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.

NEW RESIDENT

To Mark, his wife and their daughter, a new house meant no history, it was theirs to grow into.

Despite his girl’s room being decorated in pink with unicorn wallpaper and both new and previously loved toys, his princess refused to sleep there. She was too young to verbalise: ‘man’ or ‘window’.

With the threesome wrapped up in bed together, all lights were off, yet there remained an almost unperceivable glimmer of light from the child’s room.

The glow faded and returned as if something passing in front of a bulb.

The subtle movement, roused Mark. Drawn to his daughter’s room. He noticed a glow from the ground floor window of the doll’s house, as its front door creaked open.

Chris is a Health Service Research Manager and lives with his wife Hayley and Border Collie in Pembrokeshire, Wales, UK. He is a self-confessed flash fiction addict with some publication and competition success. A recent obsession of his being writing Novella-In-Flash. He also hosts his own flash fiction website.

www.fusilliwriting.com

https://twitter.com/FusilliW

https://www.facebook.com/Fusilli.Writing

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.

ENSNARED

Kit had come across the advertisement in the local paper. Not in the usual section that they printed these things, but on page three –

Remote bush house. Looking for caretaker. Extended time period. Generous compensation. Send queries to Trillmore post office directly.

She had responded, of course. Generous payment was just what she was looking for and a remote house would allow her time to write. What followed was an exchange of letters. The poster of the ad, Sam, had no access to a telephone; which was weird but not unheard of.

Sam described the house as remote. Kit had thought she understood what that meant. But with his hand-drawn map clenched in her fist, having driven three hours through the bush and two hours on foot, she felt she now really knew. She began to whistle as she walked, attempting to cheer herself. But the shrill sound that escaped her lips unnerved her.

“Finally,” Kit sighed as a house came into view. She approached, lifting her fist to knock at the door. It opened before she made contact and she nearly fell into the small man that stood at the threshold.

“Welcome,” he bowed to her in an old-fashioned way which was simultaneously charming and creepy. “I am so glad to see you Kit, I’ve been waiting.”

“Sorry to keep you… Sam?” Kit hadn’t realised she was late; the letter had just said Friday.

“No, no! Don’t apologise. It’s just that I’m eager to leave. It has been a long time.” He stood aside, bidding her through the door.

A strange feeling invaded Kit’s head as she stepped over the threshold. A buzzing that disappeared as she walked further into the small space. Just four walls, sparsely furnished.

“I must be going, thank you Kit,” Sam began to walk towards the door.

“But when will you be back, I really need some more information,”

“It’s all there in the notebook,” he pointed toward a small desk in the corner with a thick blue Moleskine on top. He continued to inch backward as he looked at her. “Good luck,” were his final words.

Kit walked over to the desk a picked up the dirty notebook. ‘The Myth of the Quagmire’ was neatly printed across the cover. She dropped her bag, and sitting on the bed began to turn through the pages.

Surely not, she thought sometime later. Standing, she bolted for the door. He had left it standing open, so eager to leave. Kit hit an invisible barrier, bouncing back into the room.

“Hey,” she called out to no one. Kit lifted her hands and felt a flat surface in front of her. It was true then; she could not pass out. She was trapped, until someone came, willing, to stay in this remote house in her place.

Sam Slick smiled as he walked toward Trillmore, free at last.

Christine M Reid resides in Sydney, Australia. She is a writer of dark fantasy and gothic horror fiction, poetry, and periodic peculiarities. She has previously been published in The Quarry Journal, Writers Workout, and Wrong Turn Lit. She was short-listed for the 2023 Future Leaders Writers Prize.

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.

WHAT MAKES THEM GLOW

Between the smog and light pollution, only the brightest few stars burn visible. Twinkling lights stare from an oil derrick miles offshore, its silhouette cutting a jagged hole in the sunset’s afterglow. The ocean, sweetly rank, makes a mindless black roar over a haunting spectacle of blue light playing on the beach and rolling in the curls of waves.

“What do think they want?” Carla asks, bare skin cloaked in twilight. Her eyes gleam at the corners.

I can never tell when she’s joking.

“I doubt they know we exist,” I say.

“And yet they’ve lured us here.”

I think my exposition on how the luciferin in their cells makes them glow might have brought her there.

She turns away from the phantasmal lights to face me. Brilliant froth ripples around her heels, wetting and lighting my toes.

Mid-kiss, her jaw goes slack, lips parted as if pregnant with something urgent to say.

“What is it?” I ask.

She falls with a wet thud. Bioluminescent sparkles creep up her legs with the surf.

I can’t tell if she’s joking.

The sound of damp scraping, a brief gurgle in the water, and an eerie blue glow the size of her body glides under the waves. In a blink it’s gone. An empty depression in the sand fills with water at my feet.

Wordless terror joins the ocean’s tumult as I grasp fleeting waves, groping through the dark, stirring sea fire.

Nathan Sweem is a graduate of CSU Sacramento and Western Governors University. He studied Arabic at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, serving five years in the Army as a cryptologic linguist. He graduated top of his class at Goodfellow AFB and spent a year in and around Mosul, Iraq with the 66th MICO, 3d ACR. He left the Army and taught math for three years at South Medford High School in Southern Oregon. His work has appeared in The Literary Hatchet, Diet Milk Magazine, Solid Food Press, Land Beyond the World, The Worlds Within, and others.

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.

HOLLOW GLASS

In a forgotten kingdom, a witch named Morrigan lived in a hollow tree, her powers woven from the blood of forgotten gods. One evening, a prince, desperate to save his dying sister, sought her aid. “Grant her life,” he begged. “And I will give you anything.”

Morrigan smiled, her teeth sharp as bones. “A soul for a soul,” she whispered, and handed him a vial of shadowy essence.

The next morning, the princess was healed—but the prince’s eyes turned to glass, his soul consumed by the witch’s curse. Morrigan watched, pleased, as the kingdom crumbled, the last of its bloodline lost.

Ever Avarice is an Australian Dark Paranormal and Reverse Harem Romance author who loves books and believes there’s magic even in the darkest of places.

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.

BANSHEE UPON THE HILL

The chill winds swept down off the hillside,

bringing with it the eerie moans of God knew what.

In unison, we stepped away from our appointed rounds,

striding forward, we mounted the path leading north.

 

“Only the neighbors we know, with lights on!”

cautioned every parent, every year, ad nauseum.

This year we would choose our own route, our own game plan.

Heading toward the foothills, we giggled at our daring.

 

Once in the blackened forest, our resolve faltered,

but spurred on by some sense of do or die, we crept forth.

The moans echoed, sometimes far ahead, sometimes behind,

luring us ever onward, ever upward, away from the light.

 

The pirate, the superhero, the ghost, and I huddled closely,

hands outstretched, brushing branches and cobwebs away.

Fear puckered our mouths tightly, sweat beaded our brows.

Onward and upward we crept, grappling with roots and brush.

 

The first of us to succumb to the rigor, the pirate, slunk away.

Wordlessly, he vanished into the darkness, beating a path homeward.

The moans soon became shrieks, the shrieks blended with groans.

The superhero lost his nerve and slunk sheepishly back down the hill.

 

Gulping, the ghost and I pressed close and soldiered on.

The creak of bat wings brought a downdraft of chilly air.

The lashing branches menacingly taunted, while roots tussled with us.

The ghost screamed once, then disappeared into the underbrush.

 

More determined than ever, I inched forward toward the moans.

That was my last mortal act, my last Halloween alive on Earth.

Engulfed in dark anger, the spirits bore me upward to become one with them:

Banshees moaning upon the hill, luring foolish schoolboys to their demise.

 

Maggie D Brace, a life-long denizen of Maryland, teacher, gardener, basketball player and author attended St. Mary’s College, where she met her soulmate, and Loyola University, Maryland.  She has written ‘Tis Himself: The Tale of Finn MacCool and Grammy’s Glasses, and has multiple short works and poems in various anthologies.  She remains a humble scrivener and avid reader.

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.

DIFFICULT SPELLING

Garstang’s eyes were beginning to smart. He tried rubbing a paw over his face, but it didn’t help.

It had started when the fire was lit. Smoke filled the kitchen causing the cat to suffer some explosive sneezing. Then, out came the cauldron.

Now the whole kitchen felt like an assault to his extra-sensitive feline senses. The smell, the heat, the noise – sometimes being a witch’s cat was the worst. As Garstang was considering just how much more of this he could put up with, the witch let out a shriek.

“Noooo! Get back here you little bugger! Garstang, quick! Put your foot on its tail, stop the damn thing escaping…”

“Paws.”

“What?”

“I don’t have feet, I have paws. And it’s ‘pardon?’ not ‘what?’ you old harridan.” The last three words he muttered under his breath.

“Well, put your paws to good use and catch the bloody thing. Do you know how hard newts are to come by nowadays?”

“I’m sure I haven’t a clue,” purred the cat, enjoying an extravagant stretch.

The witch looked at her feline accomplice, eyes narrowed, “Perhaps we don’t need eye of newt for this spell, maybe eye of cat would do instead. I’ve never really questioned how accurate one must be when creating potions.”

Garstang could move when he needed to, and this felt like it was a time to do so. He had seen that look in his owner’s eyes before – it never ended well. He jumped to it, returning moments later with an unhappy looking newt which he dropped at the witch’s feet.

As the witch performed some specialist newt-based surgery, Garstang considered the kitchen table and other surfaces looking for something he could knock to the floor. Sadly, there was nothing. This day was just one huge disappointment after another.

“Do you think this is such a good idea?”

The witch paused in her stirring and looked at the cat, “What do you mean?”

“This potion you are working on,” said Garstang.

“What about it?” asked the witch, an edge to her voice.

“Look, I know there were issues last Halloween…”

The witch shuddered, “Those pesky neighbourhood kids. What they did was beyond disrespectful. This year,” she raised a gnarled fist, “I will have my revenge!”

“Right, right, but is this particular potion a good idea?”

The witch shrugged, then giggled, “Turning them into the monsters they are dressed as? I think it’s a fabulous idea. It was their choice after all.”

Keith R. Burdon was born & raised in Middle England but now lives in sunny North Wales with his partner and a plethora of imaginary friends and pets.

He enjoys writing short stories, flash fiction and has recently discovered the pleasures of a good drabble.

When he isn’t writing, he can be found listening to music, documentary bingeing and dreaming of the next road trip to somewhere exotic, Belgium perhaps.

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.

WITH AGE

“Aren’t you a little old to be trick-or-treating?” asked the man from his stoop.

“What’s it to you, ya old geezer?” Lyonel snapped.

“Very well. Trick or treat?”

“Treat.”

“My favourite.” The old man’s eyes flashed. His smile spread, cheeks splitting. Fleshy gums loomed over Lyonel as the man’s mouth stretched wide.

“I said treat!”

“A treat for me is a trick for you,” the old man chanted. Then he swallowed Lyonel whole.

The man grimaced. “A bit tough. I should’ve known better.” He surveyed the crowded street, seeking more tender prey. “They’re always less tender with age.”

McKenzie Richardson is a Wisconsin-based explorer of the dark corners of imagined worlds. She has spent the past few years chronicling her findings. Her horror and dark fantasy can be found in numerous collections from Eerie River Publishing, Iron Faerie Publishing, and Black Ink Fiction.

She also works as a librarian, doing her best not to be buried beneath an ever-growing TBR list. When not writing, she can usually be found among her book hoard, armed with coffee and a good read.

You can follow her adventures on:

Facebook: www.facebook.com/mckenzielrichardson/

Instagram: www.instagram.com/mckenzielrichardson/

Blog: www.craft-cycle.com

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.

A SONG OF SILENCE

In the heart of an ancient forest, the Lady of Faerie stood alone, a steady flame against the murmur of discontent.

At the edge of her glen, a circle of restless scribes gathered, their whispers crackling like dry leaves in the autumn wind. “She guards our words too closely,” they murmured, though their stories had long been returned to them, their demands shifted like shadows.

Her voice rose above the storm—a gentle but unyielding melody: “The seasons shift, and so must we.”

The scribes’ anger faded, and the forest stayed still, wrapped in the Lady’s renewed strength. In the end, it was her unwavering resolve that lingered, echoing through the trees like a song only the stars could understand.

Stacey Jaine McIntosh is a USA TODAY Bestselling Author who hails from Perth, Western Australia where she resides with her husband and their four children.

While her heart has always belonged to writing, she once toyed with being a Cartographer and subsequently holds a Diploma in Spatial Information Services.

Since 2011 she has had over one hundred short stories and over fifty poems published.

Stacey is also the author of Solstice, The Camelot Series as well as The Eldritch Series, Lost & Absinthe and she is currently working on several other projects simultaneously.

When not with her family or writing she enjoys reading, photography, genealogy, history, Arthurian myths and witchcraft.

http://www.staceyjainemcintosh.com

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.

FLAMES

A spotlight falls on Max and me as our principal announces this year’s homecoming court. Applause drowns out the pounding beat of the Bee Gees’s “Stayin’ Alive.” A disco ball sparkles from the ceiling, and fractured light flickers on the decorated gym walls.

A resonant crack makes me jump, and confetti showers down. I glance at Max, and her smile radiates like it’ll last beyond the end of the world. She looks so handsome, her olive skin more alabaster than usual against her black tux.

Tears cloud my vision as the previous king and queen place crowns on our heads. I beam and pinch the hem of my pink dress in a curtsy.

Then someone shouts, points, and my smile drops.

The disco ball shatters, spitting out gleaming shards, and thick liquid drip, drip, drips down on us. Blood?

My scream deafens me as my dress turns crimson. Jeers erupt around us. Scanning the crowd, I catch sight of Angie’s mocking smile on her fake-tanned face. I turn to Max, but she’s despondent, staring at the red floor. Her handsome tuxedo, ruined. Her hair.

Our night. Tonight is supposed to be ours.

Fury shimmers from me in visible waves. My fingertips glow red like embers, and I shoot a snake of fire toward Angie. She screams as flames engulf her. The stench of burning flesh turns my stomach. Robbie removes his jacket and covers her with it, trying in vain to put the fire out. The fiery serpent devours Angie until she collapses.

Pandemonium ensues when the crowd stampedes. I stumble off the podium, trip over the principal’s prone body, and fall. I crane my neck, searching for Max, but everything blurs in a haze of smoke and incandescent burning.

When I recover enough, the charred ruins of the gym loom around me. Max peers into my face with concern—concern tinged with horror. Regret swirls in my head before giving way to resignation.

Max grabs my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. We hobble toward the exit. When we step outside, the chilly night air hits my blood-caked cheeks. Moonlight glistens off the rain-wet pavement. Sobs and groans waft on the breeze. We walk toward the other survivors seated on the asphalt, and they scatter—presumably out of fear—and make room for us.

The full moon glitters like the disco ball. The wail of approaching sirens grows louder. With trembling lips, I hum the refrain from “Stayin’ Alive.”

Max removes her jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. Her kindness, along with her scent lingering on the jacket, soothes my frayed nerves. I mumble my thanks and rest my head on her shoulder, snuggling closer. I imagine ourselves hitting the road after a small breakfast in a dawn-lit diner. Fire will repel anyone who comes after us, and we’ll drive until we reach a safe haven. A safe haven just for us.

Everything will be alright, and the world will be ours again.

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 MAPLES HAD GROWN

The wind prowled the world, restless, until it skulked through a maple grove on a hill and its memory returned. 96 satyrs had roared it into being at Dremain’s Hill, and 15 satyr kids had shaped it with dying whinnies as poachers cut off their hooves.

The maples had grown, but the wind remembered.

It crept down the hill and leaped down the throats of those who had stolen its homes and hooves. The poachers attempted to shriek, but the wind had stolen back its voice, and dispersed from their lips as both wind and satyr, themselves again and more.

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

AVAILABLE HERE!