Every girl should carry a rat bone
you never know when you'll need it
Content warning ⚔️ — this freewrite fits into a sub-genre of fantasy called grimdark. That means it’s a bit bleak, violent, and morally ambiguous. I had a delightful time writing it, but for sensitive readers, ye be warned.
“Psst.”
The keyboy sits slumped over in his chair in the hall, drooling down his shirt. I don’t blame him, they work him to the bone. But I’d take his shit job over my lot any day.
“Psst, lad. Wake up,” I whisper, gripping the bars of my cell window. It’s quiet except for footsteps—too hot for the other sad sacks to sing or holler in their cells.
The boy stirs. One eye is purple and swollen shut, but the other peels open and lands on my face. He must be wondering how I got up high enough to reach the window. Simple, really. I’m standing on the chest of my dead cellmate, Corpius. The body doesn’t smell yet, and he’s conveniently thick so I can just reach the barred window if I go on my tiptoes on his pecks.
Corpius would be glad to know his pushups are going to good use. Not good enough use to stop me from popping his lung with my rat bone shard, though. He wheezed like a broken bellows, poor bastard. But we’re all choking and wheezing down here most days. Keyboy didn’t bat an eye. Details, details.
“Look alive, lad. Warden is coming,” I whisper.
The keyboy is delirious. He rubs his bad eye and groans. It must’ve been a heavenly sleep. Maybe a girl in his dreams. His delirium breaks when he hears the boot steps descending into the mine. He leaps up, keys rattling at his waist, and begins his deliberate pacing down the corridor, looking left and right at each cell door to ensure there’s been no funny business.
My hands are slick on the bars.
Not used to gripping much these days—no swords, no throats.
The yellow walls? Molten hot. No good for climbing.
I s’pose I do grip one thing. Bigger around than a prison bar, I’ll tell you that.
The boots reach the landing. I can’t see that far down the hall, but I hear a throat clear. It’s gruff, and I already know he’s about to say something inane. God, he’s an ass.
“Angus, keepin’ an eye on things?” The warden scoffs at his own pathetic joke.
“Yes sir,” the keyboy croaks. Then the eye joke dawns on him too late and he adds, “That’s good, sir,” as if the warden wasn’t responsible for the beating to begin with.
My arms are tired but I won’t miss a show. It’s a rule I have, to never miss a good show. When my eyes are titillated, my mind is too. It keeps my brain sharp to watch things. It’s why Corpius had to become a stepladder. And it’s why I landed in here four months ago. Can’t a gentleman peep on a lady in peace? Apparently not if she’s the bailiff’s daughter.
Keyboy gives me a look. Is he thanking me? Is he warning me to drop out of sight?
“Smells like death in here.” The warden paces past Angus. I see them both now. The poor dumb lad winces as his master goes by.
“I said it smells like death in here, boy,” the warden says it again. Angus gets to stammering. How old is he, eleven? Twelve? Old enough to spit it out already.
“I reckon it’s the sulfur, sir.”
“You don’t think I know the stench of my own mine, boy? Sulfur smells like money. This smells like rotting flesh.” The warden sniffs the air.
He’s approaching my cell now. Come to think of it, Corpius might be letting off a stench. I let go of the bars and drop back into my cell. I step on Corpius’ hand on the way down and it makes a foul hissing sound like he’s letting off steam. He must be cooking a bit on the fumarole he’s covering. Another reason he had to go — the vent was getting my eyes watering and nothin’ else could stop it from spewing rotten steam.
“Who’s in there?” the warden slams on my door. Shit. I can’t have him coming in here. Not yet at least. It’s not the plan.
“Who’s in here, Angus?” he asks the keyboy on the other side of my door.
“It’s- it’s Langley, sir. And Fletcher.”
“Fletcher?” The warden growls.
“The peeping tom, sir.”
“Ah, Langley’s a brute. The creep probably got his skull crushed in.”
I grip my rat bone shard. If he opens this door, he’s dead. And me too, likely. A curious voyeur gets fourteen years. A murderer? Melted in a mine vent, with an audience too. My mother’d be gutted.
“Christ, it smells like a plague pit in there.” Warden retches. “You have one job, boy. Alive. Enough. To. Mine.” He spits.
Is the smell really so terrible? I sniff my armpit.
“Fletcher!” he growls at my door. “If you’re alive in there say, I’m a lecher!”
I won’t be saying that, so I don’t say a word.
“Langley, what’d you do to him?” Warden is banging again.
Langley doesn’t respond because Langley is my stepladder and sulfuric vent cover now.
“He’s a little busy at the moment!” I call back.
“Who’s that?” Warden shouts.
“It’s Fletcher, sir.” Keyboy has decided to join us from his idiotic stuppor.
“And Langley?” he calls through the door. “Speak up, idiot.”
Nothing. Though I consider lowering my voice and grunting back.
“If there’s a corpse in there, Lecher, you’re vented,” he shouts. “Give me those.”
I hear him rip the keys from Keyboy’s waist. He fiddles with them at my door. This is not good. This is not good. My shard is a toothpick next to his bloodied club. I step onto Corpius again and peer down through my barred window.
“Get back, both of you!” The warden does not see me watching. He’s still fiddling at the lock.
Keyboy does, though. And his good eye flits up to mine. A gob of the warden’s spit runs down his neck—he’s smart enough not to wipe it off in his presence.
“I’ll beat your skulls in!” the warden presses the key into the hole. I hear it click the way it does each time they drag us to the sulfur shafts.
I reach my hand through the bars, the one gripping my rat bone shard. I nod at the boy. He shakes his head. Is he pleading with me? I can’t read his ugly face with his eye all bloodied.
The warden shoves open my iron door. I drop the bone shard through the bars and sink to the floor beside Corpius.
“He’s sleeping, he’s sleeping!” I lift my hands to block the warden’s blows. He sees first Corpius’ hand busted on the ground, and then my stinking figure, pressed against the cell wall, burning my back.
But the blows do not come. Instead, I hear a sound like wetness. I look up. The warden is just above me, wide-eyed, club raised, back arched inward like a priest possessed, and Angus behind him, triumphant, bone shard stabbed into his master’s neck.
What a show.
“Good show, lad,” I crawl to the door as the warden sinks to the floor. I rip the keys from his outstretched hand. “We’ll be needing these.”
A freewrite inspired by Fantasy Prompt #19
Time: 90 minutes
Song of the day:
Fantasy Prompt #20
Find a comfortable space
Set your timer for 20 minutes
Sink into your imagination
Remember: It is delightful to write from the depths of your soul
Share your creation in the comments or right to my DMs if you feel inspired
You’re an explorer, and through some miscalculations you’ve landed in a foreign place. The people or creatures there greet you in an unexpected way. Are they friendly? Dangerous? They aren’t familiar with outsiders, that’s for sure. How will you survive this?
What’s new in Writerland?
Hellooooo campers! There are more of you here by the day, I can’t believe it.
I think of you often. So often that when I’m not actively writing a Fantasy Camp™ post or working on my fantasy book, I want to put my head into a garbage disposal. (Grimdark again, sorry). Remember that scene in Heroes where Hayden Panettiere actually put her hand into a garbage disposal? That blew my mind in 6th grade. I would link it, but it’s actually too gross. (Don’t worry, she manifests superpowers and heals herself immediately).
You know what’s funny? I didn’t used to have this head-in-garbage-disposal feeling when I wasn’t writing. I used to just do my job and come home and live with the ambient knowledge that I was neglecting my creative dreams. Now I’m following my dreams and I’m so enamored with the feeling, I feel INSANE when I deprive myself of it. It’s a new sort of curse, but it’s worth it. I’m so grateful that you’re here, keeping me going.
Can any of you relate? Probably. I’ve noticed a lot of us have things in common at Fantasy Camp™. If you want to be writing more, try this week’s prompt! I promise you’ll be amazed at what you come up with. I’d love to read your creations.
Love, laugh, live by the sword,
Madeleine
Loved this one!! And love this genre. Reads like a grim Terry Pratchett—dark and sludgy but charming. :)