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 DRABBLE MYTH OF ENTROPY

Livia watched the Roman legionary who appeared during her fight against the vampires on the Forum Julium. Her suspicion about him had turned to certainty when she saw him switching from a silver gladius to a purple one as he confronted a creature which resembled some northern barbarian.

She eyed him warily when he walked towards her. “You’re the Eternal Legionary, and that’s been the Eternal Barbarian. Have you come to finally defeat the chaos?”

The legionary smiled. “You’re quite observant, but that’s beyond my powers. It’s your task as humans to keep the chaos at bay, each day anew.”

 

Philipp Mattes lives in Southwestern Germany. He started writing while working as an intern in Kochi, India. Afterwards writing became an important part of his life. Most of his books and stories are in German, however, from time to time, he also also tries his hand at writing in English. After receiving an M.A. degree in English Literatures and Cultures, the COVID-pandemic caused him to change his plans and now he is working as a nurse in a hospital.

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

BRANNON

I woke to the scent of blood, smoke, and sage.

The air was too warm. Not pack-warm, not fire-warm — close, heavy, wet. My body ached like I’d been gutted and stitched together with thorns. My ribs dragged with every breath. Something slick tickled the back of my throat. I swallowed copper.

I tried to move, but the weight of fate held me down.

No, not fate.

A thread.

It hummed along my spine, pulling tight across my sternum, searing through bone and blood. I followed it inward and found her waiting in the dark. Eyes the colour of grave moss. Skin shadowed by candlelight. I didn’t know her name, but I knew her hands — I’d seen them soaked in my blood.

I’d seen her kill me.

My body jerked.

Pain screamed through my side. I wasn’t in the woods anymore. Not on pack ground. I lay on a cot draped with black wool, the scent of herbs and burnt marrow clinging to every fibre. Antlers crowned the walls like guardians. Bundles of teeth hung from iron nails. Thread — red, white, silver — draped the ceiling like a spider’s web.

Magic. Old, ugly and bone-deep magic.

I growled low, throat raw.

She turned. Just a shift of shadow at first, and then the light caught her face, and I stopped breathing.

“You,” I rasped.

Her lips parted, not in surprise, not in fear. No. Recognition. She knew me.

“You shouldn’t be here yet,” she said softly. “It’s too soon.”

 

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 story you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash 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 ELVEN DRUID’S DAUGHTER

Disembodied shadows move among the trees, while voiceless words echo through the nocturnal forest. The elven druid’s daughter looks up from a deer’s track and raises her hunting spear, ready to defend herself.

Out of the forest’s depth Cernunnos emerges and passes by, his antlers entwined with moonlight. Abnoba, the goddess of these dark woods, accompanies him. “Don’t be afraid, we’re just life,” she murmurs, smiling.

Ram-horned serpents follow Cernunnos, heaving up fertile earth out of which saplings sprout. Among the trees, the shadows and voices merge into sparks that will become the mortals who will rule a future day.

Philipp Mattes lives in Southwestern Germany. He started writing while working as an intern in Kochi, India. Afterwards writing became an important part of his life. Most of his books and stories are in German, however, from time to time, he also also tries his hand at writing in English. After receiving an M.A. degree in English Literatures and Cultures, the COVID-pandemic caused him to change his plans and now he is working as a nurse in a hospital.

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

DESPAIR CANYON

Howling wind tore through the awful sharp pillars of rock clogging Despair Canyon, moaning up at the two men who descended into it—other than the uncaring stars gleaming far above, their only light was the lantern Ray carried.

“Why would she have come this way?” Ray said. “Grace knows better than to have gone this way.” He squeezed his Remington in both hands as he wove through the rocks blocking their path. Protrusions reached for them as they squeezed through. “What was she thinking?”

“Said her pa needed the medicine right away,” William said. “She didn’t have a lotta time left.”

Ray kept his shotgun on the twisted rocks surrounding them. Their shapes bent and wound like captured campfire flames. “You know what they say about this place, right?” William didn’t answer. “Those moans,” Ray said. “The spirits of settlers were butchered here.”

“Jus’ the wind.”

“Maybe.” Ray’s boots crunched the dirt and stones as the men paced through caught-still darkness. “Or maybe the Navajo funneled through this canyon.”

“Keep yer eyes open for Grace. She might’ve fallen and got hurt.”

“And then what will we do?” Ray said. “Carry her out?” He shook his head as they entered a denser segment of rocks. “We’d never get back to her ranch in time.”

William squeezed Ray’s collar. “You listen t’ me,” he snarled. “That little girl is depending on us right now. By God, if you’re too busy being scared to see her, you’re getting a whooping.”

Twisted rocks blocked their way. After ten more minutes—each turn of the lantern throwing up sharp shadows—they found the package of medicine Grace had been carrying.

“Eyes open,” William said. “Look everywhere. We don’t miss her.”

“So many shadows. And these rocks in the way. She could be hiding anywhere!” Ray said. The canyon’s high walls funneled them down into the valley. Rocky protrusions like branches snagged his clothing and caught on his coat. “They’re grabbing me!”

“Keep yer eyes open!” William shouted. He turned to Ray, and a rock snagged his boot. His gun flew from his hand as he toppled. Howling moans roared up at him, and his breath hitched. The light from Ray’s lantern swung wildly, and shadows danced as pillars of rock reached for them.

“William! My legs! Something’s got my legs! I can’t get out, William! It’s hopeless!”

William lifted his eyes. As the lantern swung back and forth and the moans howled, Ray’s feet joined to the ground, becoming rock. The change rose to his knees. “Help me! Help me, William!” Ray screamed, reaching. Rock swept up the rest of Ray’s body, up his torso to the top of his head, and his face was frozen in a rocky scream as the lantern fell to the ground.

It cracked, the light went out, and then there was just the moaning and the uncaring stars far above and the twisted, hopeless path out of the canyon and the thousands of rocks just like Ray.

 

Daniel is a great singer, wholly romantic, and is convinced he’s alive. His work has appeared in over thirty publications, including ‘Havik,’ ‘Defenestration Magazine,’ and ‘Ripples in Space.’ His new ebook ‘Hymnfire’ is available on Amazon. His X account is @Danny_Deisinger, and his website is saturdaystory-Time.weebly.com.

If you enjoyed this story you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash 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 WINTER QUEEN

The Winter Court rises from the bones of the world. Snow blankets the forest, yet nothing is silent. Icy branches whisper, and the shadows stretch. The Winter Queen walks between the trees, skin pale as moonlight, hair drowned in black ink, her smile carved from cold promises. Around her, faeries dance on glassed-over streams, every step a spell, every laugh a warning. They gather what the year has lost—hope, warmth, forgotten names—and weave them into silver chains. Dawn trembles at the border of the sky, but winter does not yield. It merely chooses to let the light in.

 

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.www.staceyjainemcintosh.com

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

 

WINTER’S GRIP

“We are purified in our deaths, freed from the horrors of living,” the Elder Druid whispered. “It’s a natural process. A thing of great beauty.”
But there was nothing beautiful about the way Niamh’s mother was dying.
The druids hung their garlands and sang their ancient hymns, but still, Niamh’s mother thrashed in her bed. In her final moments, Sinéad’s eyes did not gracefully flutter shut; instead, they remained open, bloodshot, forever frozen in a wild stare.

The druids whispered empty condolences, praised apathetic gods, and left.

The wind, at least, seemed to understand the horror of these final moments: outside the window, it whistled and whined its sympathy.

Niamh listened to its soothing howl for hours, only standing when a dull knock echoed from the front door.
Maeve.
Niamh closed the door to her mother’s room. Maeve had let herself in and was facing the crackling hearth, snow melting off the too-long sleeves of her Conservatory-issued cloak. The silver insignia pinned to Maeve’s breast gleamed in the warm light of the fire.

Niamh clenched her jaw.

“I wrote days ago,” Niamh said quietly.
“I needed permission,” Maeve reminded Niamh, as though Niamh were unfamiliar with the Conservatory’s ways.  “I left as soon as I could.” She threw her arms around Niamh. Niamh squirmed uncomfortably in her arms, like a child might in the unfamiliar embrace of an older, more distant relative.

Maeve released Niamh, and approached Sinéad’s room. The door creaked open, a quiet, desperate warning.

Maeve didn’t listen. Her eyes watered at the sight of what Sinéad had become.

Niamh whispered a spell. It’d been a long time. She could taste the rust in her subpar pronunciation.

But still, the door behind the sisters clicked. Maeve’s lips pursed in confusion. But then her eyes narrowed.
Maeve shoved past Niamh and tried her too-simple spells. But Niamh had locked the door with ancient magic, the kind of magic the Conservatory hid in their restricted libraries.

Niamh had been expelled for studying such things.

She thought about telling Maeve she was sorry—but anger, not remorse, burned in her throat. She wrenched a light from deep inside Maeve, and watched as it fluttered over to Sinéad’s lips.

Maeve’s body fell with a thud, and Niamh waited patiently in the dark.
Then Sinéad shuddered.

“Mother?”
Sinéad sat up, staring straight ahead with frightening intensity. Her eyes were white, frosted over, and still wide with agony.

No. Not agony.

Hunger.

Sinéad snapped her gaze toward Niamh. A wicked smile stretched across her sallow face.

Niamh ran.

The midwinter night was unforgiving. Snow seeped into Niamh’s slippers.

Niamh ran until her fingers and toes were numb. Wet snarls and heavy breathing tickled the back of Niamh’s neck. Niamh fell to her knees, knowing that the thing behind her was stronger, faster. A cold hand gripped Niamh’s shoulder.

“We are purified in death,” the monster said. “It’s a natural process.”

Its teeth dug deep into Niamh’s skin.

“A thing of great beauty.”

 

D.L. Stille writes speculative, thriller, and horror fiction. She has been previously published in the Flame Tree Fiction Newsletter and in Maudlin House. You can find her on social media @DorothyStille or on her website: dlstille.com.

If you enjoyed this story you can find it and more in the Hawthorn & Ash 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 WRONG END OF THE STICK

Emmric was the oldest guard on the city wall. Still fit enough to climb the stairs, yet the only guard to be issued a chair on his watch. Still turning up for duty, he’d been there since before anyone else currently serving, and none had the heart to retire him.

His uniform was probably what aged the most, a tabard of the city guard dutifully darned and patched by his wife’s skilled needlework. Along with an internal pocket to conceal a jar of bean tea she brewed to keep him awake. Overlooking the road leading into the city, he sat on his rickety stool with a three-inch lip for a backrest, folding his arms with his spear leaning on the rampart.

He caught his head sinking into an attempted slumber but quickly caught himself and straightened his neck. It happened a few times. As he began to doze, he felt a finger brush his nose, tickling him awake. He opened his eyes wide and looked around. The nearest guards to either side were more than a dozen yards away. He ran his fingers over his nose and resumed overlooking the road below.

A little later he felt a finger brush the tip of his nose again and a voice whispered “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said aloud in response, buckling his chair as he grabbed at his nose and looked around again. “Hey.” Still, no one.

He settled again, and before long, a finger tickled his nose again. This time he grabbed the wrist attached to it. When he looked to his right, his wife was sitting beside him in another chair, smiling at him.

He pulled his head back and quietly asked. “What are you doing here?”

She leant in and whispered. “Keeping you awake.”

He furrowed his brow, confused and a little indignant. “I am awake,” he protested.

She smiled again and shook her head. “Guess again, sleepyhead,” she said, and flicked his nose with her other hand.

He pulled back and woke up, rocking his chair onto two legs. His wife was nowhere to be seen, and he kicked out to catch his balance but instead knocked his spear over the edge of the rampart.

“Stop thief,” someone yelled from within the city below.

Old Emmric managed to skid onto his feet before his stool crashed loudly on the bulwark between his awkwardly bowed legs. He bulged his eyes, thrust into alertness by the adrenaline from almost falling. He and the other guards looked over the edge to find an unconscious man on the ground, just outside the city between confused gate guards with a dropped sack from which apples rolled out.

An exhausted merchant stopped his pursuit by the knocked-out thief as one of the ground guards picked up Emmric’s spear. The butt of which had struck the thief’s head. The merchant looked up as the guard held up the polearm. “Old Emmric’s still got it,” he yelled.

The other guards on the wall cheered as Emmric stared confused.

 

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, often dipping his toes in horror in the process. With his novel ‘A Man Called Boy’ and over one hundred 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. 

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

ONE NICE NECROMANCER

Of all the dungeons that Sashna had been held in, this was undeniably the coziest. It even had a fireplace. She appreciated the sound of the crackling logs. It almost blocked out the voices.

The man sitting across from her cleared his throat. Sashna perked up. “Sorry, my mind went for a stroll again.”

“Welcome back,” he laughed. “Did you hear my question?”

“About the boy?”

“We’ll come back to that. First, I wanted to know: honey or milk?” The man received a tray from another guard. The teapot, cups, and saucers were all made from polished silver.

“Both, please.”

He gingerly added both, stirred, and handed the steaming cup to her. Sashna caught a whiff. Her eyes widened, and she took a quick sip. Then another, longer one. “This tastes like—”

“Home?”

“Yes!” she cried. “Have you been to the Isles?”

“Sadly, no. But the warden has. He figured eating and drinking like you might help him live as long.”

“I’m afraid immortality doesn’t work like that. Not that you should bother.”

“I’m afraid bothering’s my job,” the man looked down at his cup. “So, about the boy.”

“How is he?”

“Oh, good. Still won’t tell his uncle where the gold is.”

“Nor should he,” she said. “His parents strictly forbade it.”

The man sighed. “Seeing as he’s the boy’s last living relative, we were curious how you know that.”

“I told you already.”

“Say I believe you,” he said. “Why would someone who lives forever want to talk to dead people?”

A draft blew into the room. Sashna pulled her robe up to her chin. “So I could keep in touch with my friends.”

The man finished his cup and stood up. “That doesn’t sound like a necromancer. When I’m done with paperwork, we can think of something to tell my supervisors. See if we can’t get you out of here.”

“Thank you, Roderik.”

He turned around at the door. “Who told you my name?”

“The other inmates,” she smiled.

Roderik stared in disbelief. Then, he turned and walked past rows of empty cells. When his footsteps vanished, the draft returned. It was bitterly cold, enough to freeze the lock at the door. With a final gust, it broke open. Floating through the opening was the spectral outline of a veiled woman.

“Finished with your tea?” the ghost asked.

“Almost,” Sashna said, before taking one final gulp. She joined her liberator, leaving the cup on the saucer. “How long were you there, Cinilith?”

“Long enough,” she said, and Sashna was certain she was smiling behind the veil. “Now let’s go.”

Sashna followed her trail of light, gently closing the door behind her. “When we’re safe, could you send a letter back?”

“For who?”

“My guard.”

Cinilith sighed. “And what should it say?”

“Thank you for the tea,” Sashna said. “Of all the dungeons that I’ve been held in…”

 

Joe Wood is a writer and educator with a passion for both storytelling and reading advocacy. He earned his BA in Creative Writing from Canisius University and is studying School Psychology at SUNY Oswego. His work has appeared in This Exquisite Topology Anthology, and his upcoming book, In the Cold Starlight, will be published by Rogue Planet Press in 2026. 

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

SEED OF WISDOM

Upon a stone altar, there sat seven wooden cubes framed in brass with ornate patterns circling and spiralling over each flat surface. Despite their intricacy, they revealed nothing of the content within any.

Having climbed two-thirds of a mountain to reach the high plateau, by a spiralling path ascending the base and various sets of carved stairs so steep they may as well have been ladders, the traveller looked up to the man seated on a platform above the array of mysterious vessels. Bald and skinny, his beard grew long and nestled in his folded lap. “Choose wisely,” he advised.

The traveller cocked an eyebrow. Though the patterns upon each box differed, he could discern no distinction between them. As unhelpful as the wise man’s blank expression, refraining from even wincing at the chill of the high mountain winds. Wisdom seemed unlikely to assist here.

Each contained some small treasure, valuable only to those who sought specifically what they did. This quest, upon which the traveller had been sent, would reward no consolation from the other six boxes. Of course, none of this had been outlined when he was sent. He had to find out here from the strange man sitting serenely over the impossible test.

The traveller rubbed his arms as the cold began to bother him. He’d been alright until he stopped to agonize over the decision. “Aren’t you cold?”

“No,” the stoic man said. “You have two questions left.”

“Two questions left?”

“Yes,” the otherwise quiet man said. “Though, now you only have one.”

The traveller gasped, reflexively inhaling to launch into another query, but stopped himself before burning through all three questions just to confirm he had three to begin with. He bulged his eyes and nodded in understanding. He’d been granted three clues to guide him to his goal, and now he’d have to make do with only one because no one had appropriately instructed him.

He considered asking about the subtle patterns on the boxes to determine which designs represented what. However, it seemed it might be regarded as seven questions, requiring seven answers to respond. Much in the same way asking what the other boxes contained, to eliminate what the other patterns might represent, would still require six answers without directly leading him to his goal.

The traveller dug his fingers into his temples to concentrate or force an epiphany. 

After some time, the man above the boxes sighed with sympathy. “Have you thought about simply asking me which box contains what you seek?”

“No,” the traveller said, stunned. “Is that allowed?”

The wise man with the long beard finally broke his stoic, distant expression and rubbed his own temples in distress. “Yes,” he said, furrowing his brow in disappointment. “It… was.”

“Oh, that’s…” the traveller exclaimed excitedly until it sank in. “Oh… that… would have been handy.” Squinting apprehensively, he opened a random box, from which he procured a strange black acorn instead of the green elixir he was sent to fetch.

 

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, often dipping his toes in horror in the process. With over eighty 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. 

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

 

FIVE FOR SORROW

Winter winds set the bare trees writhing in a mad dance against the gray scudding clouded sky, the ravens perched in the branches clinging fast. In the bald spot within their ring, she stood clad in a plain black shift, heedless of the cold that bit through the cloth, within a circle carved into the ground laid bare by the frost. With the tip of a heated blade, she had cut five charred lines within the outer frame, intersecting to shape a star. Within each point of the pentagram, she had laid an offering, cut or taken from a worthy victim. Within the center, at her bare feet, she had laid a flat stone on which she had painted, in her own fresh blood, a branch with five tines.

“I bring you a stone from the depths of the sea. I bring you a maiden’s hair cut while she slept. I bring you charcoal from a burned cottage. I bring you river ice broken at midnight. I bring you a lamb’s heart,” she called to the cold sky above, the light fading as the day died into night. “I have slept but five hours for five nights. I have drunk only cold water for five days. I spoke only when spoken to for five days. I have washed with care from top to toe five times today. Out of the void, I call you name!”

Five times she spoke the name, harsh on human tongue and terrible in the ear, calling across void and veil, to heed her plea and accept her gifts, of offerings and devotion, to hear her and open for her the way. Five times between she paused to heed the silence, till she spoke the name no more.

The sky made no reply, the wind did not sink, nor did the clouds part. No voice spoke to her out of the trees or the earth. Chips of snow fell from the silent sky to wet her loose hair, now matted in the wind. The branches above writhed as if distraught by the names spoken in their midst. Cawing raucously, as if in disdain, the ravens spread wings and took flight, wheeled on the wind and flew off to the compass points.

Save one, which circled the clearing once on outstretched wings, flapped to slow its descent and landed by the offered heart. She reached out to drive it away, but it stooped to peck at the bit of flesh and raised its head, turning to gaze at her with three-lobed eyes.

 

R.C. Mulhare was born in Lowell, Massachusetts, growing up in a nearby town, in a hundred year old house near a cemetery. Her interest in the dark and mysterious started when she was quite young, when her mother read the Brothers’ faery tales Grimm and Edgar Allan Poe’s poetry to her, while her Irish storyteller father infused her with a fondness for strange characters and quirky situations. Between writing projects, she moonlights in grocery retail. A two-time Amazon best-selling author, and contributor to the Hugo Award Winning Archive of Our Own, she has over one hundred twenty stories in print through dozens of independent publishers, with more stories in the works. She shares her home with her family, a vintage music-loving budgie, about fifteen hundred books and an unknown number of eldritch things rattling in the walls when she’s writing late at night. She’s happy to have visitors through her page at: https://linktr.ee/rcmulhare.

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

AVAILABLE HERE!