Scribbled Thoughts

She’d noticed the young man watching,

his interest greater than

he wanted her to believe.

He held a desperate glint in his eyes,

a purpose to fulfill

that blinded him to other suffering.

It reminded her of her husband.

Her weary heart broke a little

as she purposely turned away

from her wares,

rummaging in bags behind

for longer than was needed

and pretending to not hear

the telltale chink of a

weapon being snatched away.

Perhaps it would serve him better

than it had her beloved.

Her husband had been

a wealthy collector,

a kind man but

far from sensible.

Still, she loved him

and enjoyed watching

his face light up

with excitement when he found

another piece.

But soon his family wealth

had dwindled away

and the fancy weapons

caused resentment.

As she struggled to feed their son

her husband still clung to his collection,

boasting to others about its unique qualities.

He left one morning

with his most prized pieces

for an exhibition.

The weapons were never found

but her husband turned up

face-down in the river.

She ignored grief and packed up

the remaining items,

hoping to sell them for food,

to keep her house,

to struggle on with life.

Jack’s village was too poor

too uncultured

to have a blacksmith

or armoury.

He would not be returning there.

Instead he headed for

the forest in Crazy Mary’s story,

knowing there was a trading post

at its border

that attracted buyers

and sellers alike.

Wares were spread out

on cloth,

hasty displays enticing

the desperate

and reckless.

Food, weapons, pottery,

even a few livestock

and men promoting

their services.

Jack browsed, made a few enquiries

to blend in

but picked his target carefully

before moving away to watch

and wait.

Jack stored the cloth

in the bottom of his rucksack,

feeling it lift the straps

from his shoulders,

cutting into his armpits

in a bid for freedom.

He was useless with a needle

so decided he would

cut it into strips

and tie them around

his waist, legs and arms

when the time came.

He left the dead giant,

his next move

forming in his mind

and making him sigh with guilt.

He needed to steal.

No one had touched the giant’s body,

too scared to approach,

too weary of angering the enemy further.

It was left to rot

and feed the wildlife,

attracting carnivorous dangers

away from people’s livestock.

Jack travelled to where it had fallen

a few miles from their village,

but waited until dawn to approach,

not wanting to tempt any alphas

with a fresh challenge.

The body did not float

but the loose areas of his

-Jack could see it had been male-

clothes drifted lazily off the ground.

He grinned, choosing part of

the giant’s green shirt

and beginning to cut

a huge chunk away.

Crazy Mary handed the beans over

in a jar, which Jack covered

with a cloth,

guarding his treasure

from all eyes.

He went home,

packing the few things

he felt would be useful

and left without

saying farewell to the woman

who gave him life.

She didn’t try to stop him.

There were two things left

Jack would need

before he began his journey.

A way to walk amongst the clouds

without falling,

and a weapon to kill

those who were up there.

Jack’s mother used to be feisty,

boisterous, energetic.

She used to take misfortune

in her stride

and carry on with

a sarcastic laugh.

But the years had worn her down

and she was tired,

a deep tired she couldn’t shake,

her movements sluggish

with grief and responsibility.

Even small, beautiful moments

couldn’t touch her anymore.

She used to take pride in her Betsy,

who produced milk

she could churn into butter.

But people rarely bought from her now,

too weary of her son’s reputation

to be seen near their house.

So when Jack told her he’d sell

her beloved cow at the market

she didn’t even bat an eye.

She didn’t say goodbye.