The Wee Free Men | A 100 Word Story

#883 | Discworld Series by Terry Pratchett

In the mossy hollow, behind the old church, tiny voices whispered in a language older than stone. Thomas leaned close, certain he’d stumbled on children hiding in the ferns. But no laughter followed, only sharp giggles like knives scraping glass.

Dozens of eyes gleamed from the shadows, small bodies darting too quickly to see. One tugged his bootlace; another nipped his skin. When he tried to run, they swarmed—grinning, biting, pulling him down into the roots.

His screams sank beneath their children’s lullaby, high and shrill, as the ground swallowed him.

At dawn, only his shoes remained, neatly unlaced.

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