Meliorism, 2nd draft (self-edits). 1000 words precisely.

[AnthonyEden]

This took me a whole week just to figure out how to get going. I'm mostly an intuitive writer. Especially with flash fiction and short stories I tend to just run with it when something hits me, like: Lead with the story within the story, and expand on the core theme of justice.

I changed the tense so it fits throughout the text, and had the Narrator address the reader directly at all times (except for the story-within-the-story). I like it better this way, but I'll let you be the judge. 

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Meliorism

Come. Sit by the fire, and I'll tell you a story.

Once upon a time there was a crossroads, and three figures stood before it, given corporeal form. At the center stood Justice, and to its left was Revenge; to its right, Forgiveness.

Justice asked, "What is Forgiveness, if mortals never forget?"

Forgiveness had no answer.

Justice asked, "What is Revenge, if it comes too late?"

Revenge had no answer.

Justice said, "I shall tell you. Forgiveness is nothing unless its root is forgotten; Revenge is nothing if no one remembers where it stems from."

"And what of you, then?" asked Revenge, dissatisfied with the judgment.

"Yes, what of Justice?" asked Forgiveness.

Justice stood tall, and tilted its chin up. "I am the balancing scales, blind to the mortal measures of origin, creed and status. I care not for mortal constructs. When I mete out my verdict, both of you are satisfied."

"Nonsense!" cried Revenge, "We are never truly satisfied!"

"Hogwash," Forgiveness agreed.

But Justice wasn't done. "Which is why my work is never done, and my reach knows no bounds."

"You sanction genocide, and call it Justice," said Revenge.

"I never!" Justice stood firm. "Mortals do."

"And what about all the moneyed mortals who do more harm than good?" asked Forgiveness. "You think them Just, as well?"

"Not at all," said Justice. "They do."

And so it was, that they agreed to disagree: none of them were more than what mortals made of them, and while Revenge often came too late to serve its purpose, and Forgiveness meant very little on its own, but Justice was worst of them all.

Justice wasn't just blind, but changed its ways to please each mortal: all who spoke of it had their own idea of what it meant.

They say the best place to stumble upon the supernatural is at a crossroads, which is why one should always take extra precautions in case one happens upon such a place. The best time, they say--and by 'they', I mean mortals--to make one's acquaintance with the other side, or indeed any kind of un-mortal kin, is on a Thursday, late at night.

They say so many things.

You're far more likely to find me sitting by the fire, a pipe in my hand, telling you all about the lights that shone across the fields the other day--right before Farmer Andreas' old man up and died. An omen, that was, I'll tell you, and you'll eat up every word, hungry as ever. Ravenous for stories of the bad old days, when trolls walked the mountains and gnomes guarded your homestead; those old, olden times when you'd better think well of Wolf and Bear, or bad things would befall you.

You listen on, as I smack my lips around the mouthpiece, and tell you another story--all on good authority, of course. My old auntie never told a lie, and her cousin, let me tell you, lived to tell this tale. So on, so forth. All laughs and cheering, and the knowing nudges between friends.

Until I tell you about the time the devil came to my hometown, and danced all the young, vibrant, pretty things to death. No one laughs, then. It cuts too close to home, see. Even if you're neither young, nor pretty, it cuts deep. Even if it was a long, long time ago, and no one believes in the devil. He's a symbol for all the other creatures that roam our lands, that come back from the dead to safeguard their dignity or wreak havoc on irresponsible descendants; or vengeful spirits of the woods set on righting an injustice perpetrated against them.

The story is simple: the devil lures the youths of the village to the top of the nearby mountain, where he plays the fiddle. Thereby casting a spell on everyone, enchanting them to dance and dance, until their skin scrapes away, and the flesh tears and tatters beneath the bones of their feet, until there's nothing left of them but death. The devil plays the fiddle so expertly, with such charm and allure, that even when they notice his hoofed feet, or the tail peeking out from under his long cloak, the spell cannot be broken. The beautiful young things keep dancing in blissful horror, until it's all too late, and they can never go back home.

Simple. Easy.

But what the story doesn't tell you, is how the devil wasn't a devil at all, and the wickedness wasn't a mere case of the devil living up to expectations. It's a cautionary tale, of all the wicked things people do, because they're people.

It doesn't tell you about the hundreds, thousands, of illegitimate babies dead in the woods, killed by their own mothers out of fear of repercussions. It doesn't tell you of the darkness, or the helplessness, or the blood spilt over the generations. Nor, indeed, of the ties that bind us--all of us--together.

Sometimes those ties break, and demand justice. Such as an entire generation forfeited as a boon to all those lost children. Some things can never be forgiven, and revenge takes center stage.

But that's where I come in. I smoke my pipe. I play my fiddle. And you pretty little things dance to my tune whether you like it or not. I am tenebrous. I am aeonian.

When I tell stories, people listen, that they may do better. Not just that. Be better. For all of us, dead and buried, or lost and waiting, wandering this world long after our passing.

I am the belief that the world gets better; that mortals can improve the world they live in.

So if you find yourself sat by the fireplace, listening to a white-haired old traveler with a pipe that never runs out, take heed. Listen with every fibre of your body, and be better.

The sun rises, I take my leave. Until next time.