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.
RED BLOSSOMS
They heard the news and came to dance.
At first, disbelief flowed behind the initial news like a wave, spreading from tree to tree in whispers of leaf and branch: The humans of Key West wish to honor us! Disbelief because so many of their sisters, cousins, and other relatives had perished at the hands of the magic-blind two-leggeds, lives cut mercilessly short, bodies turned into everything from housing to furniture to sawdust and toothpicks. This one’s elder aunt died so that a family from Miami could have their “dream home.” That one’s grandmother gave way to a wider path for the humans’ smelly, deadly vehicles. Dryads could do little to stop the carnage. They raged and mourned impotently.
Yet with disbelief came hope, that perhaps some among the humans might be learning to see the spaces between the spaces, the sacred within the sacred, the liminal glitters that often only appear elusively out of the corner of one’s eye. That perhaps some among them might learn to honor those who came before and take their proper places in the dance of all beings.
In the name of that hope they came, stepping cautiously from their trees, some for the first time ever. Making their careful way from tree to tree, shadow to shadow, they arrived at the party.
And saw that it was true! Humans wore the red flowers of the poinciana for decoration, and were raising money—that funny leaflike stuff that no dryad ever truly understood—to help preserve at least that lineage. It was at least a beginning.
The dryads came, mingled, and danced, in gowns woven from starlight and tree bark, wearing garlands and headdresses made from their leaves and flowers. A discerning eye might observe that not all of the magical beings were poincianas. Scattered amongst them like flowers in a hurricane were gumbo limbo, mangrove, and the occasional palm with hair spikes sticking out almost randomly. Each person they danced with seemed to step a bit more easily afterward, with a light like leaf-dappled sun in their eyes. None knew who these unearthly, uninvited beings were, but a bit of don’t look here magic kept questions from being asked.
So many humans were also clad in flowers and greenery that even a discerning eye might have had difficulty telling the difference between dryad and human. Such was the magic of the evening.
When the music and festivities ended, the dryads took their quiet leave, and departed back to their trees, leaving the blessings of root, branch, and flower in their wake. Planting seeds of art, music, compassion, of bountiful harvests, and of future dances in the minds and hearts of the gathered attendees.
Many of whom found unexpected scatterings of red poinciana blossoms outside their homes later that night, and for days to come.
Loren has lived in several places in the US, including VT, NY, CA and FL, before retiring to Panama. His Day Jobs covered many occupations, his last as a technical writer. Loren also spent 20 years as a performing songwriter, releasing six albums and performing from California to Key West. Loren now writes short fiction, gardens, and enjoys retirement. His short fiction has been published in places including the Bigfoot Country and Alternative Liberties anthologies, and Every Day Stories.
If you enjoyed this story you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash 2023 anthology.
Iron Faerie Publishing 