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In the old days, monsters had no weaknesses. Vampires did not fear stakes nor crosses. Werewolves did not recoil at the touch of silver. We had no weapons with which to strike back at the darkness. Except for our stories. Our stories made them mortal. Someone spun a yarn that a stake could stop the heart of vampire, and someone else told someone else, until it was true. Maybe it had always been true. Maybe it became true in the telling. We told stories until these monsters were more famous for their weaknesses than for their strengths, until we no longer believed they had ever been real in the first place. And in its own way, that was true too. For that is the way with stories. We cannot be sure when they stop telling the truth, and when they begin to create it.
Short story written by Peter Chiykowski
website twitter facebook instagramStory prompt taken from a photo by Lukas Neasi
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