We stumbled from the graveyard, bloodied and flayed, purple bruises and red welts painted on our bodies. Nothing stopped the monsters: Not guns and knives, poison, traps, explosions. We lost every night.
So each sunset after completing their strange flailing rituals, they spilled forth to wreak mayhem.
“Ye’s doin’ it wrong,” Ma said, laying out bandages and fresh bread. “In’cerrect tools fer the job. The bards have the answer. ’Tis wisdom in their songs.”
So we listened. The next night, we ventured forth in protective oven mitts, waving meat tenderizers, pestles, rolling pins.
Time to do … the monster mash.
Day 24 of 31: 100-word Drabbles.
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