To anyone reading this short story... Hello! Glad to see you here.
I wrote this with the purpose of practicing both my english and creativity on the spot. I'm too used to planning my writing way longer than needed and I need to be able to come up with ideas in a more spontaneous ways. Good planing is great and all, but stagnating your brain too long on something will make it too, you know?
Whatever comment about my grammar, structure or tips in general are accepted. I won't allow you to tell me "You suck" though... You'll have to tell me why I suck first. Hope to see you on another fable. ;)
Since he was little, a little boy used to go everyday to a meadow surrounded by a ring of trees, where a rusty sword lied with its blade buried in granite. Ever since he found it he always wondered what kind of adventures that weapon came across. Tales of heroism, damsels in distress, dragons and dark knights came to his head. Eventually, the adventures he fantasized became of his own inside his head, he saw himself fighting the mightiest of lords, besting the largest of beasts, kissing the most beautiful maidens, along with his legendary arm.
He promised he would make that sword his one day.
However, he was disinterested on becoming stronger or smarter, all he ever did was to work on his family's farm and daydream the rest of the time. Years passed, yet he still embraced his throne of air, still wimpy, still foolish. His parents were concerned, but they thought it should be fine, as long as he keeps the place in order.
One fateful day when the child, now a grown adult, was plowing the fields, a group of starving bandits dressed in rags came out of the forest to attack the farm. Alarmed, he was about to yell at the top of his lungs as a warning to his family of the incoming danger, but instead he looked as his rake, and his mind dressed it up as a golden polearm, capable of vanquishing even the greatest of foes.
Filled with recklessness he thought was bravery, he brandished his stick of fake fool's gold, and faced the group. They were eight skinny thieves, armed with clubs and branches, too desperate for food to think of anything, they shouldn't had pose any problem.
That's the last thing he remembered before blacking out. His tool killed by accident one of them, the rest ran over him without second thought. When he woke up, the place he once called home was now in ruins, only inhabited by five corpses, three of them lanky, two of them old and armed.
He lived out of the leftovers of his household until the end of his days, haunted by the guilt of trusting himself with prowess he didn't possess. His kingdom didn't protect him, it couldn't protect him.
It was nothing but a kingdom of bark, held together by a rusty sword.