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.

NINE TIMES ROUND

There are several things I could blame, I suppose, but the main culprit was an advert from my childhood. The tagline was: “What’s the worst that can happen?” Turns out, using it as a life motto is not a great idea.

I could also blame binge drinking, my friends, or my inability to say no to a dare.

I grew up in Macclesfield, in the northwest of England, where we heard stories about Toot Hill.

Some said it was once a Roman fort. It wasn’t—but that didn’t stop people from adding their own myths.

My parents told me farmers used to leave food out for the fairies before working the land. That sort of thing really sticks in a kid’s head.

When I was nearly eight, I pestered my parents into taking me there. I wanted to leave some jam sandwiches—my favourite at the time—for the fairy folk. I suspect Mum and Dad took me just to shut me up. They later regretted it when I started having nightmares about being kidnapped by fairies.

Over time, I forgot the nightmares—but not the fairies. Even in my cynical teenage years, they stuck around. When anybody mentioned them, I would laugh – if anyone noticed the tic in my eye, they never said anything. Just as well—I’d have been forced to fight to defend my honour, and I was the dictionary definition of a weakling nerd.

It was Alex who suggested the camping trip to celebrate my 18th. We bought the essentials: cheap booze and snacks. Richard suggested proper food. Alex just looked at him.

Dave’s parents provided the camping gear. Our first mistake was drinking before pitching the tents—a much harder task when you’re drunk.

Alex had found a mystery bottle in his parents’ kitchen. The label was in a language none of us could read, but we knew it was 65% ABV. We figured blindness was a risk—but hey, “What’s the worst that can happen?”

After much stumbling and swearing, we got everything set up—though not before setting fire to Richard’s coat. Dave claimed it was an accident.

Richard passed out early. We debated drawing on his face or shaving his eyebrows. We chose the former, mostly because we didn’t have any shaving gear.

Halfway down the bottle, the dares began.

Alex dared Dave to jump the fire. Soon, we were all doing it. Except Richard, of course.

Then Alex dared me to run around the fairy ring nine times.

Legend says if you do, the fairies take you. My eye twitched, but it was too dark for anyone to notice. And I couldn’t back down from a dare.

 

I don’t know how long ago that was. Time, like a lot of things here, is… different. In your world, it might’ve been yesterday—or a century ago.

I often wonder what my friends thought when I disappeared. What did my parents say?

This is how legends begin—and how they trap you.

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.

WINTER FAE OFFERINGS

I stared up and down the natural fir tree standing in my cousin Luna’s living room. “I thought cutting trees was a bad idea?” She’d invited me to spend Christmas break, after my parents took their first vacation since their youngest (me) left the proverbial nest.

“Oh, I didn’t cut it. I dug it up,” said Luna, who’d recently embraced what she called “faerie witchcraft”. She draped strands of frost-nipped iris leaves over a branch like a 1950s decorator using silver tinsel. On the next branch, she clipped a bundle of dried ferns. The wide gaps between the branches allowed her to hang an unusual array of decorations: clusters of pine cones on twigs, unpainted groups of acorns, skeletal leaves, and sprigs of cockle burrs.

“Those are certainly earth-friendly ornaments.”

“And I can dig the tree up every year as long as I can lift it.”

“It’s your Yuletide: you decorate as you see fit. But I gotta ask: what’s with the dried leaves and things?”

 Luna draped a long strand of dried grapevine along several branches. “I’m making the tree more home-like to the forest spirits,”

My heart jumped. “Forest spirits?”

She reached for a box of shiny glass balls painted silver, gold, and green, strung with natural twine. “Why yes, you know our Pagan ancestors decorated trees with offerings to the forest spirits.”

I wanted to argue our more recent Christian ancestors had introduced the Christmas tree as a reflection of the Tree of Life or the Tree of Jesse, but I knew better. “Except they decorated the trees outside, where the forest spirits belong.”

“Blake, don’t be so free with those negative waves. The forest spirits mean us well. They watch over the trees that supply us oxygen. With all the trees being cut down, they need all the shelter and support they can get.”

“What’s with the shiny balls?”

“The spirits also love shiny objects.”

In my experience the things that like shiny things the most also like making mischief.

###

Late that night, something thumped, jolting me awake. Something rattled and chittered. I sat up, grabbing my glasses from the bedside table and the weapon tucked under the bed before padding into the hallway.

Luna, in her bathrobe and a silver pentacle in hand, approached. “Blake, what do you have there?”

“Protection.”

“A shovel?”

“It’s got an iron head. One thing fae are vulnerable to.”

“You aren’t hurting them!”

“I can’t let them hurt you.”

We tiptoed to the living room. In the hallway light, the tree lay on its side. Shadowy forms scrambled into the corners.

Luna screamed, jumping. “My ankle! It bit me!”

I swung the shovel down. The blade hit something that squealed, scrambling into its shadows.

Luna switched on the room light. Small, gnarled-looking creatures skittered toward the walls, squealing.

“Don’t say ‘I told you so’. I can feel you thinking it.”

“I was thinking, ‘This is why you put lights on Winter Holiday trees.”

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.

HOOKED ON AIR

The chip salesman lurks in the dark corner of the superstore, handing out three and a half of the Product at a time. “Just try it,” he says, with a little shrug and a ten-grand smile. You lean in, lured on his cheesy line, and you crunch two of the chips at once. The fluorescent lights darken, and everything blurs.

You wake up crouched on your bed, gripping the chip bag in one hand. Crumbs litter the sheets. You ate about four or five, right, not the whole bag? You shine your phone flashlight into the void, scanning for any loose chips. There is an emptiness in your mouth that tastes like need. There must be more. You need more.

A voice echoes from the bag: a recording from the salesman released by the reflection in your eyes: “Consider yourself blessed; most bags have three chips. You’re hooked on air, my friend. See you in the store tomorrow.”

He laughs, and laughs, and you grit your teeth, and wonder if there’s any way to get out of this need, this urge, this obsession.

There’s not.

 

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

AVAILABLE HERE!