Lewis Holcombe
Stories (2/0)
Somebody once told me
Somebody once told me that their parents read bedtime stories and sung lullabies to sooth them to sleep. That was never my experience though. As a child, I had an excessively active imagination and my thoughts were forever racing back and forth. It was this that would so often stop me from dozing off. Instead, I would lie awake at night and cry, tormented by my mind. I was the prince trapped in the tower, my thoughts were the dragons guarding me, and my saviour came in the form of an Ogre.
By Lewis Holcombe3 years ago in Humans
The Tin Man
A gentle plume of smoke rises from a clearing within an isolated forest, a spot where the remains of the old world are at peace. A can of black beans sits empty in the embers of a near-extinguished campfire, where a solitary figure with melancholy eyes, clad in armour, stares at the tin helmet by his feet. His face is hard, dirty and covered in rough stubble, his dark disheveled hair falls limply across his brow. His stomach grumbles in agony, but the man can do nothing to sooth it. The wind washes over him and carries off with his stench, the scent of dirt and blood long unwashed. Eventually he breaks his stillness and, reaching underneath his breastplate, he pulls out a golden heart-shaped locket. With a thumb the man clicks it open, though its hinges have stiffened with time. His eyes focus on the old picture inside, at three individuals: a woman with long blonde hair cascading over a bright summer dress, a tough man with a mighty mane of hair and a perfectly groomed moustache, and a broad-shouldered individual with hair as stiff as straw. In the photo they are smiling before a great emerald statue, the features of which had worn over the years. The man’s lip trembles at the sight of them, but he fights the tears. He closes his eyes and holds the locket to his chest longingly.
By Lewis Holcombe3 years ago in Fiction