Welcome to this week’s installment of many micro stories, ranging in length from 100 words to 500 words.
With each story we hope to deliver a little whimsy into the lives of our readers.
THE HUNT
“We do the same thing every time,” Cullen complained, kicking at a tuft of grass, his ruffled wheatsheaf hair bouncing. “We never find anything new.”
Alden pulled the leather-bound book from his pack. “Make yourself busy, young master,” he said, handing the book to the boy. Sighing, Cullen pulled out a piece of charcoal from his pocket and began a fresh tally, each black mark representing one of the dozens of charred bodies strewn across the frost-glazed field.
“I still think it’s a dragon,” he remarked.
Alden shook his head. Thin strands of silver glinted in the dusk light amongst the rest of his rugged hair. “Unlikely.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it is unlikely.” He drew a few long, deep breaths in through his nose, searching the frigid, smoke-laden air for an alien scent.
“We’re no closer to finding out what it is, are we?”
Alden dropped to his knees, deftly examining the grass with his fingertips. But there was nothing: no hint of footprints, claw marks, hoof marks…anything.
“No,” he admitted.
Cullen flapped his arms at his sides, his tan cloak, about a foot too long, twirling about his slender figure. “People couldn’t have done this…could they?”
Alden climbed to his feet, his face betraying a hint of amusement. “I don’t believe so.”
“Not even a group of people?”
“Not even a group.”
“Besides, we would have surely encountered this band of mad, fire-wielding humans by now!”
“Ah, Tristan,” Alden hailed. “I was beginning to wonder of your whereabouts.”
Cullen stiffened as Tristan approached, grass crunching under his leather boots, a wry grin spread across his face. He surveyed the smoking remains keenly before bending down to the ground, his pale leggings blending with the iced grass.
“As with your dragon,” Tristan continued, “I know of no mere human that can burn every inch of skin on a man’s body, yet spare their clothing.” He tugged on a dead soldier’s helm. The scalp separated from the skull with a thick, elastic slurp, like fat peeling from meat.
“Neither armour nor clothing has suffered even the slightest mark, yet the flesh beneath is melted,” he declared, examining the oozing mess of red and yellow welded to the metal. “It’s impressive.”
Tossing the helm aside, Tristan rose to his feet, brushing the frost from his knees. He stepped back, surveying the expanse of green and red. “No, young master – no human could have accomplished this.”
Cullen watched Tristan intently, noticing the almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. The flash of amber that ringed his green irises for the briefest of moments. The saliva that slicked his lips.
Heart racing and stomach pitting, he recalled the fables he’d been told in his childhood of demons disguised as companions, of the subtle signs of such deceptions oft overlooked by grown men distracted by the demands of everyday toils.
Tristan switched his gaze to Cullen, eyes flashing in the fading light. “What’s your second-best guess?” he asked, grinning.
Software engineer by day and avid reader and writer of Science Fiction, Horror and Fantasy by night, Cassandra loves nothing more than the challenge of crafting stories that take readers on journeys that stay with them long after they’ve finished reading. She takes inspiration from a plethora of talented wordsmiths, from household names to the up-and-coming authors featured in the many short story anthologies lining her shelves. She lives in Northern Ireland with her partner and their dog, Evie.
If you enjoyed this story you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash 2023 anthology.
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