is slow. We were all supposed to vote on last months submissions, but I only had one, so there is not much to vote on. I will publish the submission here, along with the beginning of my own. It’s not really voting, but I would like to hear your thoughts on the stories posted. Would you read more if were offered? What works for you? What doesn’t?

I’d also like to hear from you if you think this idea could be fun and would like to participate at some point in the future. I need to know if there is enough interest to continue this blog series.

This Month’s Prompt

A woman walks into a bar, that isn’t a bar, and it changes her life forever.

Remember, your story can be any genre, so you can get creative. Publish the results on your blog and send the link to me by the last day of the month. Be sure to label them with #WtbRStoryChallenge. Or, if you don’t have a blog, you can send the results directly to me at kayebooth@yahoo.com, and I will publish them or the links back to your blog the following month along with the writing prompt for the next month.

Stick to the rules and after 30 minutes of writing stop. I’ll be writing right along with you. I know the prompt ahead of time, but I won’t begin writing until it has posted. Be sure to have your entry to me by the last day of the month, so I can share them all for readers to vote on.

Another good thing about this not being a live event is you will have the opportunity to edit for grammar, spelling, and punctuation before submitting, and I do want it to be the best you’ve got, of course.

June Submissions

Prompt: Write a story based on a local or popular legend.

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Thanks to Sylva Fae for submitting this month, so I have something to post besides my own story.

The Wizard of Alderley Edge

by Sylva Fae

“What’s up with you, Paul? You’ve been moping around since you got here, and you haven’t even drunk your tea.”

“I’m skint, Granddad. Molly’s nagging me to book a holiday, I’ve just bought a new car and I’ve still got my student loan to pay off.”

“Pah! You youngsters don’t know how privileged you are. I thought you were getting paid well at that fancy new job of yours – you can’t be skint.”

“How would you know, Granddad? You’ve always been rich…”

“Not always, Paul. When I was a young man, I struggled to even put food on the table.”

“Seriously? You live in the biggest house in Macclesfield? Come on, Granddad, what’s the family secret to getting obscenely rich?” Paul laughed; his grandparents were one of the richest families around, owning several businesses and properties.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Granddad replied.

“Go on, try me. Seriously, I’ll take any advice you can give me.”

“It’s not that sort of story but if you want to know, it all started with a legend…”

“A legend? Seriously, Granddad?”

“Do you wanna hear this story, or what?” Granddad grumbled.

Paul nodded, and settled back to drink his tea.

“This is the legend of the sleeping king, and not just any old king, King Arthur, no less. Several places claim to be the final resting place of King Arthur and his loyal knights, but I know he lies somewhere beneath the rocks of Alderley Edge.” Granddad took a moment to sip his tea, then continued.

“A long time ago, a farmer set off along the Ridge Road, taking his white mare to market, in Macclesfield town. He frequently made the journey through the woods and knew every twisty path, rock face and shortcut. As he approached Thieves Hole, the mare stopped in the centre of the crossroads and refused to budge. The farmer, wary of local superstitions of this being the crossing into the Otherworld, urged his mare on, but was suddenly startled by an old man appearing between the trees. A long emerald cloak covered all but his wizened face and long grey beard, and he leaned heavily on a twisted staff, as he slowly made his way down the bank to the farmer.

“Where are you going with that mare?” the old man shouted after him. “I would like to buy it.”

The farmer looked at the old man and pondered, it would save him a walk if he sold the mare here, but he’d likely get a better price at the market. “Thank you, Sir, but I’ll try my luck in the market. I need to get the best price possible.”

“Heed my warning! Nobody in town will buy your mare. I will be waiting here for your return.” The old man slammed his staff down onto the rock, as if marking the spot they would meet.

The farmer finally reached the market, but wherever he went, although people admired the mare, nobody was interested in buying her. She was a fine mare too, worth far more than he was willing to take for her. Strangely, everyone he approached turned away, with the same disinterested dismissal when he tried to sell her. Perplexed, and with the old man’s warning still rumbling round his mind, he set off back across the Edge to home, leading the white mare.

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This is my submission, and will also be my second story for the by invitation only anthology, Tales From the Hanging Tree, which will be released in September.

The Legend of Cottonwood Hallow

by Kaye Lynne Booth

[1865]

Running Fox is walking along the tree line near the riverbank, searching for the [plants] White Cloud needed to initiate him as a brave in the ceremony tonight. He hears yelling at the stage stop up ahead, but he pays it no mind. Today is an important day for him and he doesn’t have time to worry about what the white man’s troubles are. Little Dove will be there tonight, watching as he becomes a man. She is the prettiest girl he has ever known, and he plans to mate with her when he is old enough to take a squaw. He kneels down to pluck up some [plants] from the muddy bank of the river, but quickly looks up at the sound of horse’s hooves approaching fast.

“Ho, there!” a big burly man in a leather coat exclaims as he dismounts from his horse, pointing a rifle right at him. “You there, Indian! What are you doing?”

Running Fox looks up at him wide eyed. He does not speak the white man’s tongue and cannot understand his words, but he understands the rifle pointed his way. His heart beats like a war drum in his chest as three other men come riding up from behind the man with the rifle, and spread out, blocking his escape from all directions. “No, tsapea,” (Let go!) he cries as the big burly man steps forward, grabbing by the arm and jerking him to his feet.

“This the one, Charlie?” the white man asks.

A small, mousy man wearing a striped shirt and spectacles comes up behind him and squints, examining Running Fox’s features. “Well, I don’t know,” the little man says, speaking barely above a whisper. “It was an Indian, but they all sort of look alike.”

“Is this the one who robbed the stage stop, Charlie?” the big man says, shaking the arm of Running Fox to emphasize his words.

The young boy tries to pull away, repeating the words, “Tsapea!”. But the man tightens his grip, holding him hard enough to hurt.

A little man wearing a white apron and visor partially covering his balding head stutters, stumbling over his words. “Well now, uh, Zeek, I’m not sure. Th-the fella who did the robbing s-s-seemed older,” the little man says, wiping sweat from his brow. “I mean, uh, this f-f-feller seems a mite young to be r-robbing anybody. I mean… he’s just a k-kid, really.”

“One Injun’s as good as another, I say,” says a gray-haired man sporting a beard and mustache. He flashes a toothless smile and smacks his lips together as Running Fox continues to struggle, trying to pull away from the meaty grip of the big man. “Ain’t a damn one of ‘em worth a sow’s ear, if you ask me?”

“Nobody did, old man,” says the burly man, still holding the rifle in his other hand. “Was the fella did the robbin’ even an Injun, Charlie?”

“Well, now… It was d-dark, you know? I… uh… I didn’t get a very g-good look. C-c-could have been, b-but I a-ain’t too sure. S-s-seemed bigger, b-but I w-was s-scared. He had a g-g-gun on me and all. I… uh… I guess it c-c-could b-be hi—”

“Oh, fer Christ sakes, Charlie,” says another man, stepping out from the shadow of the big cottonwood tree before the man called Zeek can reply.

Running Fox can’t make out his features in the afternoon son, dappled by the shadow of the tree, but he can see the glint in his eye, and it wasn’t friendly.

The man holds a piece of rope in one hand, which he holds up in front of him as he says, “You better be sure. You wouldn’t want us to hang the wrong man, would you? You’re in charge of the stage stop. If this ain’t him, I guess you’re the one to take the responsibility. Ain’t that right, boys?”

The others mumble to the affirmative, some nodding their heads as Running Fox renewed his struggles against the grip of the gruff, burly man at the sight. “Tsapea!” he said, pulling his arm away with all his might. He doesn’t understand all the men say, but he understands the meaning of that rope. His heart races and a sweat breaks out on his forehead, running down his face. He doesn’t know the why of it, but he’s pretty sure that these men intend to hang him. “Tsapea! Tsapea!”

The burly man tightens his grip and jerks back on his arm. “Settle down now,” he says. “You think you can get away?” Then he turns his attention back to Charlie, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. “Well, Charlie? We need to know. This him, or not? I can’t hold onto this ‘un forever. He’s a wildcat.”

Charlie stares at Running Fox with frightened eyes. Then, he gives a nod of his head and casts his eyes to the ground. “Y-yes. I r-reckon th-that’s him,” he says softly.

“What’s that, Charlie?” says the man with the rope. “Speak up so we can hear.”

“Th-that’s him,” Charlie says, louder this time, but without looking up.

“All right then,” the dark man says, throwing a rope over the lowest branch of the big tree. “Let’s get this done. I haven’t had any lunch yet.”

The grey-haired old man leads a horse toward him, parting the circle of men. The noose slides down over his head. The burly man lets go of him momentarily, but places both hands around Running Fox’s waist and hoists him up into the saddle, as if he were a small child.

Everything is happening too fast. Running Fox doesn’t it even have time to protest. His heart races faster in his chest than it ever has before, faster even than when he’s run for long distances. His breathing quickens as the panic rises within him. They are going to hang him, and he doesn’t even know why. Little Dove will not see him become a brave, because he will never be one. Tears squeeze from the corner of his eyes at this thought, even though he tries to fight them back. He will never see his mother again, will never make his father proud. It isn’t fair. eHis life I just beginning. Running Fox is determined to never leave this spot until he has revenge. Nothing good will ever come from this place. Just before they slap the horse’s rump, sending it charging out from under him, he issues a vow that binds his soul to the cottonwood with his last breath. “Nitea ianna.” (Curse this place).