That's A Nice Ring

That’s a Nice Ring
By Scott Wilson
Word Count: 491
"I can go anywhere I want to with a turn of this ring," I boasted to the group of asinine compatriots.

The man smelled my skin and laughed. "You smell like fresh meat," he said. "You smell like you expect to be killed and eaten alive. What kind of boy would run around this fog like that?"

All of the people's voices came prying into me, digging through the hairs of my scalp to find answers to their questions. They sifted through my body as water sifts through rice. I felt their presence probing through the deep recesses of my head until they discovered what they longed to know. I told them how I was searching for my father. I told them that his shoes brought me here. I told them about his satchel and the magic that was inside. That magic would take me back home whenever I needed to leave.

My ring and shoes vanished under the guise of morning.

After I took the needle from its place, I pried my father's bones from the floor and put them in my satchel.

However, since I had been given my gift I did not fear what stood in front of me. As his body touched mine if fell to the floor covered in a carpet of needles.

In my path stood a young pear tree that, on first appearance looked wretched and covered with soil. Nevertheless, the second time I looked at it the sapling had already blossomed into a maturity. It grew pears the size of my mother's hands. It waved to me with its branches, beckoning me towards the sweet fruit. As I attempted to climb the three, the leaves enclosed me and stung my skin with nectar.

When I reached a house, I knocked to ask for a cup of water to cool my senses. The woman, upon seeing my shoes, let me in.

Without hesitance I lifted my pant legs began to dance in father's leather bottomed shoes. The soles breezed across the floor, cutting the mist with rhythmic motions. I then turned the ring on my finger and watched my father rise, soil shedding from his skin. His shaved face and clean hands stood against the paling crowd. This impressed the people who stood before me, as did the fact that my tongue did not bleed from the needle it held.

Suddenly a swarm of angry vultures swooped upon the ogre and began to peck at every pore and crevice of his body. Together, a mass of flapping and buzzing around a core of struggling flesh, they danced a violent dance. His pitiful screams were drowned in a sea of hundreds of angry screeches and the sounds of countless beaks piercing flesh. I ran from this bloody scene as quickly as I could.