Another one of Chuck Wendig’s flash fiction challenges! For this one, I had to choose a character from the “Fantasy Character Concept” generator. I kind of cheated, since I used four instead, but I saw them together and the idea popped into my head. These are my characters:
A young and impressionable swineherd is doomed to wander the world.
A irresponsible warlord is afraid of being recognized by an old acquaintance.
A desperate barmaid is searching for a legendary weapon.
A blind miner is seeking the City of Gold.
“Watch out, Bartho-” Melinda called out, just as the 94-year-old man walked straight into the side of the barn. “-lemew.”
“What is this?” the man asked, feeling the rough texture of the wood.
“I thought you said you would be fine.” the young maiden said to Bartholomew, disregarding his question. “You told me you wouldn’t need help getting around.”
“Well, I don’t! I knew something was there, I just didn’t know what it was!” the man huffed indignantly.
“Sure,” the other man, Micheal, said. “And pigs can fly.”
The trio was headed North-Melinda and Bartholomew had the same destination in mind, and Micheal had accompanied them, after crossing paths with Melinda as she was leaving her small village to embark on this journey. The old man hadn’t been with her, then, but Melinda had come across him, and they had discovered that they were both searching for the same place-the City of Gold.
Melinda, being the kind soul that she was, had convinced the old man to join their company, knowing he wouldn’t be able to make it very far on his own. Meanwhile, Micheal had silently cursed the man for showing up at such an inopportune moment-you see, the man was an old miner, of whom Micheal had crossed paths with many a time in the past. Micheal had been attempting to take control of yet another empire, and none of their encounters had ended well, seeing as Bartholomew happened to be a strong-willed resident of the victim country. And, now that Bartholomew could no longer see, all Micheal had to do was slightly alter his voice so it wouldn’t be recognized.
And so here they stood, in the middle of the Embreaic farmlands, with nowhere to go but north.
Melinda felt a sharp jab, and a gasp of surprise escaped her lips. She whirled around just as Micheal did, to see a small boy in peasant’s clothing. “Who are you?” the boy asked.
Melinda quickly gathered herself. “Oh! I’m Melinda, this is Micheal, and he is Bartholomew.” she sad, pointed to each member of the group, respectively. She gave a small curtsy, and Micheal bowed. Bartholomew stuck a hand out towards the boy.
Both Melinda and Micheal had never seen such an odd sentiment; back in their home countries, there had been signs such as a hand over the heart, or a hand held flat in front of the face, but never something such as what they were seeing.
The peasant boy took the man’s hand in his own, and pumped it up and down vigorously.
“You have quite the handshake, boy,” the older man laughed.
“I’m sorry,” Melinda asked the boy gently. “But we don’t know your name yet.”
“I’m Pholo.” he replied proudly.
“Well then, Pholo. Where are your parents?”
His gaze drifted to the ground. “I don’t have any.” he mumbled sheepishly.
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry.”
“‘S’not your fault.”
A new worry made itself present in Melinda’s mind. “If you don’t have any parents, where have you been staying?” she asked, frowning.
“I usually just sleep with the pigs. But I lost the pigs.”
Melinda’s maternal side immediately won out over her instinct for survival. They would have to find more food than usual to feed their ever-growing group, and it would be harder for their trio-now a quartet-to go unnoticed when they had to stay out of sight, but she couldn’t just shove the boy away. Where else could he go?
“Pholo, would you like to come with us? We’re going someplace special.” she asked him, crouching down to be closer to his height.
“Really?” the boy said, looking up from examining a nonexistent string on his shirt.
“Really and truly.”
“Well, I don’t think the pigs are coming back. And I don’t have any friends here. So sure.”
“Okay,” she said, taking his hand and rising from her crouch. “Which way, Bartholomew?”
An Author's Wishful Thinking 