text: “As a boy, he would have been found exploring the woods around his village, climbing the oaks and pines. In the upper most branches, where the wind swayed the tree and solid footing was a distant memory, he would look to the great mountain in the distance. Taller than even the highest tree in his forest, he yearned to one day see the world looking down from it. Every chance to slip away from his parents was taken, his hunger for adventure insatiable. Headstrong and brimming with the energy of a child yet to understand the harsh realities of the world, he would explore until long after supper. Gladly he weathered his mother’s yelling, as well as whatever blunt object was near his father when he came back. Never one to learn his lesson, back in the forest he would be the next day, searching for nothing and everything. Of course, boys have to grow up. As he became older, more responsibilities were thrust on him. He had to chop wood, start the fire, tend to the livestock, and make sure his father’s inn was presentable. Though he couldn’t explore as much as he had as a child, his father’s occupation gave him plenty of opportunity to meet all kinds of travelers, and promptly berate them with questions. With every story his need to see the world grew, and again he would look to the mountain and wonder about its secrets. He saw it so often he felt he knew it as one knows an old friend... that is until one day, when he looked to the mountain to see that something had changed. He couldn’t quite place why, or what had changed, but for the first time in his life he looked to that mountain with something other than longing. Now, it was unease that he felt. Something was different, was wrong, and he didn’t know what. Time passed and soon he found himself on the cusp of manhood, working almost all day to help his father. With less and less time for himself, his adventures dwindled, happening only on the rare occasion when little needed to be done. One day, when the urge to go back into the woods became too strong to resist, he fled his responsibilities and went deep into his forest. Years had passed since he’d come this far, but it felt familiar, like he was visiting home after a long trip away. Again he found himself climbing, higher than any sane person dared, and looking. Taking in the world that he was able to see and dreaming of what he couldn’t. All day he stayed there, and felt truly happy. Unfortunately, it would be one of the last times he felt such childlike wonder. All through the night he stayed up there, looking to the stars. Until something caught his eye. A flicker of orange, from the direction of his village. A flicker that grew, and lit up the night. As it spread his horror grew, and he scrambled down the tree. By the time he made it back, it was too late. Something had come through his home, and destroyed everyone and everything he had ever known. Still numb from his loss, he gathered what supplies he could. He walked, stopping and working for food when he had to, and kept walking. Through great mountain ridges and across sprawling plains, traversing a continent more beautiful than he had ever imagined. Eventually he found himself in a city unlike any he had seen before, home to an emperor and grand architecture older than time. Here, he finally discovered what had happened. In taverns he dug up the rumors from sailors and merchants alike, some sort of monster had descended from its great stone dwelling, and was destroying everything in its path. Obsessed, he never stopped asking about the beast, trying to learn as much about it as he could. Eventually, he stumbled upon a scholar who claimed to have the knowledge necessary to defeat this monster through some ancient text, and found a renowned fighter willing to teach him. Day in and day out he trained, obsessed to the point of what most would consider insanity, until he became a great warrior and was prepared to kill this monstrosity that had destroyed his life, and his home. No longer a boy, the man left the city. Back to his village he went, the charred remains a skeleton of his youth. One final time, his forest called to him. Again he climbed the branches, and again he looked to the mountain. In his eyes one would see grim determination, a smoldering anger that had built for years. Finally, he would climb the mountain. And climb he did, higher than any before him. He was a force of sheer will, and he did not rest until he found that creatures’ home. Inside of a massive cavern he met the great beast, a source of unfathomable pain and anguish to those it had killed, and even more so to those it hadn’t. Here, man and monster fought. Here, our hero slays the source of his torment, exacting his revenge. The battle came at a cost, however. Mortally wounded and weary beyond belief, the hero crawled out of the cave and propped himself up against the mountain. The mountain that was now his. Before him lay a view he could never have imagined. He saw the valley of his youth, sprawling forests and sapphire rivers cutting through the trees. He wondered how many of those trees he had climbed, looking to this mountain. There, on the edge of eternity, he finally found the peace that had eluded him for so long. A smile spread across his face, and he closed his eyes.” “That’s it”, the son asked, “He dies?” “Yes.” The father replied. “But the hero always lives” Sighing, the father says, “That’s because the hero’s that die often have trouble telling others their tale” “Then how do you know this story?” The son replied. “I once heard-” “I mean, how could a story about someone who died alone possibly be real?” Glaring at his son, the father replies, “You ask too many damn questions. Now eat your dinner and be quiet.” Later that night, the father stood alone behind the bar of his inn. He polished the gleaming wood, engrossed completely in his thoughts. They swirled around in his head, dark and unyielding. His father before him had given him this inn and he ran it to the best of his ability, which turned out to be very good. The man grabbed a glass and stared into it, sighing. He’d found success, at least in the monetary sense, throughout his life and his kids wouldn’t have to worry about much when they came of age. These things should make him happy, as they would most men. Instead he feels like the empty glass in his hands. As a glass should be filled with drink, so too should he have been filled with adventures. Always the road had called to him, and always he had allowed responsibility to stop his feet. Sometimes, late at night when all the world was asleep and none could hear, he secretly wished a beast had come to his village. He wishes to feel the branches beneath him one more time, a final glance to the mountain, a dream of adventure in his heart. Note: This is pretty much the first short story I've ever written. Decided to post it on here because I'd love to hear some honest feedback from people who aren't friends and family. I have personal things I don't like about the story, but I would love to hear some constructive feedback from you guys. Feel free to be as brutal as you like.