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 FINE HAMMOCK

“I love you,” she said.

“But you are a spider,” replied the fly.

“And what if I am? Does a spider not have feelings?”

The fly flew away. He needed time to think about the strange spider, and her even stranger words.

Drawn like a moth to a flame, he returned the next day.

“You are back,” she said. “You have missed me. Surely this must be love. Come rest awhile, you look tired after your flight, and I have been up all night spinning you a hammock.” The spider gestured towards her handiwork by waving one of her many legs. It was, indeed, a fine hammock, thought the fly, and she was a fine spider for making it, but still he did not trust her, so he flew away again.

“Come back soon, my love,” the spider shouted after him, but, already, he was too far away to hear.

That night, the fly dreamed of the spider, and her generous handiwork, and, when he awoke, he ached from sleeping in a tree. He thought of the spider and her hammock. People would not understand, he realized, but who were they to judge him—or the spider, who had made him such a fine hammock? He remembered his former loves. There had been many, but they were all too flighty, and the relationships did not last. Now, no longer a young fly, he was reaching the age where he needed some security, and a place to call home. He thought of the spider, with her gentle voice, and the silk hammock she had woven for him; then away he flew.

“You have come back!” the spider rejoiced. “I knew you would. Surely, you now know it is love.”

The fly said nothing; just listening to her voice was enough. He looked at the hammock, then back at its maker.

“Come closer,” said the spider. “Rest a while.” and, once again, she raised a hairy leg and pointed to the hammock.

Relationships are built on trust. The fly knew this well, so he flew to a closer leaf, and looked down at the hammock.

“Is it not a fine hammock I have made you?” asked the spider.

“It is indeed a fine hammock,” the fly agreed.

“Then come. Rest yourself.”

He flew to the next leaf, and marveled at the intricate weave.

“Come, my love,” the spider urged.

With a couple of beats of his wings, the fly landed in the hammock as it swung gently in the breeze. The silk felt very soft—a fine hammock indeed.

“May I join you?” asked the spider, crawling in with him anyway.

A fine hammock and a fine spider. Here was a love he could stick with. “I do love you,” he admitted, at last.

The spider bent down and kissed him with her fangs. “Mmm,” she said. “I love you too.” But the fly never heard. He had left her, after all.

Steve Calvert is a British writer. His short stories have appeared in various online and offline publications including Hub, Arkham Tales, The Rose and Thorn Literary Ezine, and on the Pseudopod and Drabblecast podcasts. His website is steve-calvert.co.uk.

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 WHORE OF BABYLON

Witch. Whore. Unnatural.

My father’s condemnations echo in my mind.

I raised you to reject all wickedness, but instead you have spurned all morality and virtue.

I deny nothing. I am guilty, and your God does not excuse the guilty. So I found a new way to worship.

The devil has filled your heart. 

It’s not like I had a choice. I sought delight in the Lord, and he left me wanting. Eisha never leaves me wanting.

…after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin…

Every touch of her hand, every press of her lips, every moment of pleasure was worth it. 

In the stocks beside mine, Eisha sits with head bowed. Pale yellow moonlight highlights her black curls. I pick at my split lip, a parting gift from my father. The sharp sting wakes me, brings me back to myself.

Woe to the wicked!

With a blood-smeared fingertip, I reach for her. 

Eisha’s head snaps up. Her mouth stretches into a wide smile. Then wider. A warmth spreads through me at the sight of her pointed teeth, recalling how they scraped against my neck.

It needn’t have come to this. We hid in the barn, where I thought only the goats could see. Our trysts were only when Father went to town or slept under the blanket of night. We did not flaunt our passions, as he claims. As if we welcomed his intrusion. 

It needn’t have come to this.  But I’m not sorry.

…the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulphur…

Father will light our pyre in the morning. He will watch the fires snatch our souls to hell, and our bodies burn until nothing but ash and charred bone remains. Maybe that will finally make him happy.

I bite down and blood wells. I lick it up, savouring its potential. 

“Eisheth Zenunim,” I invoke her full name. Her name of power, that summons her true self in the light of the moon and the gift of blood. “It’s time.” 

In one sinuous movement, she breaks the stocks from our ankles like cobwebs and pulls me into a passionate kiss. Bruising pain becomes pleasure. 

“Will we run?” Eisha asks. Her eyes burn crimson as my rage infuses her.

“No.” I will be their wicked witch. “Eye for an eye.”

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.

OUT WITH THE OLD

“I see the problem,” the broom technician said. “Your souls are weak. How long have you had them?”

Esmerelda beamed. “They’re the originals. Came with the broom.”

The tech put his ear to the broomstick. “Do you hear how faint their wailing is? It should be twice that loud.”

He handed Esmerelda her broom. “Banish these souls to the underworld and get some new ones, you’ll be good to go.” He vanished in a puff of smoke.

Esmerelda sighed. Collecting souls meant being around mortals. She hated mortals.

But her sister had been pestering her to join a book club.

Greg Schwartz writes speculative fiction and poetry. He lives in the US with his wife, children, and dog. He’s been fortunate to have stories in Black Ink Horror, Champagne Shivers, Writers’ Journal, and Mount Zion Speculative Fiction Review. In a pre-fatherhood life, he was the staff cartoonist for SP Quill Magazine and a book reviewer for Whispers of Wickedness.

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.

LADY IN RED

Tendrils of steam rose from a long-handled iron pot, swirling into evanescent rainbows.

          Maribel’s eyes glittered with satisfaction. She lowered her wand.
          The vapors faded, coalescing into the image of an elderly woman, a woman cloaked in furs and silk, wearing many jewels and upon her brow a crown.

          “It’s her,” Alvaro murmured.

          Maribel nodded, “the Queen.”

          “The wicked Queen,” he affirmed.

          “Wicked only in that she has lived too long to suit our prince, I think.”

Alvaro ignored her, “you must add honey now.”

          “Must I?”

          “You must,” he insisted, “it’s a recipe.”

          Maribel laughed, “It’s a potion. I choose what to include in it.”

“But . . .” Alvaro objected.

“Silence!” She placed her wine glass on the polished table, stepping away from the bubbling pot, “Honey is a kindness. Are you feeling kind, dear boy?”

          Alvaro frowned, “you mock me?”

          Maribel shrugged and her hair rippled like wind-ruffled water.  “Tromp, tromp, tromp!  No life is a march, Alvaro, not even yours.”

          “This poisoning is not a soldier’s work,” he shivered, “but the Queen must die tonight.”

          “We have time.”

          “But our orders?”

          “She will die, perhaps in pain, for all Queens sin. I have not yet decided about the honey.” Maribel rose, gliding like a leopard in red silk. Her silver earrings teased, their curves gleaming, inviting. 

“Men are turtles.  You hide in your shells of accomplishment.”

          “That’s ridiculous”

          She shrugged, “Turtles! Small, green and soft!”

          “Men dare!” Red spots flamed on Alvaro’s cheeks, “men lead!”

          Maribel glanced over her shoulder.  “Show me.”

Robert Walton is a retired middle school teacher, rock climber and mountaineer with ascents in Yosemite and Pinnacles National Park. Walton is an experienced writer. His novel Dawn Drums won the 2014 New Mexico Book Awards Tony Hillerman Prize for best fiction. His “Sockdologizer” won the Saturday Writers 2020 Everything Children contest. Most recently, “Joaquin’s Gold”, a YA collection of his Joaquin Murrieta tales, was published on Amazon.

http://chaosgatebook.wordpress.com/

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

AVAILABLE HERE!