I made a few changes (mostly minor) to my entry to Random Heroes' Short Story Contest. If you haven't read it there, this is an updated version, so there's no need to go hunt it down. If you DID read it there, the only major difference is in paragraph two (turns out I couldn't make the changes I wanted without completely changing the structure of the story; that just wouldn't work for me).
Either way, I hope y'all enjoy, and I'll be posting something new soon!
***
John Winterborn looked across the fields of dead vegetation that blanketed his farm. For the past few years, Balor had been plagued with famine. He and his wife were slowly starving, down to the last of their pitiful stores. They were dangerously close to losing everything they had.
Yet John and his wife had never been the kind to let hardship get to them. They hadn’t even given up hope when John had his foot severed earlier that year while plowing his field, hoping for a decent crop this time around. Instead, they rushed to the nearby Temple of Arada, having heard of a healer’s strange powers. Once his foot had grown back, he went right back to work, knowing this year’s crop would be a good one. Clearly, that wasn’t the case, but it helped him through the tough year, anyway. All the times he’d faced hardship in the past, John would just wipe the sweat dripping from his dusty brow and move forward, and this time was no exception.
Looking out over the field from the road, John did wipe his dusty brow, plopped his straw hat, also soaked in sweat from a long day’s journey, back onto his curly black locks, and set off again toward his home and his wife.
On this return trip, started at sun’s early light that morning and ending just now at dusk, John felt accomplished. He’d done what he’d set out to do: save his dying farm. While he thought the last of the goats and one thin cow would help him earn enough money to stay another few months in their home, something even better, something unexpected, had happened.
He’d met a wizened old man, a dusty black tome in one hand and a scythe in the other, who offered the scythe in exchange for the animals. At first, John laughed. What use had he of another scythe? Yet as he looked down at the man, skin dark and leathery with age, hair white with experience, he felt a sense of trust come over him. He would listen to this man, at least to see if he could help such a lonely traveler on such a terribly hot and barren road.
The man croaked, “You may laugh at my offer, but you will not laugh after I’ve told you of its power and shown you what it can do. This is the Scythe of Fate; no ordinary scythe is this.” For the first time, John noticed a faint black aura surrounding the scythe’s blade. “This scythe,” continued the old man, his long-taloned thumb clicking against the scythe’s handle, “can reach into the future and reap what has not yet been sown. Watch.”
The dark man waved the scythe above a shriveled stalk of corn and pulled up a vibrant green stalk full of juicy cobs. John gasped in amazement.
“What kind of magic is this?”
“It is a magic I have rarely encountered in my thousand years, one from the far reaches of Balor. So, do we have a deal?”
John considered for a moment. “Sure.”
As John reached out for the scythe, the man withdrew it quickly, his stern face hardening. “But first, a warning for you: this scythe will reap anything its blade touches. Take care not to touch the blade yourself, and be certain your wife does not touch it as well.”
John only nodded. The old man placed the scythe firmly in John’s hand, and with that, he and the animals disappeared.
Now, John stood on the edge of his property, readying himself for a test swing. What if he’d been made a fool of? How could he return to his wife without some proof? He drew the scythe back, muscles trembling not with effort but nerves, and swung over a dead vine of tomatoes. Just as the mysterious man had done before him, he pulled up a fresh, juicy bunch of crop, red glowing more violet in the fading light.
Victorious, he ran to the house, shouting for his wife.
“Lizzie!” he shouted as he burst through the door.
The beautiful woman, skin white as ivory and hair black as night, started. “John! What are you doing? You nearly gave your little one a heart attack.” She rubbed her bulging womb, calming the life growing inside. She smiled at him.
He plopped the tomatoes on the table.
“What’s this?” she gasped. “Surely you didn’t find this?” She picked one up and bit into the fruit, crimson juice bursting forth and rolling down from the corner of her lip. Her face brightened as she chewed. “This is so good! Have you tried it?” She offered him the fruit.
He bit into it and found himself as ecstatic as she was. Licking their lips after finishing the whole vine, John and Lizzie chuckled. “How’d you get this?” she wondered.
“I ran across an old man who traded our animals for this scythe.” He pointed to the object, which he’d placed against the wall earlier, and Lizzie took in its faint glow, so dark it was visible even in the failing light. “We’re saved, Lizzie; we’re saved! That old man saved us.”
Lizzie walked toward the scythe. “How does it work?”
John bolted up, rushing to protect her from the scythe’s power. In his rush, he dropped the scythe, and its gleaming blade caught Lizzie’s left arm, barely nicking her, but still forming a red slash with a trickle of thick, hot blood seeping out. It rolled down her arm slowly, like the juice of those red, red tomatoes.
Lizzie grabbed not her cut arm, but her womb. The life inside her was writhing, and Lizzie fell to the floor with the pain. Screaming, she kicked and rolled, the pain unbearable.
Then, suddenly, it all stopped. Lizzie wasn’t screaming. John rushed to her side, trying not to think the worst.
As he neared, he saw Lizzie’s body, still pink with life, blood still trickling down her arm, but something was now clutched within those arms. He also noticed that her womb had suddenly shrunk.
Then, Lizzie let out a cry, and John saw why. In her arms was clutched the dead body of their unborn infant. Just like the scythe had reaped what had not yet been sown, now it reaped what was not yet born.
As Lizzie huddled in the corner, wailing over the loss of their child, John knew he had been warned against this very thing. Distraught, John began to cry as well, falling to his knees and pulling at his dark, curly locks. Through blurring, teary eyes, he saw the scythe. He could have lived through famine, but this? He grabbed the scythe and stabbed himself through the heart. As the blood spilled over the blade, he felt a sense of calm. He was going to be with his child.
***
Lizzie walked into the Temple of Arada, clad in a flowing black dress to show her mourning. A wizened old man, skin dark and leathery, with talon-like fingernails and a tome in his hand, greeted her. “A rough path you’ve found to this place, my child, but to find peace, we must simply return to the Seven. What’s your name, child?”
She looked into the dark man’s eyes. “Elizabeth Winterborn
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