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.

 

ETERNAL DARKNESS

I freeze mid-swipe at the ash on my skirt. There it is again—a soft, rhythmic mrhrrr, like a cat with opinions. I glance at Sebastian. He stiffens.

“What?”

“That noise,” I say.

“I’m doing nothing.”

Another rumble escapes him. Mrrrp.

“That,” I inform him, “is purring.”

“It’s the wind,” he snaps.

“We’re indoors.”

He scowls, arms crossed, cape swishing. “It’s a vocal reflex. Pure physiology.”

Mrrrglp.

I step closer. “So when you’re happy—”

“I am not happy.”

He purrs louder.

I touch his collarbone. The sound deepens, warm and traitorous.

He shuts his eyes. “If you tell anyone—”

I grin.

 

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.

 

RETRIBUTION

Dragon fire rained down on Camelot. Arthur had lost. But his debt had not yet been paid in full. The price for his sister’s life was far greater than a single castle. Even if that castle was Camelot. Retribution was such that Arthur must pay with his life as the drakaina had done.

The Pendragon stood on shaky legs as Stryder held him in his claws and took off in the direction of the Crystal Cave.

Arthur’s screams were like music to the dragon’s ears. The fire empowered him. But Arthur wouldn’t die here. No, his fate was far worse.

 

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.

THE BIRTHDAY GIFT

The little girl with the fly away brown hair and sea foam green eyes in the faded pink dress that smells faintly of mold, with the hem hanging down, waits for Carmine’s mother to invite her in. It’s his birthday, and all the children in her class have been invited except her.

The laughing boys and girls file into the house, creating a breeze as they skip past the girl armed with gaily wrapped gifts.

Their classmate brought a gift too. It’s a pile of black jellybeans wrapped in tin foil decorated with pictures of dragons, painted in her own blood.

Carmine’s mother appears at the door. Her face heavily made up, not a hair out of place, her eyes black as basalt. She smells of an expensive perfume and the odor of disdain. Her face is set in a false smile, which gives the girl momentary hope, until she sees the paper plate.

On it is a slice of cake and ice cream. She offers it to the girl who tries to give her the gift  and join the others. They will ignore her or torment her as they always do, but she is desperate to be included. The woman offers the plate of cake and ice cream again. Resigned, the girl drops her gift and accepts the plate. Carmine’s mother returns inside and shuts the door in her face.

The little girl doesn’t notice the tiny, opalescent dragon crouched on the red clay tiles of the roof.

She sits on Carmine’s step and listens to the music and laughter floating out of the window. It feels like the tentacles of a sea monster squeezing her insides as she eats the cake and ice cream, which has no taste.

When she’s done, the girl drops the soggy plate and white, plastic spoon on the ground. She stands. Tears in her eyes, there is rage and grief in her heart. She rips the gift she brought for the boy into tiny pieces.

The little dragon on the roof understands her pain. He won’t get any bigger. The other dragons make fun of him and won’t let him hunt with them. He reaches under his wing for a pouch of fairy dust he stole from a fae and sprinkles it on the little girl.

As the silver dust falls like snow upon the girl’s head, she inhales lilacs, honeysuckle and fresh-cut grass. The birds call to her to join them.

Pointed ears poke through her tangled, soft brown hair. Gold and silver wings burst through the girl’s back and flutters in the breeze.

A miniature dragon flies down and enters the party through the open window. She hears him roar, and the room bursts into a raging inferno as he flies out and beckons to her.

The new, little fey smiles with delight, claps her hands and flies off with the dragon. The screams of the victims as they race to escape are like peppermint patties and licorice sticks.

 

Roxanne Dent has sold nine novels, dozens of short stories, flash fiction, novellas, drabbles and an E-Zine in a variety of genres including Horror, Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Steampunk, Mystery, Regencies, Westerns and Middle Grade. She has also co-authored short stories and plays with her sister, Karen Dent. One of their plays, Young at Heart, won the Newbie Award for Best One Act, at the Firehouse Theater in Newburyport, MA. She just finished Book II of “The Grimaldi Chronicles,” a Fantasy/horror trilogy  and is currently writing a YA prequel “The Boy in the Green High Tops.” 

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.

 

ENCUMBRANCE

“Where are you hiding, human?”

The deep voice rolled like thunder around the rocky hillside. The dragon’s black scales fanned as its long body curved over the ridge, sniffing at the air in search of the thief.

Hiding in a cleft of large rocks, the man breathed slowly and quietly despite his panicked heart’s best efforts to put a dent in his sternum. He had a mixture of leaves, roots, gums, sap, and bark rubbed onto his body to adopt a mixed odour of surrounding natural elements. An olfactory camouflage to mask his human scent, with his clothes greyed by lacquered rock dust to blend in with the stony terrain.

Had he felt braver, he might have made a break for it. A cautiously slow, rock-hugging one, but then he’d have to leave behind the sack he’d filled with so many coins, gems, and other trinkets. The weight of which had him pulling it along the rocks instead of carrying a lighter haul over his shoulder.

Generally, he had a rule to curtail being hamstrung by his greed. A scale of estimated perceived value versus observable weight. It had always served him well with larger items, but he had grossly underestimated the shimmering mountain of wealth waiting to tempt him in the creature’s cave.

The dragon drew close, clacking on the rocks, its sharp talons that could easily divide him into several butcher stall cuts. Not that it would pick that option when there was a corrosive black sludge it could unleash upon him. 

If he meant to escape the creature’s wrath, he’d have to lighten his load. Now, while it was moving away. Once its tail whipped past, he reached into the sack and grabbed the nearest three items; a coin, a ring, and a bracelet. He slid out of his hiding spot, behind the descending black dragon, and threw them as hard as he could, casting them in the opposite direction to which he intended to escape. They chimed on the rocks as they bounced and deflected, drawing the dragon’s head towards them.

With a deep and gravelly hum, the creature dragged its body over the rocks towards the sound, giving the thief covering noise under which to drag his sack of valuables behind him, pulling it over rock and groove until he could find a farther hiding spot.

Looking back, he saw the dragon continue past the landing trinkets to pursue a false shadow of his distraction. But then he heard a scratchy tear. A broken wooden post, a remnant of some long-lost cabin, presented a protruding rusty nail that disembowelled his treasure sack.

The chiming chorus that ensued was ethereal with its ringing and dinging, echoing down the rocky hill. A golden fountain of high-pitched babbling, keepsakes and coins rolled and skipped, stopping the dark beast in its tracks to let out an amused guttural sigh.

And although it was a severe overcorrection of his previous attempt, at least the thief’s load had been sufficiently lightened.

 

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.

UNWELCOME VISITOR

I stood at the stove, slowly stirring a pot of soup. My temples throbbed. My nerves twitched. It had been a particularly stressful day.

I sensed his arrival. “You’re not welcome here,” I hissed.

I stopped stirring the soup and turned to look him in the eyes, but couldn’t. I chose to focus on his mouth instead.

His grin wobbled my conviction. That grin always wobbled me, always had and probably always would.

His aura seemed to fill the entire entryway, nay the room. He took a step toward me, and my resolve teetered. Present, past, and future fought for supremacy in my head, making the kitchen spin and by gut twist.

He came yet closer, and I caught his stench – both familiar and repulsive, both enticing me and simultaneously pushing me away.

“How long’s it been?” he asked with a smirk.

“I said, you’re not welcome here.” But was that true?

“11, 12 years?”

 “16,” I answered through clenched teeth. “Now get out,” I spat as I closed the gap between us.

Without distance between us, I had no choice but to look into his eyes. They were just the way I remember them, both dead and alive.

He pulled that all-too-familiar bottle from the tattered folds of his jacket. “For old time’s sake?” he said with a wink.

He removed the cork and put the bottle in my hand, wrapping my fingers around its smooth warm glass. “Cheers.” He whispered in my ear.

My hand flexed on that bottle, and I hated myself for not letting go of it. It had been such a hard day.

I could smell the astringent scent wafting from the open bottle as I brought it to my lips with tears streaming down my cheeks. That’s when an inner voice spoke – barely heard. Yet, I would not ignore it. Don’t throw away 16 years.  

“You’re not welcome here! Leave now!”

His smile became a scowl. I took a step back and chucked the bottle at him. But both bottle and apparition evaporated before my target was reached. His voice whispered as he left, “I’m never far away.”   

 I wiped the tears away with trembling hands, staring at where he’d been. 16 years. I won’t go back. I can’t.

Turning back toward my soup, I tried to forget him. He’s no longer a part of me! He’s no longer a part of who I am.

But deep down I knew better. He was part of me, of who I was at least – my past.

 

Shawn Brink (writing under Shawn D. Brink and Shawn David Brink) resides in Eastern Nebraska, U.S.A. and is represented by Liverman Literary Agency. He’s building a following with a growing list of novels (mainly speculative fiction), as well as shorter works published in various publications and anthologies. His sixth novel, ‘Bound by Blood’, was released in 2024 through Tell-Tale Publishing Group. Check out his website to learn more: https://shawnbrinkauthor.wordpress.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 LONGEST NIGHT

The doe emerged from the pine shadows as the sun bled its final light across the frozen meadow. Her breath crystallised in silver plumes, each exhale a prayer to the dying day. This was the solstice — the earth’s deepest sleep, when darkness claimed dominion over the world.

She had witnessed a lifetime of these longest nights, each one carving deeper wisdom into her amber eyes. The forest held its breath around her, snow-heavy branches bending like cathedral arches. In the distance, her daughters waited, their spotted coats now winter-brown, learning the ancient patience their kind had perfected.

The doe lifted her muzzle to taste the star-sharp air. Tomorrow, she knew, the light would return — tentative at first, then bold. But tonight belonged to the velvet darkness, to the whispered secrets of snow, to the sacred turning of the world’s great wheel. She stepped forward into the vast, waiting night.

 

Laura Shenton is probably best known for her music non-fiction, particularly Dance With The Devil – The Cozy Powell Story (Wymer Publishing) and Tommy Bolin – In and Out of Deep Purple (Sonicbond Publishing).

Her fiction books are character-driven with a short, punchy narrative that gets straight to the point – typically novellas and novelettes. Genres include gothic, fantasy, and adventure (mostly, with the occasional diversion).

Laura’s children’s books are simple, accessible, and fun – an excellent choice for youngsters with fertile imaginations who are just beginning their reading journey.

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.

PUNISHMENT

Lying Mama locked me in the box today. No homeschool. No cookies. Just her tricks. I howled, Mama prayed, and the house? It shook.

Boxes and houses don’t keep me. I got out and wandered.

A man drove up. Wanna see a puppy, girl?

I did!

He drove us away, but weren’t no puppy. And I got mad at that liar.

Do what I say, he said. Or else.

The car shook. All the windows broke. And he screamed and screamed.

When I got home, Mama said, What have you done?

I said, she’d better give me a cookie now.  

 

K.M. Reed is a writer of horror and fantasy fiction based in Phoenix, Arizona. As a desert dweller, she considers nature and people equally lethal. Both provide inspiration for her macabre tales. Her three favorite things are dark stories, any cat, and all chocolate.

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.

PRETTY PUPPET

Beating herself against the walls of the cube, like a wild animal trapped in a too small cage. Had to be free, had to flee, had to break free, but still they came to her, the people like puppets.

Now why can’t you be like us?

“Why would I want to be like you?”

You’ll see. You’ll be at peace this way.

“Your peace is madness.”

No, you are the mad one. But we can fix that. We can make you all better.

And their wooden hands closed on her, dragging her back into the middle of the cube. She tried to flee, tried to break free, but their wooden hands turned to wooden hooks, locking onto her wrists and limbs and set about the transformation.

Cut her hair and slapped on a wig. Cut her clothes and slapped on garments that pressed her in and immobilized her limbs. Painted her face into a garish mask. Put out her eyes and gave her glass eyes to see only the things they would let her see. Wired her limbs. Tied strings to them so she would move only as they would let her move. To dance only the dance they would permit. Another pretty little puppet like them.

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, 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!

 

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.

OF SALT AND SORROW

The sea called her home with a sweet siren song. Once, she’d traded her voice for legs and love at first sight. But the prince’s heart was never hers. No. It belonged to the mundane world above, the one that made her bleed and mocked her silence.

Now she stood on the shore. Her dress tattered, lips blue, while the ocean whispered her true name.

And when she stepped forward, into the cold embrace of waves that remembered her. Scales bloomed where flesh had been, and power thrummed through her veins.

Love had drowned her once. Now it was her turn to drown the world.

 

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.

MISTLETOE’S KISS

Frigg crumpled to a patch of moss and leaves beside her fallen son, a plant-made spear protruding from his chest. “The spell I cast protected him from all plants sprouting from the earth.” She placed her head in her hands. “How could this have happened?”

“You forgot one thing, majestic goddess,” an eerie voice drifted down from above her, a voice that sounded like many.

Bounding to her feet, Frigg spun in a circle, her long blonde hair spilling around her shoulders. “You know me?”

“We know many things, goddess of love and marriage. But we wouldn’t expect you to know us.”

Chills ran the length of Frigg’s spine, and she shivered. “Show yourself, coward!” She shouted, unsheathing her dagger.

Vines coiled down and around Frigg’s arms, binding her wrists together. “We are here. Pity you did not think of us when you cast your spell. You have scorned us, oh Norse goddess, and have lost your son for your treachery.”

Frigg tugged at her wrists, but the vines refused to loosen. Looking up, she spotted a menacing shrub clinging to the branches above her. “Are you the ruler of your kind?”

“We are mistletoe. Speak to one, you speak to all.”

Frigg ceased struggling against her restraints and hung her head. “Oh, formidable plant. Hear my plea.”

“We are listening.”

“You who grow in trees have defied all other plants on earth. I did not understand your greatness. I beg your forgiveness.” She raised her bound hands, lifting her eyes toward the mysterious plant. “You are too magnificent to have committed this malicious act.”

“Humble, and also wise. The god Loki assured us he sought to make a wreath of love and joy to bless all people with our beauty.”

“Loki cannot be trusted! His fabricated words tricked you into releasing your sprigs to make a spear of mistletoe that took the very life of Balder, god of love and joy.”

Immediately, her bindings loosened, and the vines retreated. Frigg sheathed her dagger and rushed to Balder, wrapping her hands around the hilt of the spear penetrating her son.

“Halt! Balder clings to death. Pulling out the spear will surely kill him.”

“What do you mean?”

“The power of the goddess cannot revive Balder unless we call our own from his body. By now, our tentacles will have spread throughout every inch of him.”

Frigg flinched, her hands releasing the spear.

“Loki came with flattering words, yet he betrayed us. How can we believe you?”

Frigg leaned over her son, her tears spilling onto the spear. Immediately, exquisite white berries sprouted from amongst the greenery. “I bless you, glorious mistletoe. Henceforth, you shall be known as the plant of love and vows. All who stand beneath your eminence will receive a kiss from the goddess.”

“Come back to us,” the mistletoe called ominously, its fingerlings receding from Balder’s body.

Goddess Frigg kissed her son on both cheeks, reviving him. “Thank you, great mistletoe. Together, our kiss with bless many.”

Deborah Bainbridge is a semi-retired Pharmacist who dreams of teleporting internationally and into fantastical realms. Her short fiction has appeared in Havok Publishing, Iron Faerie Publishing, Spark Flash Fiction and her poetry with Twenty Hills Publishing. She’s a Christian, Realm Awards Finalist, and the wife of a Great Eagle (LOTR) who desires to take people on adventures through story. She enjoys running and eating cookies, preferably not at the same time, and would leave her Christmas lights up all year if the neighbors wouldn’t stare. 

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

AVAILABLE HERE!