Short Stories For The Poetic Soul

-The Ghast Tear-

The poor ghast.

Scared eternally, cursed to roam a realm not of their own.

There was once a time, many, many millennia's ago, the ghasts scoured the surface, before being cast into the fire-y pits of this underworldly eternal suffering.

No longer free to roam the skies,  a bedrock ceiling lay above them. Couldn't the those wizards have forced them into the end? Maybe then they wouldn't have been bullied constantly by the skeletons and pathetic players that came their way.

But... the players weren't pathetic. In fact, they where rather helpful.

The ghasts cried for years on end after being thrown into this eternal despair, never once being silent, forever wailing out in agony, crying out, pleading to be released from this eternal prison.

But nobody heard, so they cry eternally, tears staining their faces with the endless flow.

Flying around with octopus tentacles hanging limply, originally made for oceans, never to be used again.

What's that?

Oh! Places everyone! A player is entering the nether!

There they are!

Their skin is rather silly... leather? What are they thinking?

A ghast floating nearby could see this, and watched as the noob approached with great interest.

The ghast shrunk back in terror, opening it's terrifying crimson eyes, hissing at it to get back.

Yet still, the player approaches, but with more caution now, and the ghast has no choice, but to open fire.

With one spit, a fire ball started shooting towards the player.

In their panic, the player swung his sword wildly at the flaming orb, and struck gold.

The fire charge was knocked back to its sender, the ghast seeing its life flash before its eyes, time seeming to slow down.

As it came at the ghast, it gave one last whimper, before saying 'thank you' in its own language, before letting one last tear fall, grateful to be finally free from the torment.

At last... it can be at peace.

The player went to the remains, picking up the tear, unaware of the yearning, pain, and torment it held. Intrigued by the silvery, shiny, polished teardrop.

Putting it away for later use or display, the player carries on, unaware of his own great deed he did for the ghast, now finally free from the curse it had been placed under.