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!

 

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!