The Spark of the Woods
"Fight, Fight, Fight!" The gangs, mobs and fellow streetfighters surrounding and circling me chant.
I snort at the prospect of fighting the street urchin before me, I would never start a fight with his sort. I've fought too many like him before. His type is all the same. Humans. Despicable. They think they own us. They think we should go back to our enchanted forests, sing our enthralling, magical tunes. They think we should go back to our underground coves of pearls and ride our spectacular seahorses. They attempt to squeeze us back into the trees we came from, but they can't because our homes are stumps now.
Charred, ancient, ruined stumps. The humans are scared of us, I believe that. I believe that the humans have always been scared of us, that's why they poisoned our enchanted coves with their atomic water bombs many moons ago. It's why they burned and chopped our radiant forest into oblivion, centuries ago. Their own fear was their downfall through. They burned us out, they smoked our homes, and they poisoned our life supply. Humans are the reason we 'monsters' have been forced to wander along in their grubby, smoggy, filth covered cities for the last two-hundred and fifty three years. They think we've forgotten about our past, but we haven't. We monsters remember. Unlike the humans, we live for eons, some of us are even immortal. I am not immortal.
I'm not a dragon, vampire or one of the other immortal elders. After all, I am only a wood nymph, or at least I was. I was a beautiful wood nymph. I can still remember it. I can vividly remember prancing along, carefree, with the other nymphs. I remember the tinkling laughter of sparking fairies. I remember the voices of trolls, richer and deeper than all the three wooded regions combined. I remember my garments, my elegant, flowing dresses, which shimmered and sparkled brighter than the plump peaches in the orchard I lived in. I can remember the faint tickling of soft grass against my pastel skin. I remember when my rose gold hair flowed freely, hanging down to my waist and painlessly embroidered with blooming flowers. Yes, I remember life before the worthless humans waged world war six against us two-hundred and fifty three years ago. I can remember before I was forced out of my only home into the wild human's world of filth and rubbish. I can remember a time even when I wasn't constantly bruised, broken and scraped. I can remember a time without pain. I can remember a time before I was turned away from every shelter and entrance for being born a monster. I remember a time when I wasn't forced to constantly disguise myself in dark clothes and hoodies so I'm not viciously attacked while aimlessly roaming the secret alleyways of this ghastly, human city. I can remember a time when I wasn't gawked at for never wearing shoes. I can remember a time when my tinted feet were tender and soft, not jaggedly scarred with caked layers of cracked, dry blood cloaking their true grace. I can even remember a time when I wasn't a street fighter, but then again, I like fighting. I like besting the humans. I love showing them they're wrong. I love it when my weathered feet connect with their vulnerable, fleshy selves. I enjoy watching them crumple. I thrive under the pain. The pain I feel reminds me of all the pain I was destined to inflict on humans. They will pay. They will all pay, one by tedious one.
"Stop hiding under that stupid trash bag and fight like a man already!" One of the on-looker's nagging, strangely squeaky voices suddenly breaks through my thoughts. A cruel smile slowly, ever so slowly, spreads up my face. My teeth, once pearly and smooth as chilled, sphered marble , but now sharp and ever so slightly stained, gleam.
"Who said that?" I drawl, still hidden under my hoodie.
"I did, you shameless coward." An entirely different voice, deeper than before pipes up quickly, covering up for the first speaker. Smirking at his pathetic human loyalty, I glance up, being careful not to let my face peek out. The voice belongs to a massive human in his early twenties. He's probably about 23, two years older than what I appear to humans as. Everything about him is peaked right above average. His hair is a drab, matted brown, but he's well-toned. His muscles bulge out of his olive skin, his jawline is sharper than a pixie's wings. If I would have to use a single word to describe him, I would say chiseled, incredibly human and appalling, but chiseled. I suppose he's quite attractive for a human. I decide he's worth my time to fight. Effortlessly, I beckon the pork chop of a man in front of me aside. The crowd boos; evidently they were all expecting me to waste my time fighting that hunk of a pork-chop man. I laugh breathily, pitiful humans and their pointless disdain.
YOU ARE READING
The Spark of the ForestShort Story
"Fight, fight, fight!" "They think we've forgotten about our past, but we haven't. We monsters remember. Unlike the humans, we live for eons, some of us are even immortal" "I enjoy watching them crumple. I thrive under the pain. The pain I feel remi...