Writers Roulette! New Bag and New Story Sample

Naturally now that I'm putting by Roulette baggies to more work, my genre bag went missing and I had to toss together a new one. I actually think I like this one better. Unfortunately it was made in a pell-mell rush in between morning errands and day plans. I'll be sitting down to edit my latest novel as soon as I finish this post up and was actually supposed to be on that an hour ago. Today's getting away from me! I'll see if I can't list out all the genres I've got collected in my bag to draw from so that you can copy it for your own usage tomorrow. Call it my Christmas gift to you!

Today's combination...

Genres

Heroic Fantasy

Slasher

Story Elements/Themes/Tropes

Unseen Forces

Temptation of Power

Transformation

Tell me that combination doesn't almost write itself! My first thought went to vampires, but don't know for sure that that's the direction I want to take this. Unfortunately it looks like this particular piece demands a lot of buildup, but I challenge anyone who reads it to write for themselves what happens next...

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Miggins stabbed the pitchfork into the hay and hurled it over his shoulder. The visiting nobles horses wouldn’t feed themselves. Stab. Toss. Stab. Toss. Same as any other day. Only it really wasn’t.

The barn was filled with strange horses, clearly thoroughbreds but not any he’d ever heard of. Striped horses. Who’d ever heard of such a thing? He couldn’t tell one way or the other whether they were white with black stripes or white with black. And they bit. His forearm was wrapped with bandages beneath his heavy winter tunic where one had taken great delight in ripping away a chunk of his flesh. At least warhorses understood who it was that fed them.

And the riders were just as strange as their mounts. Tall and fair skinned, with red hair that sprung from their scalps like the flames of torches. In the whole village, he was the only one with hair like theirs. If it weren’t for all the freckles that had colored his face, it would be easy to confuse them for his kin. At least so long as one didn’t look too closely at how they carried themselves.

Nobles always walked like the ground was privileged for their footstep. Stab. Toss. Stab. Toss. One had even stopped to look at him with reptilian eyes as they entered the inn. Some inns had names, he understood, in other towns where there might be call for more than one. But not here, in Elmstock. Here there was only the inn, and the closest thing to nobility was the mayor.

Now there were six nobles inside where it was warm by the fire, away from snow and cold hay and biting black and white horses. Who came riding into town two full hours after the sun went down? And at this time of year, when the snow was almost knee deep? They didn’t even look like the cold bothered them, dressed in flowing silks. They’re clothes had seemed to move and wave like water as they moved, almost as if the cloth was alive. If the cold didn’t bother them, then they should be willing to take care of their own bloody horses out here in the cold. He bet none of them had ever been sent off to perform last minute chores after thinking they were about to settle down to a hot, well-earned dinner.

Stab. Toss. Stab. Toss. The frustration burned like an ember in his chest and he held onto it, deliberately letting his thoughts coax it into something hotter than it should be. Anger could keep a man warm. It certainly beat being numb.  

Stab. Toss. A skull glared out of the hay at him, empty eye sockets blazing with a crimson light. Blood ran over the grinning mouth, painting the teeth yellow teeth orange against the brown-black rotten bone.

Miggins screamed and staggered away, slipped on the droppings one of the striped horses had left on the barn floor, and toppled over into the hay. He came up in a flurry of straw, wide eyed and gasping for breath. There was no sign of the skull. Only the disturbed hay and fallen pitchfork belied that anything at all had happened.

Miggins blinked his eyes and wiped the sweat from his brow. He tried to swallow but found his mouth too dry. That’s what he got for thinking angry thoughts. He was seeing things. Unwholesome things. He signed himself with the mark of the Hearth Master and rose to his feet. Finish working, he thought, feed the horses and get inside.

Not feeding them wasn’t an option. Not if he wanted to keep his job and home, which he very much did. Although if another skull popped out of the hay he might reconsider. He might anyways, but in the morning, after a good night’s rest and breaking his fast. After the nobles left to continue their journey.

He readied the pitchfork for another stab into the stray when a scream rent the air. A woman’s scream, shrill and full of an icy terror that extinguished what little warmth remained inside of him and set the animals to agitation. Blood dripped from the end of his pitchfork.

He screamed and dropped it. One of the striped horses reared and bellowed, lashing his hooves in challenge. Another scream from the inn, and Miggins took off. Everything in him told him he was going the wrong direction, but the inn was his home. Whatever was attacking their guests would have to go through him. He said silent prayer to the Hearth Master as he ran that

….

Ran out of time here. Please keep in mind that this is a RAW and UNEDITED FIRST DRAFT (and as such is bound to be riddled with more flaws than I can shake an over used metaphorical stick at) when you comment. Eager to hear your thoughts and ideas! Please comment below or share your own Roulette Stories :)