Prose – “The Wandering Bell”

The Wandering Bell

By Anthony Jutz

My bell echoes its whisper on the cool, damp breeze through the ruins of my village. It provides a ward against the hungering ghosts of my friends and family, who didn’t survive the wrath of another man’s god. I rummage through the remains of my ancestral home, longing for a keepsake, or at least some semblance of a reminder of where I came from.

I can feel their ice-hot breath breathing down my neck, blinding by their own rage and betrayal. It wasn’t me who gave away the secrets of our village’s ancient, magical defenses, but I was outside the walls when it happened. They don’t recognize me anymore.

No longer able to tolerate the air of spiteful remorse, I leave the village with a small pouch of seeds exclusive to my home. With all that was turned to ashes, someone needs to sew fresh growth upon this land. My magic within shall be the only memento I need.

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