Oneshot Collection

middles, endings, and other things that start at the beginning: Hekster

(the storybooks predicted this. they begin, 'once upon a time,' an end that has already occurred. can you feel it? feel the change coming? feel the end becoming a beginning again? it begins with once upon a time. dream the story. feel it drifting around you and form it into names, lives, loves. what is her name?)

Her name is Sophie.

(what's next?)

Sophie Foster unsheathes her sword.

(and...?)

Sophie Foster unsheathes her sword and hacks into the vines spreading from their thicket into the grassy field. It is a defensive war, one she has been fighting since the beginning. Every year, a new crop of soldiers are handed swords and assigned to vine duty.

Stop them from spreading, read their instructions, and nothing else.

By now, she can probably be called a veteran, which means the days are all the same and she's begun to name the vines just for something to do. Steven, Nancy, and Reynaldo are her current least favorites.

(do you get it? the vines are the stories. the thorns are the words. she must stop the end before it begins. you see it, now?)

The sun attacks the back of her neck like it's bored of today, too. The soldiers don't need armor for this job, so at least it beats guard duty. That's the only positive, though, with this task that is simultaneously mind-numbing and incredibly dangerous.

All they do, day in and day out, is drive their blade into the hungry plants that creep forward, greedily snatching for ankles. Sophie thinks jealously of how Fitz is a teacher instead of a soldier, which means he gets to wrangle children instead of hyperactive flora.

Not that it seems like a more enjoyable option. It's not like he can stab them if they're too annoying.

Sophie stomps on another mischievous vine and beheads it.

(by framing the task in this way, she pretends she is important. she pretends she is beheading a dragon.)

"Aha!" shouts the triumphant hero. In this moment, she is transformed. The sun is no longer a bored foe but cresting her head to light up her golden-streaked hair. Her loose white shirt becomes a silken cape flowing in the breeze, the sheath on her waist holding a sword so polished and intricate it would be a pity to use in battle. A streak of blood slides down her cheek from a close call with the dragon's razor-sharp talons. Her arms do not ache to lift anymore, and standing is not a chore.

Heroes, after all, do not tire, or flag, or want more.

(if she wants to go blind, this is a good idea. she does it, however, not to go blind, but to tell the time. it's not exactly counting down the minutes, but it will do.)

And then she is Sophie again, letting the tip of her blade sink into the soft soil, even though she knows that will dull it. She swipes sweat from her forehead and feels the premature wrinkles formed there from squinting into the sun so many times every day.

She doesn't know, exactly, where the vines come from. Sophie was born into a world where the vines were there, and a previous generation of soldiers were the ones keeping them back. She learned and trained to fight as a soldier in whatever wars were necessary, and instead she's here. Because there aren't any other foes, aren't any other wars.

She is a wall in a battle where the enemies are made to find cracks and slip through them. That may, in fact, be their only purpose.

Being a nuisance, that is. That's their purpose. They're like if Keefe Sencen was condensed into a long, green, skinny plant and lost the ability to speak.