The masses were thick and heavy in the streets. Shoulders rubbed against shoulders, backs and walls. It was the day of the Magistrate, after all. The one day of the month when the Magistrate heard appeals and complaints of the lower classes.
"Make way!" An authoritative voice ordered from the crowd. "Make way, maggots! Prisoner comin' through." The guards pushed their way through the mob and shoved a small girl down before the Magistrate.
"What is this?" She demanded. There were rules about the manner of approaching the magistrate.
"This child told a story." The head guard announced with his booming voice. The mob gasped and backed away. An old crooked woman of the Magistrate's court shuffled forward. She poked and prodded the child's long curls while she coward on the street at the centre of attention. The old woman sniffed at her as if she were a roast duck on the spit. She squinted at her with foggy eyes and a well worn brow.
"Ahhh." The old hag said at last. "Not only has this child told a story, but a story has been told about this child."
The crowd moaned a mournful sound for the child. The telling of stories had long been forbidden in the land. It was well known that such a statement from the court had led many a person to the quarries. Young or old did not matter. Having a story told about you was an even worse declaration because the Magistrate greatly feared the arrival of the child who would end her reign
I was born in Southern Ontario. I now live in Southern Alberta with my Beautiful wife and our three awesome boys. I sneak as much time as I can for writing.