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.

A THIMBLEFUL OF SUGAR

The crows alert me of your coming long before you arrive. Through their eyes, I watch you. Mud spatters you, and your hair carries more twigs than a bird’s nest.

The way to me isn’t easy and you are just a child. You climb over tripping roots and wriggle past strangling vines. Thorny brambles and buzzing insects slow you but a little. 

I put down my sewing and set a kettle to boil.

That’s how you arrive at my door: scratched and dirty, staring up at me with blazing eyes. Your hands are balled into fists, ready to fight. Anger covering the fear I could shut my door in your face.

“Come in,” I say. “Let me make you some tea.”

“What will it cost?” You plant your feet on the threshold and fold your arms.  

The price is different for every visitor, and I never ask for more than can be given.

Blood trickles from a cut on your forehead, dripping from your chin. I whisk the thimble from my thumb and catch a drop. “I’d say you’ve paid enough, wouldn’t you?”

The kettle whistles and you step inside.

Accepted into my shop, my home, you relax a little, taking it—and me—in. The twisted tree-trunk walls, as lined and knobbled as my body. The stacks of dusty teacups and jars lining shelves that follow every bend and curve of the shop. None of them have labels—I know their contents as well as I know myself. You lift your nose, sniff the air, and wince. 

Too many smells mix—cinnamon and garlic, sea holly and lavender—for it to be pleasant. 

“You really got a tea for anything?” You’re not one for chitchat.

I lift my kettle from the heat. “Some say so. It depends.”

“I want a tea for my family.” The words spill out in a rush. “To make them love me.”

“Ah.” I gather jars—mugwort, peppermint, sugar—and add a thimbleful from each to a teapot. “Changing the minds of others isn’t something I do.” Milk thistle. Chicory. I pour in the boiled water. “Do you think they’d love you better if they were stoats? Physical transformation is easy.”

You chew your lip as if it’s an idea worth considering. “A tea to change me, then.”

“Do you want to be a stoat?” You shake your head. “Choose a teacup.” Some agonise over that choice, you grab the closest you can reach.

I pour your tea. The pot weighs heavy in my stiff hands.

You take a sip and immediately spit. “That’s so bitter.”

“So’s the truth, sometimes.” I lower myself to a stool and pick up the sock I was darning. 

You stare into your cup for a long moment, then take a gulp. This time, you swallow it all down. 

“There’s a bit of sweet,” you say. 

I let you go without another word.

You close my door behind you, but open it again, sign in hand. Tea Shop: Apprentice Wanted.

Aggie lives with her wife by the beach in Australia, where she spends most of her time hiding from the sun and heat. She writes around studying for her pharmacy degree and entertaining her three dogs. She loves all kinds of speculative fiction and often draws inspiration from Slavic folklore and mythology. When not writing she can be found drinking tea and reading everything in sight. Her published works can be found in Hexagon, Flash Fiction Online and more! For the full list see http://aggienovak.com

If you enjoyed this story you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash 2023 anthology.

AVAILABLE HERE!

 

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 BREAK UP

This is our anniversary: six months ago we said goodbye. I haven’t seen you since, though you may have seen my iridescent eyes peering through your ivy. Your blue hatchback is angled in your driveway, but I don’t know why you need the car; if I was still with you I’d lend you my wings. Go soaring with you over the birch trees, into the neighbour’s garden. I feel sad when I think this way, and ponder your roof: should I climb onto it, curling my tail around your chimney? My scales could blend in with your slates.

You won’t answer my fire-messages. I wish you would. I wish you would tell me why you wanted a dog for a pet, and not a dragon.

Colleen Addison completed a Master’s degree in English and Creative Writing; she then did a PhD in health information and promptly got sick herself. Now she lives, writes, and heals on a small island off the coast of Vancouver, Canada. She has been published in Halfway Down the Stairs, Flash Fiction Friday, and 50 Word Stories, as well as nominated for a Best of the Net Award. 

https://www.facebook.com/colleen.addison.5

If you enjoyed this drabble you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash 2023 anthology.

AVAILABLE HERE!

 

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 COST OF PEACE

It was lonely, being a god.

Walking out over a restless sea, he could feel it in every step. The emptiness, the aching, the gaping chasm of a soul too far gone from reality. The feeling of having possessed so much, for so long, that he had been corroded from the inside out. Broken from the weight of his world.

From the horrifying knowledge that no one else in it ever really existed.

Not like he did.

There were mortals, of course, but how could humanity compare to him? A life that ended in the blink of an eye couldn’t save a god from isolation. Certainly, it couldn’t save a god from himself.

It didn’t matter now, though, he knew, as the sky above him threatened a storm. The air felt as he did—untethered and unbalanced, a promised respite nearly within reach, but not without a cost. It rumbled over him as he walked farther and farther from shore, his body growing weaker with every passing moment.

When the storm finally broke, what would it feel like?

His steps faltered, the last of his power fading into nothingness. It was his own fault, he knew; it had consumed him, and he had let it, believing nothing could hurt a god.

For all his ability and knowledge, he was nothing compared to that slow corruption. In the end, his power grew too large to sustain, and devoured itself, leaving an empty shell behind, a god in name only.

Slowly, he began to sink, just as the first drops fell from the sky. Where he had expected a raging torrent, reality brought only a soft drizzle caressing his skin. The wind, that had so recently whipped and thrashed around him, disappeared, leaving only the sound of waves as they enveloped his ancient body.

Freezing water surrounded the once god, yet he felt no fear. The little light left above him evanesced while he drifted, ears ringing as the darkness took him. Allowing himself the smallest smile, he embraced the numbing void.

He had been alone his entire existence—what was nothingness compared to that?

No pain found him. No dread gripped his heart.

Maybe it was even peaceful.

Yet, how could one differentiate peace from loneliness?

Loneliness came with life, at least for a god. It was the one thing he envied about mortals—their existence, though short and meaningless, was filled with love. Companionship. Their lives were shared, unlike his.

And peace?

Closing his eyes, sinking to the icy depths, he knew.

For a god, peace came with death.

G. C. Taylor grew up in the mountains of northern Utah, where she found a love of reading and writing at an early age. After three years in the Japanese countryside, she now resides on the east coast with her partner, primarily writing horror and fantasy stories. In addition to writing, she makes time to embroider, practice judo, and dabble in photography and printmaking.

If you enjoyed this drabble you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash 2023 anthology.

AVAILABLE HERE!