Poisoned

Today’s post is based on a writing prompt I shared in a previous Daily Drafts & Dialogues post. Keep reading to see what I wrote, and to access more writing prompts.

What I wrote below is based on the following writing prompt: Write a fictional scene in which someone is poisoned. 

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He had ridden his horse for nearly two days across rocky and hilly terrain in inclement weather to get to his sister’s abuser’s shack by the edge of the sea, fully intending to stick the bastard and watch him bleed out like the pig he was. But someone else had clearly reached the depraved soul first—whether his or the murdered man’s soul, he wasn’t yet sure—saving him the burden of having to commit a mortal sin to defend his sister’s honor. He was certainly no coward, but never had the appropriate temperament for hell either. 

At dawn, he had kicked the bastard’s door in, ready for deadly blows, only to be greeted by a dying fire in the hearth and a motionless body lying in a pool of vomit and blood next to it. Having, unfortunately, encountered such a gruesome scene before, he knew the wretch he was to kill had already been killed before he arrived. Poisoned. And not long before he had arrived at the shack, as signified by the dying fire. 

But by whom? 

Who was the poisoner? 

Were they friend or foe? 

He smoothed his blade against the whetstone, slowly and methodically as if in a trance, half-heartedly regretting he hadn’t been able to use it the night before. He couldn’t show his face to his mother and father now. Not unless he could spin a good yarn that would cast him as the chivalrous hero after all. A tale he was still working on, as he readied himself for his next battle, which was sure to be a stringent battle of wits, for which he wasn’t quite prepared. 

Everyone knew, especially him, that poison was the choice weapon of cunning, devious women and aristocrats alone. True men, or so he was always told, preferred to use blades and fire. Which meant that the deserving victim was likely more important and better connected to society than the stable hand everyone in the country believed him to be. Which also meant that he would have to find more clues as to who the victim was. Was he a spy? A noble’s bastard wanting more authority and a huge sum? A wicked sod running away from husbandly duties? 

While others would have rejoiced in his current position, along with the adventure and potential recognition it would bring, he approached his current circumstance with much trepidation. He never wanted this or asked for this. He had no true desire to hunt down glory and fame to this extent, and ardently wished he could rid himself of his current predicament. 

As of yet the only hint he had as to the poisoner’s identity was contained in his pocket. For in his front pocket was the pocket watch that he had removed from the deceased’s mouth, on which was engraved a set of coordinates with the phrase, “Always Choose Your Own North.”

[Write what happens next and share what you come up with in a subscriber chat thread below.]

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© All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton and Creighton’s Compositions LLC. The above work is a piece of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Today’s Writing Prompt