He said it will make me more violent.
He won’t know the truth because he never tried.
I need it because I need to live.
I need to have a fighter’s heart.
The more I train, the faster I dig.
Digging to the me I can become.
I know it’s in there, hiding under stones of weakness.
Every hour clears the rubble.
I must seek out things that bring me pain.
Not a torturous pain that kills the will.
More like a struggle, because struggles can be overcome.
12 trials is too small a number.
We are all demigods in training.
A hero is not a hero if he does not fight.
About the Creator
Julian Hayden
I write for fun so I can become a better writer. My focus is the writing of dramatic stories in whatever genres interest me. My goal is to someday have a published work of fiction that can be bought at a bookstore near you. Follow the THIS.
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
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