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.

EVASION OF PRIVACY

The wind howled and whistled over the hammering rain as three surviving highwaymen of a gang of five, charged towards a small wooden structure in the middle of the woods with a soaked roof glistening in the moonlight. They barged in without knocking or calling to anyone who might be inside. They slammed the door shut and all three of them leaned against it, puffing with exhaustion.

“I thought they were a myth,” one of them desperately gasped, before pushing away from the door and grabbing a nearby lantern. He looked back to their leader who shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Don’t light that. She’ll see us.”

“You don’t think she’ll already suspect we’re hiding in the only cabin for miles?”

“More than suspect, if its lit.”

“Aye,” he conceded, putting the lantern back down.

“There’s hardly space in here to fight,” the leader said, gesturing the man next to him over to the window while he kept his own back against the door.

The other looked about in the dark and tripped on a raised mat, hitting the floor. Beyond the slop of his soaked cloak, his thud against the wooden boards yielded three sounds of interest; an echo beneath, the jostling of a trapdoor, and the rattling of iron. Pushing aside the frayed matt, he felt about until his fingers found a metal ring in a recess.

Before he could announce his discovery, the window smashed. A burst of wind and rain rushed in as the man by the window was snatched out into the night.

“She’s here,” the leader of the now two-man gang yelled.

“Quick,” his only remaining subordinate offered, lifting the trap door.

The leader pulled it shut behind them, muffling the sound of the elements breaching the cabin above. They descended the stairs into a crimson-lit cave of a basement. A selection of small chests surrounded the edges while an odd, glazed-looking candle of both red wax and frank red flame sat on a small table near the concerning centerpiece; an open coffin.

With nowhere else to venture, they made their way to it.

“Full of dirt,” the bandit leader said, scooping a handful of the dried earth bed within.

“Seems as though anywhere but here would have been the best place to run,” the other brigand said.

The floor above them creaked, turning their gazes upwards.

A cunning thought occurred.

“Let’s rush her,” the subordinate said. “It’s our only chance.”

“Together,” the leader agreed.

They stormed up the stairs, through the trap door, into the cabin where the creature of the night was poised, ready to address their doomed assault. Without hesitation, they let out a battle cry before charging ahead, storming past her and out the front door, into the woods instead.

As they ran through the rain, they looked at each other, surprised, confused, and betrayed. Each intending the other as bait. The leader squinted angrily.

“What?” the insubordinate subordinate puffed. “At least you don’t have to feel guilty now.”

Barend Nieuwstraten III grew up and lives in Sydney, Australia, where he was born to Dutch and Indian immigrants. He has worked in film, short film, television, music, and online comics. He is now primarily working on a collection of stories set within a high fantasy world, a science fiction alternate future, as well as a steampunk storyverse, often dipping his toes in horror in the process. With over twenty short stories published in anthologies, he continues to work on short stories, stand-alone novels, and an epic series.

A discovery writer not knowing what will happen when he begins typing, he endeavours to drag his readers on the same unknown journey through the fog of his subconscious.

https://www.facebook.com/Barend3Author 

https://twitter.com/Barend3Author 

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20713313.Barend_Nieuwstraten_III

https://barend3.blogspot.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.

FLORA, FAUNA, AND FLEEING

Leon wedged a wooden chair into the door, jamming it under the handle, before quickly pushing a table towards the cabin’s only window. Chasing him through the woods, the wolves were hungry, but he wasn’t entirely convinced they were at the point of hurling themselves through glass. In the panic, however, it just seemed safer to have it ready to hold over the window, should they change their minds.

He lent on the table and caught his breath, while the wolves circled the cabin in the dwindling daylight. They’d shifted from howling and growling to huffing and moaning. He looked about at his surroundings. A fireplace, a woodpile, a bed, a single shelf holding a solitary large tome. At least he’d have something to read until the beasts outside caught a whiff of some other poor soul. Likely some woodland creature incapable of locking itself inside some cabin it discovered.

Biding his time, Leon flipped through the large book by the fireplace. Filled with pressed flowers, it seemed an album of flora. Though emaciated and flattened, he was surprised they retained their bright colours and beauty. The wolves outside seemed to murmur and whine, shuffling in the fallen leaves outside until the door handle clicked. The door jostled but could not open.

Leon was in a bind. Someone was at the door. Someone the wolves didn’t seem interested in eating for some reason. Someone who wasn’t using words to get past the chair-locked door. Someone who was brushing up against the door, likely pressing an ear against it.

Leon squinted in contemplation, twisting his face as he wrestled with his options; answer the door and see who, or indeed what, was there, or jump out the window and return to running from wolves and possibly someone who was on far friendlier terms with those wolves. Looking to the window, it merely reflected the hearth-lit cabin. Night had fallen some time ago. The wolves would have him at quite the disadvantage. 

Soon Leon found himself leaning at the door, still clutching the large album of squashed flower heads for some reason, with his own ear against the wood. He heard heavy breathing. Knowing not what else to do, he knocked on the door from the inside. With the window serving only those on the other side of it, there seemed little reason to pretend to not be there.

The heavy breathing stopped for a moment. Then an inquisitive growl issued from the other side.

“Ah, not human, I gather,” Leon found himself saying aloud. “Tell you what. I’ll unjam the door on the count of three. One,” he said, before sneaking over to open the window. “Two.” The book went on the chair, and the chair was pulled away. “Three.” He said, running to the table, over it, and out the window.

From the sound of it, the wolves and their much larger friend, burst through the door. But Leon was far too intent on never looking back to ever confirm.

Barend Nieuwstraten III grew up and lives in Sydney, Australia, where he was born to Dutch and Indian immigrants. He has worked in film, short film, television, music, and online comics. He is now primarily working on a collection of stories set within a high fantasy world, a science fiction alternate future, as well as a steampunk storyverse, often dipping his toes in horror in the process. With over twenty short stories published in anthologies, he continues to work on short stories, stand-alone novels, and an epic series.

A discovery writer not knowing what will happen when he begins typing, he endeavours to drag his readers on the same unknown journey through the fog of his subconscious.

https://www.facebook.com/Barend3Author 

https://twitter.com/Barend3Author 

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20713313.Barend_Nieuwstraten_III

https://barend3.blogspot.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.

FATHOMLESS

In the murky depths, he could just about see it coming. The sheen of slick black and stark streaks of white cutting through the dark water at impossible speed. A giant of the deep. His most natural predator. The orca, a lone young bull who had been hunting him for hours now, was starting to gain on him. Oisín could already imagine the orca’s maw opening and swallowing him whole. He tried not to give into panic. The same panic he had felt when he was separated from his kin, mere days ago. But he knew that once the orca’s teeth clamped around his tail it would be all over. He could already feel phantom teeth marks against his skin.

His seal skin used to mean so little to him back when it was sandy brown and dappled. He had traded it in for one more befitting him, a sleek, dark grey, not long after he had realised he was a boy. To a selkie, their coat was their most valued treasure. But for Oisín finding one that at last made him feel like himself had made it all the more precious.

As he propelled himself through the water, he sensed the orca gaining. Oisín was a fast swimmer, but not the fastest of his clan. Memories of the last moment when he had seen them all, rocked through his mind. He remembered his own teeth clamped around taut rope as he had thrashed with all his might. He and his kin had been fighting to free a humpback whale caught in a whaler’s net.

Humpback whales had always been kind to him and his people. To selkies and ordinary seals alike they were considered a friend. But as this one, the matriarch of her pod, had kicked herself free, Oisín had found himself propelled by the tide of her tail fin far away from his clan. At least if he died now alone at sea, he would know that his final act, which had led him down this unfortunate path had been a good one.

As he felt the first brush of the orca’s teeth against his tail, his heart pumped faster. This most certainly would be the end of him. But then he heard it. A song, haunting and beautiful. A vast mass of grey blurred his vision. Oisín blinked, and the mass came into focus. It was the humpback whale. She had found him. And she now blocked the orca’s way. Oisín stared at these two titans of the deep braced against each other.

He couldn’t fault the orca for hunting him. He supposed to every fish he caught in his jaws, he was a monster too. But as the humpback whale came to his aid, Oisín could only be thankful, as luck won out over nature this day. He turned away from the giants behind him to face the endless sea and resumed his journey to find his kin.

Robert Kelly, is a trans writer from Northern Ireland who writes both fantasy and horror. He was a runner-up for the Irish Writers Centre Novel Fair 2022 and his fiction has appeared in the United Faedom Publishing anthology Love Like This and the Dragon Soul Press anthologies To Hunt and to Hold, Magick & Mystery and Rogue Waves. He enjoys writing stories that focus on finding the strange and supernatural in the ordinary, our relationship with nature and centre around LGBTQ+ characters in fantasy settings.

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.

SACRIFICE

The wailing cries of the dead surround me, ice cold fingers groping, tearing at my dress, digging their grave dirt nails into my flesh. The God who watches with cold, golden eyes impassively at the ant colony we call Earth turns its hungry gaze upon me as I chant the words to bring about my apotheosis. I hold the ceremonial dagger in one hand and a book in another. Centuries ago, the worshippers of the Old Ones had bound it in human flesh, flayed from the still living sacrifices. They made ink from their blood and wrote the ancient words in an impossible tongue.

            Love requires sacrifice, and to feel her in my arms once more, I’d give the Old Ones the world itself. Her name is etched in the grave before me, the vibrant life attached to it reduced to cold, grey letters on dreary stone.

            “Hjila henaoba B’alant Nok!” I shout above the wailing din and wind so fast it tore away my breath. “K’nath’uhl, The Watcher in the Sky and Guardian of the Dead, I invoke you. Grant me your power so that I may restore and join the one I love. I give you my eyes in exchange.” Without hesitation, I stab it into one eye and then the other, screaming in agony as the world plunges into absolute darkness and silence. I fall backwards into the dead grass with a gasp, viscous fluid dripping from my now empty sockets. The groping hands of the dead no longer tear into me, and all I can hear is my own agonized breathing.

            Then I hear her voice, and it’s like the first birds of spring. “My bride?” It was her voice. Her lovely voice that I thought I’d never hear again, and my only regret for cutting out my eyes is that I couldn’t see her face.

            I wish I could see her, to once more gaze into those deep brown eyes, braid her raven hair, and trace the red cupid’s bow of her lips. “Is it really you?”

            “I think so,” she replies, and a hand appears on my face. It doesn’t feel like her hand. Where her hands are soft and warm, this is cold and slimy, like a raw steak. Something shifts under her skin before burrowing into mine. “I’ve wanted to sleep by your side for a long time. Come, we’ll rest in my bed.”

            A hand wraps around my foot and pulls before I can even think to struggle against it. And then I’m falling. I land on top of something hard and my ribs crunch, making every breath agony. “No,” I cry, struggling to get away from her unnaturally strong grip. She pulls me into her casket, and the smell of decay and formaldehyde fills my nose, making me cough. The top of the casket closes above us, and she holds me close as the sound of dirt patters from above.

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.

JUDGEMENT ARM

“Aren’t you excited?” The female next to me squealed.

My palms were clenched into fists, fear chattered my teeth. No, I was not. I turn my head, not wanting to be taken for a heretic.

The conveyor belt jerked us forward. A few yelps of surprise radiated from behind me. We’re next.

A swivel of the Judgment Arm startled us. The red eye narrowed. I close my eyes simultaneous to the zapping bolt, sensing the molten heat against my skin. Glancing down, I see the pile of dust beside me. She was chosen to be reborn and I, to live.

Jay D. Falcetti (she/her) is a biracial indigenous writer who grew up on a small reservation in northern Arizona and currently resides in Washington with her family. You can find her and where her short stories are published on Instagram @jdfalcetti. Jay D. Falcetti is a pen name.

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.

MOON’S CHILD

The golden moon’s swollen belly hangs low over the trees. Wind stirs the branches, rustling brown and red leaves from their slumber. I call to the moon, and the moon calls to me. We are one.

Wiry gray hair sprouts along my arms and legs. My teeth and spine elongate. Like the tides of the oceans, the moon pulls me, molds me, remakes me. I shed my humanity like an old, worn jacket. I am born anew.

I run through the tall trees, wild and free.

I call to the moon, and the moon calls to me. We are one.

Sarah EA Hart is an Autistic and disabled writer who loves examining the underbelly of society and looking for the cracks of light under which forgotten people flourish. She is in her final year of Emerson College’s MFA program in Popular Fiction Writing & Publishing. She lives in Virginia with her husband and their cats. You can find her on Instagram (https://www.instagram.com/authorsaraheahart) and on her author website (www.saraheahart.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.

GLAISTIG

Eimhir had always disliked her old-fashioned name, but she hadn’t expected her name would tie her so closely to Scottish legends. Who murders a woman and stuffs them up a chimney, like the glaistig of yore?

Her boyfriend, apparently.

Ex-boyfriend, more accurately.

She also wasn’t expecting him to move on so quickly. But there he was, with a new woman in tow.

Eimhir willed herself into the woman’s phone. She shrieked, “murderer,” startling them both.

Thankfully, the woman understood the danger and immediately called the authorities.

Eimhir suspected she’d soon be free of her ex, as well as this world.

Dawn Vogel has written for children, teens, and adults, spanning genres, places, and time periods. More than 100 of her stories and poems have been published by small and large presses. Her specialties include young protagonists, siblings who bicker but love each other in the end, and things in the water that want you dead. She is a member of SFWA and Codex Writers. She lives in Seattle with her awesome husband (and fellow author), Jeremy Zimmerman, and their cats. Visit her at historythatneverwas.com, on BlueSky @historyneverwas, and on Instagram @scarywhitegirl12.

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.

SOMETHING OLD

The perfect scene: gurgling brook, sunlight sparkling on tiny wavelet crests. A gentle breeze carrying scents of pinewood forest, roses from the bride’s bouquet.

New flowers. Pale blue veil. Dress borrowed from her sister. Nothing old, except the crones among the attendees that claimed it bad luck.

Nothing could be further from the truth, she thought, joining her husband-to-be.

Screaming began. The bride turned. The angry spirit of her long dead father. He ranted incoherently as he often did in reality, drunk on alcohol and ego. He lunged, ripping into her chest. She looked down as white lace turned crimson.

Kellee Kranendonk has spent a lifetime writing in New Brunswick, Canada. According to her late grandfather she was born with a pen in one hand and paper in the other. She’ll probably die the same way. In lieu of pen and paper, she’s pounded out many stories on her laptop, several of which have been published (or to be published), received honourable mentions, and have been long/short listed. Some of her pieces were to appear in a school book project, though that didn’t pan out. Her work has appeared in a best selling anthology, and Polar Borealis, an award-winning magazine. For nine years, Kellee was the editor Youth Imagination and a children’s magazine prior to that. She has also managed online writers’ groups. Additionally, Kellee’s debut novel “In the End” is available on Amazon (.ca and .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.

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 LYNNEWOOD GAME

A haunted mansion with 110 rooms, twelve contestants, and $1 million. Stay inside the longest, and you win. Food and drink are provided. No violence allowed. Any contestant can withdraw at any time.

            Welcome to The Lynnewood Game.

            It was touted as the scariest TV show in the world. Thousands applied. Twelve received blood-red invitations in the mail and booked it to Lynnewood Hall in Pennsylvania. Filming wrapped in two months. The entire first season was set to drop on Halloween.

            While millions of kids were out Trick-or-Treating, horror enthusiasts binge-watched the show. During the first episode, all twelve contestants were introduced. Alliances were formed, boundaries set, rivalries planted. All twelve made it through the first week. By the middle of episode 2, none of the contestants had any reason to leave. No spooky noises, no flashing lights, no midnight apparitions.

            That’s when the first disappearance occurred. Dorothy Maher, 72, a retired mortician from St. Louis. Everybody was baffled. Did she withdraw and leave her husband, Russell, in the lurch? Did she get lost? A day-long search by the other contestants yielded nothing… except another disappearance. Winnie Wyn, 27, a collegiate from the West Coast.

            Panic set in. Some contestants tried to withdraw but found the front doors locked from the outside. Barring another disappearance, nobody could leave. The remaining ten slept together inside the kitchen that night and took guard shifts.

            At the start of episode 4, there was another disappearance. Not of a contestant, but of the food supply. Yet another mansion-wide search came up empty. Blame spread. Near the end of the episode, a brawl broke out in the dining room. Amazingly, nobody from the show intervened despite the fact that the rules seemed to have disappeared, too.

            By this point, two opposing factions emerged and occupied separate parts of the mansion: Feast and Famine (F&F), and the Blood Soakers. Some of the contestants forged weapons. In addition to the threat of disappearing, anybody caught wandering into enemy territory risked capture and torture. Each side suspected the other of stealing the food supply. A large-scale conflict seemed imminent.

            Towards the end of the season, after weeks without sustenance, the cannibalism started. Russell was an easy choice after expiring of a heart attack in episode 7. The others proved less willing. Half of the contestants remained.

            On the show’s final episode, a fire started in the grand ball room and quickly spread to the rest of the mansion. Members of F&F had to cross into enemy territory to escape the inferno and were massacred by the Blood Soakers. After repeated attempts to control the fire, the final two contestants committed suicide in the entrance hall.

            Investigations into Irreality, the now-defunct entertainment company that produced the show, have turned up nothing. The police have also been unable to identify the whereabouts of any of the twelve contestants.

James graduated from Loyola University Chicago with degrees in business and music. He recently quit his job as a data analyst to write full-time. He enjoys reading and writing, piano, jiu jitsu, snuggling with his wife, and his self-appointed role as president of the Evgeny Kissin fan club. Several of his short stories have been picked up by publishers such as Gypsum Sound Tales, Hellbound Books, and Black Hare Press. You can find him on Instagram under the handle @james.fritz.writing.

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

AVAILABLE HERE!