The regular posts in April (thanks to A-Z challenge) brought my blog closer to its name: Daily (w)rite.
I’m by no means a disciplined blogger. I have created a schedule on Amlokiblogs, my writing blog, and let it go to the four winds.
And for this month, life will be a little busier than usual, which means I have to be a clever thief, steal a little time here and there, to get down to what I love doing best, writing.
I used to do picture prompts before, so I’ll attempt one now, to see if I can make my escape in ten minutes before I go to bed, visit unknown people and regions inside my own head:
Roth felt Dagar pressing down on him, the relentless hand pushing into his head, bidding him to kill and get it over with. He would be King, and Dagar would remain the Kingmaker.
Roth knew he could spill a little blood, and win this whole thing. People respect you if you can kill, or fear you. Most people confuse the two, but he knew the difference.
As a child, his grandma had never raised her voice, but he jumped to her requests. He got the crap beaten out of him by his father, often literally, who took Slash to him at the least excuse. Slash left welts all over his back, but strengthened his resolve to punish his father one day, and free grandma from her son’s clutches.
But punishment did not extend to snuffing out a life. Especially if the death led to his ascension, just as it had for all his ancestors. Dagar made sure the son killed the father and enslaved the mother, generation after generation.
But today, in the corner of Roth’s head where no one had even stepped in, not even Roth himself, the first seed of thought had burst open: I will forgive. I will not be King. No King, no Kingmaker, no Dagar.
Amid his blinding anger and hate, the fumes of incense, the chanting of a thousand voices, and the tolling of a million bells, Roth resisted Dagar’s hand.
The knife meant for his father crept towards his own throat: I will not spill any blood save mine.