Young Writers Society

The bustling crowd’s voices all sound like a beehive. The humdrum, the indistinct noises, they look like a beehive as well. People are bumping into each other, each with a place to go, each stopping to communicate with friends. In front of my house, is my family, sitting behind one of the many booths in the street market on the cobblestone. I am sitting on the empty windowsill, with my eyes closed, though I can see the light of the sun shining through my eyelids.

I open my eyes, and look down at my beautiful, wonderful family. My husband is standing behind the booth, selling our famous wares, and my little girl and boy are playing with them. My boy, Joel, is waving around a wooden lion stained with bright dandelion pollen, whereas the girl is playing with one of our fine dolls, with hair made from the brightest corn silk. But it does not stop there. We have wooden carriages, knights in shining tin armor, and many more.

Our toys are famous around the market, because they are made from the finest materials that could be found, but they were put together even better. Almost like magic. I think, smiling to myself. Little do they know. Speaking of magic… I slide of the windowsill, and plait my long red hair into a loose braid. I thud down the stairs, and lift a straw basket off a wooden dresser by the doorway. I open the door. My husband turns around.

“I am going to find more ingredients.” I say.

My husband nods. “Please be careful.” It is what he says every time, and yet nothing bad has happened. I think it is because he knows what animal I ride, though he does not quite know its loyalty. I smile, and walk down the street. The air smells like sweat, and baking bread. I am jostled around, though greetings are shouted to me, for me and my family are not only famous for our trade, but for our kindness and generosity as well.

I duck down a dirty alleyway between two huts, nearly stepping on a cat’s tail. I cross the street on the other side, walk to my left, then duck between another two houses. I hardly have to think about where I am going at all, for I know this way by heart. My leather shoes beat once again upon the memorized path, allowing my mind to wander freely. Finally, I make it outside the village. I walk a ways, until I am standing on the edge of the Frightening forest.

I am not quite sure why it is called that, because I go in almost twice a week, and yet have found nothing to be afraid of. I wander into the forest, singing absently. The air smells like dirt, and plants. The floor is littered with twigs and leaves, and thick, dark grass carpets the ground. I walk until the foliage at the top of the tall trees block out almost all the sunlight. I sit on a familiar stump, and set my basket onto the grassy forest floor. I let out a long, low whisper. It sounds of a black bird. I shut my eyes. I find that if I keep them open, it will not come into my sight.

I hear mighty footfalls, which reduce the leaves into dust, and snaps fallen branches into two. It is the sound of power and magic, but I am not afraid. I can smell him. He smells of something I cannot place. Almost like lavender, except sweeter. I can feel his powers in the air around me, and I can hear him. I open my eyes. He is standing before me. His white coat dulls summer clouds in comparison. His silver horn is brighter than stars in a midnight sky. I tentatively press my hand upon his coat. His hair feels softer than satin.

“May I go for a ride?” I ask as I study those cinnamon brown eyes. Those eyes hold something more than animalistic instinct, they hold intelligence, and compassion. As if it were a human wiser than all. I pick up my basket, and swing my leg over its sturdy back. “I need pink berries, today.”

Without me having to tell him, he turns around, and starts at a canter, which builds into a gallop. He leaps over rocks, and flies over dips in the ground seamlessly. I have rode dozens of horses, among other beasts. None ride as smooth as this beast. Besides, nothing can go near as fast. I know not how far this forest stretches, but I know that no horse could cover as much ground as this unicorn has. Finally, we stop in front of a cluster of bushes, covered in pink berries.

I slide off the unicorn, and begin to pick berries. I do not know how long I am there, but I collect a heaping basket full of them. I pop one into my mouth. The juice spills over my tongue. It tastes sweeter than a blueberry, and is juicier than a blackberry. “You do know the best,” I say to the unicorn. I do not think that unicorns can smile, but I know that if they could, this one would. I turn back to the bush to pick one more, when I hear heavy footfalls behind me, but I know that it is not that of the unicorn.

I turn slowly around. I see a man, sitting on top of a dragon the color of charcoal. the spikes that run down its breath are crimson. Almost like they were coated in blood. It is about the size of the unicorn, but much more fearsome. It had lamp-like orange eyes which looked so venomous, they could belong to a snake. The man on top was worse. He wore black clothes, but he had a scarlet cloak. The brim of his wide hat covered his face, but all I could make out were his eyes, which were as black as obsidian, and as soulless as a demon’s.

I draw a knife from the inside of my right boot. “What is it that you want?”

“Careful with that, little women should not play with knifes.” The man sneered.

“I never said that I was playing.” I say.

“Snappy one, are you?” He responds.

I snarl. “I will ask you again, what is it that you want?”

“I think you know perfectly well what I want.” The man’s gaze shifts to the unicorn.

“He belongs to no one, and is not something you can sell.” I growl.

“Is that so?” The man challenges. “I know several people who would pay a pretty penny for a beast such as this.”

“And yet you ride on one as if it were nothing but a lowly mule.” I say.

I can see a shadow of a smirk on the man’s face. “Compared to all the other beasts I have sold, it is. Put down your knife, let me have the unicorn, and I will pay you. I have more gold in my pocket than you can ever dream of.”

“Never.”

The man keeps his relentless gaze on me. I can see no remorse on his features as he says: “Fine, I suppose I shall do this the hard way.” He made a couple strangled hissing noises.

The dragon dropped his jaw, and spat blue fire onto my left sleeve. I could feel the flames licking the cloth off my arm. I can feel it nipping at my skin, destroying the layers as if they are nothing more than thin sheets of tissue paper. This is no normal fire, this is one of a terrifying, unheard of magic. Suddenly, the pain is alleviated. I open my eyes, and see the tip of a silver horn like starlight pressed to my wounds. The unicorn has his head bowed. I watch the layers of skin heal, and stretch over my wound.

“That is very interesting.” The man says. He snarls again.

The dragon opens his mouth,but the unicorn has already surged forward, and plunged his horn into the dragon’s chest. The dragon flails around, and the man is thrown off the dragon’s back. He is sprawled on the ground. The dragon falls onto his side, and lies still.

I throw myself further, and plunge my dagger into the man’s chest. He breathes no more. I look over to the unicorn. He pulls his horn out of the dragon, and I see that it is heavily coated in green liquid. I reach over and lift my basket off my ground. “I am ready to go back home.” I get onto the unicorn’s back, and he rides. For once, he carries me to the edge of the forest, where he can be seen. I slide off his back, and half the berries roll out of my basket, into the grass. I turn and pick them up. When I look up, the unicorn is gone.