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Wordler 388 tucked herself into a trembling ball. The air had started to grow chill as soon as she’d entered the canyons. Now, a wind of razor-sharp icicles seemed to tear through her thin jacket to slash the skin from her bones.
The light was dying. Somewhere behind the trees, the sun was going down.
“Must keep moving,” she told her legs, but her quivering limbs held no hope of supporting her weight. “I can still do this. I just need a little more time.”
“Not a scattering of photons,” proclaimed a crow on an overhead branch.
“Not strength and power,” said another.
388 groaned. “The Rhyme Zone. I should have known.”
More crows arrived.
“Not vision.”
“Not a number.”
“Not a battle.”
“Not a ghost.”
Even more crows arrived, and they chorused and jeered at 388 as the light continued to dim.
“Here it comes,” 388 whispered. “Other Wordlers have gotten to this point, where all seems dark, and a last-minute epiphany has delivered the Word that’s saved our village. It will happen for me, too. If I just need to keep my faith. If I just—”
The last bit of sunlight vanished like a dying candle. Under a blanket of stars, the crows of the Rhyme Zone held a feast.
⬛⬛⬛⬛🟩
⬛🟨🟨⬛⬛
⬛🟩🟩🟩🟩
⬛🟩⬛⬛⬛
⬛🟩🟩🟩🟩
⬛🟩🟩🟩🟩
Art and Text ©2022 Greg R. Fishbone
Use #WordleQuest tag to share works using daily Wordle answers as prompts.
