Happy Autumn/Fall! This quarter’s Short Story contest has come to a close and the winners are ready to be announced.

For this quarter, participants were asked to follow the theme of Wishing Well. I got a lot of great submissions, some conventional and some creatively obscure.

So, without further pause, it’s time to announce our winners!

Taking this quarter’s 1st Place prize of $100 Amazon Gift Card is a creatively disturbing writer who doesn’t shy away from discomfort. I’m pleased to announce Shayne Hargrove! Check out his Wishing Well short story submission below.

---

Thud.  The high-pitched screeching came to an abrupt halt. Staring at the splash of vibrant, green blood that painted the row of stones beneath the one in his hand, Gringo felt a wave of guilt wash over him. “Why do they have to be alive?” he asked, turning to his colleague.

Just about to crush another pixie as it screamed in terror, the other man looked back at Gringo in confusion. “Eh? What’s it matter?” His focus shifted back to the diminutive, helpless creature. With a malicious grin etched onto his cheeks, Bardt lifted the next stone again and slammed it down. The silence that followed was replaced by his obnoxious laughter. “Ya see? Nothin’ to it.”

Gringo swallowed hard, watching the tiny lifeless hand that stuck out from between the cracks of the layered stones continue to twitch. His stomach was in knots from knowing the wrongfulness of the acts they were committing. But he needed this job. His farm’s crops had never taken root and his family would never survive the winter. When first he had heard of this task, Gringo nearly cried in relief. A thousand coins to build a simple well. How could he turn it down?

But as he held the squirming creature trapped in his hands, biting at him with teeth too small to puncture, fighting with fists that lacked the strength to warrant notice, the simple farmer couldn’t help but wonder if it was worth it.

Bardt slapped his companion on the back of the head. “Hey now, get back to work. I ain’t puttin’ this thing all together by me lonesome!” The ever-present smile on his face as he crushed another pixie seemed a heavy contradiction to his words.

Resigning himself to his fate, Gringo slathered a thick glob of tar onto the next spot before pushing the magical creature in place. He shied away his gaze, unable to bear the desperate longing of those four large, black eyes staring up at him. Holding a stone in the air, the man shuddered as the sound of bones crunching came with its descent. Slowly, he peeked a glance and saw that he had missed his mark, leaving only the top half of the pixie’s body crushed.

Noticing the gap, Bardt slapped the man again. “Idiot! Ya ever seen a wall with holes in it?! Fix it, or the king’ll have our heads!”

A part of Gringo wanted to just turn and run away. Looking down at the pair of legs that were exposed, laying in a pool of the creature’s blood beneath the stone, he could hardly contain the bile that rose in his throat. But he needed the money. His family needed it. If his family’s survival meant the cost of a few pixies, how could he stop?

Looking at the pile of rocks to his right, Gringo hoped to find one small enough to plant in the gap. He searched anxiously, knowing what the alternative was. After turning over every stone, none were found that would be suitable. A heavy sigh passed through his lips as he turned back to the half-built well. His hands shook as they reached toward the last stone he had placed, knowing it was all his fault. If only he had the courage to look on the first strike.

Groaning in disgust as he pried the small boulder away, the horrific sounds of the pixie’s body being pulled apart filling his ears. He gagged at the sight but managed to quickly push the stone back down, wedging it in place so that no gap was left. Coughing harshly, he stepped away as images of the acts he had committed replayed over and over in his mind.

“I swear to Ota himself, if ya don’t finish this, it’ll be you I smash next!” Bardt’s angry grunt followed, halting the screeches of another pixie. “Ya hear me?! Now get back here!”

With labored breaths, Gringo turned back to his colleague. He couldn’t believe how the man could just reach into the cage of terrified creatures, ripping it from it’s loved ones and plastering it to the stone as if it were no more of an obstacle than the tar. Slowly, he stepped back toward the well, eyeing the cage.

Bardt grew even more frustrated. So much so that he stopped his seemingly endless massacre of pixies to turn and face Gringo. “Pick up a pixie,” he said with lethal calmness.

When Gringo continued to hesitate, Bardt’s eyes flashed with anger and he raised the stone in his hand as if to maul the man. Under the threat of pain, Gringo cried out in fear and pulled one of the small, winged creatures from the cage.

“Put it on the well.”

Gringo did as he was told, hands shaking all the while as he slathered another glob of tar onto the next stone. This time, he looked directly into the pixie’s eyes as he raised the stone.

Seeing the man hesitate, Bardt stomped a foot against the ground. “Do it!”

The stone came down, this time with near perfect accuracy, crushing the creature’s body entirely. Still, Gringo held his gaze. He remained silent for the endeavor, but inside he screamed in outrage.

Content, Bardt turned his attention back to the cage and continued lining the wall. His wicked grin returned to his face as he saw Gringo slowly reach down to retrieve another pixie from the corner of his eye.

After another few dozen stones—and pixies—were placed, the pair leaned against the constructed well with sweat beading down their faces. Gringo faced the other man. “So why did they have to be alive?”

Bardt scoffed as if the answer should have been obvious. “Magic won’t work if they aren’t killed in the process.”

“Magic?”

Raising an eyebrow in confusion, Bardt scoffed again. “Yes, magic. Didn’t they tell you this was a wishing well?” Based on Gringo’s widened eyes, the man assumed the response. “Yeah, I was shocked too. Thought the damned things were just a myth. But, apparently, they’re real. And we just built one. Why do ya think they had us build it out here, deep in the forest where no one would find it?”

Gringo eyed the well in new light. “So… this actually grants wishes?” A hundred desires began to form in his mind. Base lusts, greedy prizes, and more.

“Supposedly.”

Rising to his feet, Gringo’s green-eyed gaze bore down on the well with eagerness. He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a small piece of copper—the last he had to his name.

“What’re ya doin’?” Bardt asked before seeing Gringo’s arm extend out over the rim. Struggling to his feet, Bardt managed to catch his colleague’s arm before the copper was dropped. “Wait!”

Growling in retaliation, Gringo eyed the man with hate. “No! I’m going to use the well!” He managed to pull his hand free and threw the copper down the hole.

For a moment, both men listened for the small splash as the piece hit the water. When it came, Bardt launched a punch into Gringo’s jaw. “Idiot! The well ain’t finished yet!”

Gringo blinked in complete puzzlement.

“Stupid man, we ain’t done yet. Ya just wasted your copper.”

Struck with confusion and regret, Gringo looked down over the edge of the well as if expecting a bright light to erupt from the depths and grant his wish. “Wha— I don’t understand? What’s left?”

“Should’ve waited. Stupid man,” Bardt repeated before turning toward the dense bushes lining the edge of the clearing. After a while, he returned, dragging a bound woman by her hair as she wriggled in desperation.

No, not a woman. Gringo’s eyes burst open as he saw the mystical creature’s long, pointed ears. “An elf?!” he asked in amazement as Bardt pulled her closer. “But I thought the plague had wiped them out a hundred years ago!”

“Aye, so did everyone else. King’s had this one locked up since the days of his father’s father.” After reaching the well in the center of the clearing, Bardt released his hold on her hair. “Too bad, she’s a beauty.” The elf stared up at them with malice.

Gringo stepped forward to get a better look. His companion’s words rang true, the creature was enchanting beyond measure. Even after being dragged through the muck, he couldn’t deny that she put to shame every human he had ever seen. Regaining his focus, Gringo turned toward Bardt. “So, what’s left with the well?”

Bardt chuckled. “Just her. Her blood, that is.”

Eyeing the well and the dreams it could fulfill, Gringo pulled the elf to her feet and leaned her over the layered stones. Without even a moment’s hesitation, he took a crude knife from his belt and sliced open her throat. Bardt’s chuckling amplified as they watched the beautiful creature’s blood spill to the depths below. As it met the water, a bright purple light began to glow.

Gringo’s eyes were fixated on the enticing light, shimmering off the walls that were still dripping with pixie blood. His fingers wrapped tightly in the elf’s hair, he pulled back on her head to open her throat more, making sure to get every drop as if it mattered.

Once the blood no longer flowed from the elf’s neck, Gringo released his hold. He didn’t even bother paying attention to where her spent corpse fell. All that mattered was the well and its power. All his dreams would come true—riches, glory, whatever he desired. His heart pounded with excitement, knowing his fate in life had finally turned for the better.

Ignoring Bardt’s ceaseless laughter, Gringo started fumbling blindly through his pockets once more. That laughter echoed louder and louder as the farmer searched desperately. He was hardly paying any attention, just watching the light below. Finally, the man regained his senses and began to focus exclusively on the contents of his pockets, fuming with frustration. After countless searches through his leggings, Gringo realized that he had completely forgotten the copper he had thrown in prematurely was the last he had.

Crying out in dismay, Gringo leaned over the rim to the water below. As if taunting him, the single piece of copper could be seen deep below the water’s surface as a single obscured shadow. And Bardt’s laughter continued to play in his ears.

---

Whew, I found that one riveting. Thank you for your submission, Shayne. I hope you enjoyed taking part (and continue to do so in the future).

Now, onto our runner-up and winner of the $25 Amazon Gift Card, we have a writer who wished to remain Anonymous.

Their short story, while low in Fantasy elements, had no shortage of creativity. Through its obscure relation to the theme, I particularly enjoyed the way they took the concept and approached it tangentially, rather than head-on. Check it out!

---

Maybe I’m wrong? I thought, as the smile spread across his cheeks. How could he be so spirited if it really did happen?

“Thamus!” he beckoned, holding up a pair of pints in greeting, that joyous expression not wavering in the slightest upon the sight of me.

I returned the smile as I strode across the pub, pushing through the bustling crowd of patrons that, too, sought to celebrate the end of the war. After closing the distance, my hand extended toward him, my dearest friend, taking the ale. My gaze bore into him with scrutiny, suspicion lining my vision. But all I saw was Volin’s genuine happiness.

Raising our mugs together with a clash that spilled the slog over the edge and staining the ground below, we chugged our drinks as a cheer erupted around us. My cup slammed to the table in tandem with Volin’s as he demanded another round.

With each drink, my suspicion faded. I was left with only the comfort of my friend’s company–the man who had become bonded to me during our service to the king. As our lips loosened, they told the cherished memories that had been seared into us forever. Tales of victory, recollections of near deaths. The last chapter of our lives had finally reached its end and we were still here to share its adventure.

“And you remember that wiry old man that tried to stab you with a boot?” Volin asked with a boisterous laugh.

“Hah! He said he had spent the better part of a week ‘sharpening’ it against a stone!”

“Right, right! The poor sap didn’t realize he had ground it too far. You could see his fingers poking through the hole!” What remained in our mugs nearly poured to the floor as we hunched over in our hilarity.

I placed my hand on Volin’s shoulder, truly grateful to have such a man as he at my side. A man I called my brother, though not by blood. I realized, then and there, that with all the times we had saved the other’s life through the war, there was no way he was capable of what I feared.

His hand fell upon my head and his inebriated smile widened. “Thamus, I don–” he paused, holding back a hiccup or worse. After he steadied himself from the bile that nearly rose in his throat–thankfully not spewing in my face–his cheeks slackened. “Thamus. I don’ know wha’ I did t’ deserve a friend like you…” The slurring words made him nearly incomprehensible, but his meaning was clear. “Y-you… you saved me, brother. And I’ve always got your back.”

With his final statement, I could feel his hand slide to the back of my neck and grip it tightly in affirmation of his sentiment. Whether from the burning stink of the alcohol on his breath that now breathed into my face or the profound sense of vulnerability I felt, tears began to line my eyes. All I could offer was a meager response, fearful of letting any more weakness show. “And I yours, Volin.”

We embraced each other tightly. Ignoring the confused look of the other patrons, we pressed our gratitude to the other with an intensity that seemed incapable of expressing the long-overdue respects that was owed the other. For many moments we simply squeezed, knowing that our lives were owed to the other.

As we finally pulled apart, I could see his face lined with the wet streaks that I refused to show–for reasons that seemed trivial in that moment. He couldn’t have done it.

After slapping an uncounted handful of coins onto the bar, together we stumbled to the door, nearly tripping over our own feet with each step. Stepping out of the cozy abode, I realized we had been drinking for much longer than I thought. The moon shined high above, illuminating the path toward our homes.

Looking up as I did, Volin sighed. “I’ll never forget the nights we used to just stare at the moon during the marches.”

My lips cracked with a grin. “No, I don’t think we ever will.” Sliding my arm under his in support, we began down the path. It was clear he had consumed more drinks than I by the sway of his gait as he hardly held his own weight. I told my wife I wouldn’t drink that night, but she knew the lie for what it was. After all, how could a soldier not celebrate the ending of the war he had fought in for the last two years?

Two years… Is that really how long it had been? It seemed both an eternity and a blip. For each moment I had missed my wife, the days had seemed to string together as fear of death drove us to near madness. We had only been home for a fortnight and our commander informed us of the king’s treaty only that morning.

I recalled the meeting with a bitterness that left me uneasy. For when the commander told us the good news, rather than leaping into my arms with joy, my wife simply smiled at Volin. It was naught but a flicker. As if it held a thousand secrets that begged to be let out. When her gaze caught me staring at them, my eyes narrowed with malice, she quickly shifted her look elsewhere. Every instinct in me demanded to launch a barrage of insinuations, but Volin broke my distraction by showing the happiness that my wife had not.

Immediately after, he had departed our home in eagerness for the celebrations that were sure to come, leaving me to the awkward distance that was being placed between me and my wife. I, too, had wished to celebrate. I had wished that my wife would cry out in thankfulness that her husband would no longer leave her to sleep alone as he fought desperately for a cause he cared little for. Yet, instead she rose to her feet and closed herself in our bedroom without a word.

No matter my suspicions, I had loved my wife more than life itself. The prospect of destroying what we had directly seemed a task I was not prepared to undertake. Instead, I elected to investigate my dearest friend, whom I had believed would never betray me.

After trudging along the beaten path with Volin growing heavier and heavier, I saw the well we used to throw coins into as children. Slowly, I slid him to the ground at the base of the well, groaning with exhaustion.

“Wha–? What’re we doin’?” he asked, realizing he was no longer on his feet. “Oh hey! This is that well we used to play at!” Volin’s smile returned as he rubbed the side of the layered stone with fondness. “I remember dropping half my father’s coin stash down this hole, hoping to meet the love of my life someday…”

I raised an eyebrow. “And did it ever payoff?”

My friend’s smile turned to a perplexed frown. “Eh… once.” Volin’s heavy eyelids began to close. “Just once…”

It has to be true. The previous certainty I felt dispelled, leaving me with the horrid doubt that had twisted my gut all day. “Volin,” I began. As he groggily opened his eyes at me, barely conscious, I mustered the courage to ask what I had been waiting to ask. “Did you bed my wife?”

Silence ensued. My heart pounded in anticipation, driven by fear and anger. What would I do if the answer was yes? This was the man I owed my life to. The one I called my dearest brother. Could I forgive him? Would I forgive him?

For many moments I waited for my answer. But Volin’s eyes just looked forward as if drawn elsewhere. The same look we used to get after waking up in cold sweats after dreaming of the terrors we endured in combat.

“Volin,” I repeated more forcefully. He never looked at me. He just stared ahead. Out of curiousity, I followed his gaze to the grass beyond, expecting to see some sort of bewitching demon that had entranced him in some way. But there was nothing. Growing frustrated, I kicked his leg hard. “VOLIN!”

Finally, his attention turned to me, though still the deadness remained in his eyes.

It has to be true. I know it! Why else would he refuse to answer? A part of me had expected this to be the answer. But I at least wished for the decency to admit it to me. Whether out of fear of his own betrayal or shame, Volin held his tongue and my anger grew.

I bent down and grabbed the folds of his tunic, pulling him to his feet to look into his eyes. “Is it true?! Did you?!”

Being met with the vacant expression was a thousand times worse than the truth. How could this man call me his brother but not show me respect? I growled in fury, wrapping my hands around his neck tightly. At first, his emotionless face didn’t change. It was as if Volin had locked himself away, refusing to experience reality. But I didn’t care. I would get the truth, one way or the other. Squeezing his throat with all my might, Volin’s eyes flickered in recognition as the pain woke him from his stupor.

He tried to form words that would match his confusion, but they couldn’t squirm through his enclosed throat. Furrowing his brow, Volin’s hands reached up to mine and tried to pray away my fingers desperately.

I could feel the bulging of his artery beneath my hand, pumping relentlessly as it tried to reach its destination. The building pressure in my friend’s head had started to turn his face purple. His bloodshot eyes stared up at me, flashing between anger, confusion, and horror as I pressed him against the lip of the stone well.

No longer did I care for the truth. All I wished for, in that moment, was vengeance. With rage coursing through my veins, I crushed Volin’s throat without pause. His feet kicked out, knocking against my shins and throwing dirt into the air. The desperate prying of his fingers began to lose their strength and pawed at me without merit. More and more, Volin’s eyes turned blood red, seeming as if they’d burst at any moment.

Crying out in anger, I pressed the last of life from him. After his arms fell limp and his legs no longer kicked, I stepped away and stared at his body, sprawled over the edge of the well we used to toy with as youths.

My body still pumped with hatred, but it quickly began to fade as the realization of what I had done set in. Seeing my friend’s body littered across that well, knowing he died a dishonorable death at my hand, sobered me immediately. As the rage subsided, I was left with only an immense grief and regret.

I had killed my dearest friend, and for what? I was no closer to the truth, locked in a permanent cycle of suspicion and doubt. This feeling would imprison me forever, I knew. Every time I would look upon my wife’s face, I would see Volin’s. The vision of beauty that drove me would become twisted with the bloodshot eyes of the friend I had murdered. And the worst of it was not knowing if such a fate was even deserved.

My fingers dug into my arms as my horrific actions took root, cutting deep into my skin as I began to hyperventilate. I had killed dozens of men in the war, but an enemy combatant was objectified as nothing more than an obstacle or beast. This was my friend, my brother. Beneath me, my legs gave out and I collapsed to the hard ground. Huddled over in denial, my mind repeatedly raged within itself in the struggle to both deny and fathom what I had done.

Ages seemed to pass as my gaze kept finding its way back to Volin, as if I felt I needed to punish myself for the sin. I sobbed profusely, this time showing no care for the state of vulnerability. Slowly, I began to crawl toward my friend at the well, feeling the tears roll down my face and dripping from my chin to wet the dirt below.

Gripping his leg tightly, I pulled myself to my feet. Hesitation tugged at my limps as I reached for Volin’s tunic. But I needed to see it. It was what I deserved. As I pulled on his shirt, his head rolled back limply in disturbing lifelessness. Shying away my gaze, I let out my muffled cries into my shoulder. Even while looking away, I could feel Volin’s slack and heavy head pulling him away from me.

Finally, I brought myself to face him. I cradled his neck–as he had done to me in the tavern, holding me as his brother–and looked into his eyes. A gasp of profound horror passed through my lips as the result of my rage stared back at me. His eyes had rolled back up to his skull, leaving naught but blood-filled spheres to greet me. I couldn’t bear it any longer.

“I-I’m so sorry, Volin.” The grief I felt outweighed the temporary blind rage that had driven me to madness a hundred times over. “I wish I could take it back…”

After one last look at my dearest friend, committing the atrocity to memory as my own form of punishment, I relinquished my hold on his shirt. At dreadful, taunting pace, Volin’s body fell backward before toppling over the layered stone of the well and falling deep down the pit. I could hear the sound of him scraping along the walls long before the inevitable splash.

Unable to bear looking over the edge, I turned away and returned on the path home.

---

There’s our two winners this quarter. I hope everyone who submitted enjoyed writing their pieces and am looking forward to seeing some return visitors next quarter!

The next contest will be taking place January 1st – 31st!