I remember when we first came by the cottage at the end of the stream on my way to our village. I imagined there was a witch inside brewing some toadish stew. Maybe there was a big green ogre who just wanted to live his life in peace.
My paintings of the place became my solace. When the world was cruel, I imagined locking the offenders into that house.
I drew them inside – locked with fires rising within. None of them survived.
Now that my power has grown. I needn’t draw them anymore. All thanks to the cottage.
(It’s that time again. Friday Fictioneers! Join us or die!… or not. It’s fun, though! The writing part, not the dying part. :P)