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!

 

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 KEEPER

Cerridwen stood gazing into the dark and murky depths of her cauldron. Part wisdom, part poison the brew had been made for a very specific purpose. Or it had been, until that blasted wretch Gwion Bach had tasted of it and fled and she had been forced to chase him down until at last she’d caught him. She a hen and he a seed of wheat. A seed that once swallowed implanted quick and firm within her womb. If only it had killed him, she need not worry about the consequences such a birth would bring. The birth of Taliesin.

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.

SECRETS

Every full moon, the villagers gathered in the clearing, clutching secrets like offerings. No one remembered when the tradition began—only that the moon demanded it.

Tonight, the sky held a silver eye, unblinking. The air shimmered with tension as old Marta stepped forward, her voice brittle but clear.

“I once let my sister drown,” she said. “I watched her slip beneath the ice and told no one.”

The wind sighed. The moon brightened. One by one, the villagers followed. A stolen heirloom. A hidden affair. A child given away. With each confession, the moon glowed warmer, fuller, as if feeding.

Then came Jonah. He was new to the village, a quiet man with scars, a limp and a dog that never barked. He stepped into the circle, eyes shadowed.

“I have no secrets,” he said.

A hush fell. The moon dimmed.

“You must,” Marta whispered. “We all do.”

Jonah shook his head. “I’ve told them all. To the wind. To the trees. To the stars. I have nothing left.”

The moon flickered. Then it spoke.

Liar.

The word echoed through bone and bark. The villagers fell to their knees, clutching their ears.

Jonah stood firm. “I won’t feed you,” he said. “Not anymore.”

The moon pulsed, furious. Lightning cracked across the sky. Trees bent. The earth trembled. Jonah raised his hand. “I know what you are. Not a god. Not a guardian. Just a hungry thing.”

The moon screamed. And then—darkness. The clearing fell silent. The villagers looked up. No light. No stars. Just a void where the moon had been.

Jonah turned to them, face pale. “It will come back,” he said. “But not for secrets. Not anymore.”

He walked into the woods, his dog padding behind him. The villagers never saw him again.

But the moon returned, eventually–smaller, quieter. And it never asked for anything again.

 

Sarah Stegall is a writer of speculative fiction whose work explores the eerie intersections of the Western frontier and the unknown. Her stories have appeared in the acclaimed anthology Hot Iron & Cold Blood: Tales of the Weird West, (as Jesse Allen Champion) where she blends folklore, horror, and history into haunting tales of the American West. Her novel Outcasts retold the story of the night Mary Shelley sat down to write Frankenstein, and her story Rearguard was shortlisted for a Scribe award. Sarah lives in northern California and her website is at https://www.munchkyn.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 FAIRIES

The last fairy of autumn died at precisely midnight, her amber wings crumbling to dust as the first snowflake kissed the frozen earth. But death, in the fairy realm, is merely transformation.

From her scattered remains bloomed creatures of crystalline beauty — winter fairies, born from ice and starlight. Their wings were carved from frost, their hair spun from northern winds. Their laughter tinkled like breaking icicles. They danced between the bare branches, weaving spells of preservation, ensuring that beneath the snow’s cruel blanket, spring’s promises lay sleeping.

The smallest fairy, no bigger than a dewdrop, discovered a dying sparrow. With breath that steamed like silver smoke, she whispered ancient words over its fragile form. The bird’s eyes fluttered open, renewed by winter’s fierce mercy.

For the winter fairies knew what mortals forgot: that sometimes the coldest touch carries the warmest magic, and in death’s embrace, life finds its truest strength.

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.

GIFTS

The raven outside my window tapped on the glass twice before flying away. I grinned and opened the bag of treats that I’d been feeding them. I was relieved to see that there wasn’t another dime or button outside. After months of training, the ravens were finally giving proper gifts in exchange for the little morsels that I’d been leaving them. We finally understood each other.

For the second day in a row, I placed an eyeball into my little jar of alcohol. I smiled and waved to my next-door neighbor as he adjusted his eyepatch before going back inside.

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.

PURR AND PREJUDICE

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that sooner or later, a single woman living in a cottage at the edge of the woods will be branded a witch.

She even had a black cat.

Not that Esmeralda Fairfax, most decidedly not a magical person of any kind, had ever intended to own a cat, never mind a black one. But ever since she had stopped a group of village kids from drowning the poor thing, it had followed her everywhere, slinking in the shadows behind her cape and generally giving off a very convincing ‘witch’s cat’ vibe. Thank heavens no-one but her had ever heard him talk, or Esme knew she would be for the ducking stool. Witch hunts might have officially gone out of fashion one hundred and fifty years ago, when the elites were too busy persecuting people from other countries instead, but there were parts of the English countryside that hadn’t quite caught up yet.

So when Esme went out that morning to gather herbs, she was doing her best to look as unwitchlike as possible.

“Shoo!” She said to Cat halfheartedly, knowing that the animal would pointedly ignore her and follow her wherever she went. She considered throwing something at it, but her heart wasn’t in it. Esme liked animals, often rather more than she liked people, and besides, it was secretly quite flattering that Cat seemed to have adopted her so readily.

“Where are we going?” Cat asked. Esme ignored it. Cats couldn’t talk; everybody knew that. Unfortunately, Cat refused to conform to the usual feline standards, leaving Esme wondering if she was, in fact, suffering with some kind of fever or delusion. There was no history of insanity in her family that she knew of, and she was so far showing no other signs.

It really was most peculiar.

“You could answer me,” Cat said, sounding annoyed. “I know you can hear me.”

Esme started humming loudly to herself. Cat purred along as he followed her across the field and onto the farmer’s path beyond.

“I take it we’re going to the hedgerow again, then,” Cat continued. “More herbs for the blacksmith’s headache potion? It’s no wonder people think you’re a witch.”

“I am not a witch,” Esme snapped, pushing her hair out of her face where it had escaped her bonnet. “Herbalism is a perfectly respectable, scientific profession.”

“Heard me that time, didn’t you?” Cat said smugly, stopping to fastidiously lick a paw. Esme stomped off ahead, fixing her sights on the very hedgerow the Cat had guessed she was making her way to.

“Witch,” Cat chuckled behind her.

“Excuse me?” Esme’s tone could have cut through diamonds.

“Nothing. Just purring. Cats don’t talk. Everyone knows that.” Cat said.

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.

SAM

One eye. Two eyes. Three eyes, blinking back in the darkness as the flashlight beam glazed over them. Cicadas churned away their droning song, and a nearby river, rushing, rushing, rushing, competed for the ear of whoever might be listening.

Clouds drifted slowly and silently past, stars blinking out of existence, then just as suddenly, reappearing. Bright pinpricks sparkling in cold air.

A whisper. A breaking of a twig. A voice on the wind.

These eyes watched it all.

A flashlight beam; A lighthouse in the wilderness, drawing in ships of unknown origin and unknown intent.

By the time the battery ran down, we were close enough. The stumbling, the cursing, eventually the bleeding, it was all enough for me to follow.

I wasn’t the only one.

I laid low, followed close. Patiently, I waited for the optimal moment.

It came.

The cicadas droned on.

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

AVAILABLE HERE!