Wrath of the Elven
Word Limit: 300
We used to make fun of the elves. When I say we I do mean everyone, myself included. ‘Hey Knife-ear,’ ‘Forest Lover,’ even less polite ‘Forest Fucker.’
We didn’t know the role they played in the world. Quite frankly we didn’t much care about their feelings or their precious forests. We had houses to build, fires to maintain. How could we have known what was to come? Should we have listened?
It happened slowly at first, I don’t think anyone even truly realised the elves were disappearing until they were just gone. Furthermore, when they were gone it took us much too long to recognise the impact their absence was causing.
At first, the spring rains were a little late, but then they didn’t come at all. Everyone tried their own way to bring back the rain, shamans, priests, devil worshipers, wicca, witches. Everyone tried their best, most tried to fix the problem, call rain. Not the Wiccans, they attempted to contact the elves. No response.
Summer came, it was scorching. Autumn came, the leaves fell from the trees for the last time. Winter, the cold, the snow, the chills, the first deaths.
The forests are all but dead now. The dwarves don’t answer the doors of their ancient halls. Never did like those short gits anyway.
It’s all coming to a close now. Those left alive collect water dearly, they feed it to their house plants. One day hoping to bring life back to a dying world.
Where the elves went no-one really ever found out. Maybe they moved onto another plane of existence. Maybe fed up with all our shit they decided to just move to a tropical island somewhere to live out the last of their stupidly long lives.
292 words.
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