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.

TINKERBELL

If only I hadn’t stayed and slept. If only I’d gone to bed like everyone else after the story had been told. The one about their infamous ancestor. How he’d been driven mad by the sight of some hideous familiar he’d summoned in a ceremony that utilised a little handbell, which the family had kept locked in a small glass case ever since – taking care to never touch it and risk bringing the soul-taker back.

It made for an entertaining little after-dinner tale.

My hosts had been lovely, the meal delicious, the big winged leather chair comfortable, the brandy excellent. When everyone had gone to bed, I’d stayed to smoke a last cigarette outside, then decided to sit alone and finish my glass in front of the fire’s dying embers. I wasn’t used to this kind of aristocratic lifestyle. I should have guessed what would happen next: I fell asleep there.

And woke to the sound of a tinkling bell. The kind that might have been used three hundred years ago to call a servant; or something much, much worse.

Something that it is death to see.

I hadn’t paid that much attention to the story. Even the family didn’t take it seriously – they kept the bell unrung more from tradition than any belief that it could really bring forth something. A something that, once seen, would strike the ringer instantly insane, then possess their tortured soul for all eternity.

A something that – from the sewer-breath stink in the suddenly-icy air – I realised had entered the room.

So I kept my eyes screwed shut. In my terror, it was the only protection I could think of. The only way to disassociate myself from what was coming and what had taken place: that somehow, and I swear it was nothing to do with me, the bell had finally been rung again.

I had to go unnoticed. I had to not see.

In a move that would have seemed ridiculous just half an hour before I dredged up the Lord’s Prayer we learnt in childhood, and began to silently mumble its words, even as I stood and, shuffling blindly, tried to put as much distance between me and where I remember the cased handbell stood.

I must have moved several feet nearer the door and safety when my foot banged against something, just as the bell tinkled again. I didn’t remember there being any furniture there. Was I heading in the wrong direction? Would the noise I’d made attract the thing’s attention to me and away from the little bell? I would have to risk a glimpse at the obstruction.

I opened my eyes. Just a crack and for a second only, being sure to look rigidly down at the floor.

What I saw, lying there, was the case that had held the handbell, my legs, the lower half of my arms, my trembling hands.

It was the right-hand one that was holding the bell.

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.

CHILDREN SINGING

Christmas with my mother means only one thing: Cliff Richard. Mistletoe, wine, saviour’s days, praying for the millennium. Auld Lang Sign of the Cross. Ridiculous.

Mother looks greyer, more shrivelled every year. Father left a decade ago now, saying she spent more energy on Cliff than she did on him. And she has so little energy left to spend nowadays.

Cliff Richard released his first single in 1958. And He’s Still Going Strong. As mother is always so keen to point out.

I find her with the vampire at midnight on Christmas Eve. The reddish-black gleam of my mother’s blood under the electric candlelight. The jagged, unnaturally white teeth crowding around her neck. My mother’s blissful smile at her own consumption.

Still, I suppose it beats listening to Shakin’ Stevens.

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.

 

THE WHISPERING TREE OF KITALE

In the quiet hills outside Kitale, nestled between maize fields and forgotten colonial bungalows, there stood a strange fig tree that the locals only called Muti wa Kivuli — the Tree of Shadow.

No birds perched on it. No leaves ever fell. The wind passed it by as though afraid. Even animals gave it a wide berth. The elders said it was planted during the Mau Mau uprising, where a man was hanged for betraying the freedom fighters. They claimed he cursed the tree with his dying breath.                              

Nobody believed that anymore except for the people who had heard it whispered.

Nyambura was a university student visiting her grandmother during the semester break. She was curious, headstrong, and just a little bored. When she overheard her shosho telling a neighbor that the tree had started talking again, she laughed.

“It’s just a tree,” Nyambura said.

Her shosho’s (grandmother’s) face went cold. “You hear it once, and you’ll never laugh again.”

That night, sleep came slow. Crickets chirped, and a cold wind slipped through the windows. Around midnight, Nyambura woke to a strange sound—like someone whispering through dry grass.

She sat up, heart pounding. The whisper came again, clearer now. “Nyambura… kuja hapa…” Come here.

She pressed her hands over her ears, but the voice was inside her head.

Drawn like a moth to a flame, she slipped out of bed and crept barefoot into the night. The sky was heavy with clouds, and yet, the tree stood in full light—as if a spotlight from hell shone just for it.

Her feet led her there.

When she reached the tree, she saw the bark pulsing, as though it breathed. Eyes—dozens of them—blinked open across the trunk, all weeping thick, black sap.

The whispers grew louder. “Give us your pain… your fear… your blood…”

Nyambura turned to run, but the roots had shifted—twisting like snakes across the ground. She tripped. Fell. And the tree reached for her.

Just before the roots touched her skin, a sharp cry cut through the air. A rooster.

Dawn.

The tree let out a shriek so terrible it cracked nearby windows. The roots pulled back. The eyes slammed shut. The light vanished.

Nyambura crawled back home, shaking, clothes soaked with dew and black sap. Her shosho was waiting, the kettle already on the stove. She said nothing. Just handed her a mug of strong tea and whispered, “You’re not the first.”

Later that day, Nyambura returned to Nairobi. She never spoke of the night again.

But sometimes, when it rains, she dreams of the tree. Of voices calling her back.

And in Kitale, the elders say Muti wa Kivuli is awake again.

Waiting.

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.

THEY LIVED IN THE GARDEN NOW

When he died, Father had two requests. The twins, Weylan and Jalan, were well into their thirties by that time. They were both single (though there was that one time when Weylan was almost engaged, and that other time when Jalan almost ran off with Louisa Faring), so no one was waiting for them or a share of the estate.

Instead, they hovered over his bed and watched him expire. His brown skin turned ashen, but Weylan still rubbed petroleum jelly on his lips and cheeks. She pomaded his hair and chose his clothing; a zoot suit, his favorite wingtip shoes, his jazz tie. After they buried him, they began to argue about his demands.

The requests were simple:

1. Never open the shed out back.
2. Take care of the house and each other.

Weylan was fine with the first, but not the second. Jalan was against the first, but fine with the second.

“Stay away from that damn shed.” Weylan, genteel and willowy, snapped at her sister. Her accent was contrast to her looks: thick vernacular, somewhat diaspora, somewhat Southern. Jalan, short, curvy, and dark, ignored her sister’s order and hummed to herself as she dug through a drawer in the kitchen.

“No.” Jalan’s voice was clipped and neat. Jalan smiled up at her sister, her face was an exact copy of Weylan’s. Even though the twins were different shades, one light brown, the other deep earth, they were still identical.

Weylan ran her fingers through her short hair and glared at Jalan. “He only had two requests, Jay.”

“Honestly, it was three.” Jalan ticked off her fingers. “One, never open the shed, which I agreed to to appease the old coot. Two, take care of the house, which I do. And three, take care of each other, which we do.”

Weylan shrugged and counted off on her own fingers. “I’m not cleaning the house. I love you and will always look out for you, but you don’t listen, but I’m going to say it anyway: Leave. The. Shed. Alone.”

“You know he locked somethin’ up in there.” Jalan moved to another drawer. “Just gotta find the keys to open those damned locks.”

“It’s probably something dangerous.” Weylan grumbled. “Remember the goblins!”

“Remember the goblins.” Jalan snarked and rolled her eyes. “You already know.” And Weylan did know. Jalan was away at military school the summer Weylan opened the shed and accidentally freed a troupe of goblins their father had been keeping locked away. Neither of them had ever gotten over it, Weylan for the experience, Jalan for missing out on the chaos.

“I’ve never seen a goblin.” Jalan said into the quiet.

“You don’t need to see one.” Weylan replied.

“But I do.” Jalan said. She held up a ring of keys in triumph. “And I will.”

“C’mon.” Jalan’s brown eyes twinkled. “Aren’t you just a little bit curious?”

Weylan frowned, but she didn’t stop her sister when she went to open the locks.

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.

GHOST DOG

The ghost dog sniffed, atop the hill above the red brick house.  Fresh cut grass lay below.  It was near twilight, and late summer brought the sounds of crickets chirping their doomed love songs with the croaks of peeper frogs dwelling along the narrow stream that ran from the cornfield above through the stand of woods beside the house.

But trouble was there now.

Ghost dogs return to where they were most loved.  The old masters don’t know their faithful one still pads about, testing the air and nuzzling the ground, lifting spectral ears at the myriad familiar sounds that seem so real, so alive and so true.

The ghost dog knew that the Pack had changed. Packs do. 

The youngest departed not long after the ghost dog had passed, thirty years ago. Washed away like the rush of a flooding river.  But the ghost dog still smelled him along the gently rising line between the small stretch of trees leading to the stream and the mowed grass. 

The Pack’s elders had separated soon after the youngest left, and He had brought a new mate into the house. 

The ghost dog paid her scent no mind.

The Old Master missed the youngest, missed him now more than ever.  The youngest never came back.

A spider dangled from a partly spun web hanging from a thin branch.  The youngest had not liked spiders.  The ghost dog paid spiders no mind. 

They were here. 

And now again, so was he.  And here he would stay. 

Until the Old Master passed from this gray world to lay his spectral hand upon the ghost dog’s head and scratch behind his ears.  And perhaps the youngest might join them, again.  And make the present all more bountiful and kind.

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.

MOST BEAUTIFUL OF THEM ALL

The god looked at his followers, incredulous amazement rippling over his magnificent features.

“This is your offering?”

The crowd nodded, heads bouncing like toy balls. Their faces were blank and open with conscientious, diligent worship.

The god stared at what, at who had been placed before him.

“You dare disrespect me!” The god let his anger show in the flaring flames of his hair, fireballs flashing in his mouth.

The crowd cowered. The god was pleased at their response, and he waited, maintaining his resplendent display.

Amongst the shrinking cowering there began some shoving. Whispers and shouldered ripples percolated through the group, ending with the eviction of a young woman. She glanced back with betrayal and worry, exposed from her peers.

She turned to the god, who raised one glorious eyebrow at her. She swallowed and bowed, intoning,

“Your eminent marvellousness, we are grateful for your presence and your blessing, may your light shine upon us until long after the stars go out, and may your virile strength be a source of inspiration to—”

“Cease your babbling!” the god interrupted. “Explain.”

“Well, your wondrous personage, your majestic self, this is what you asked for.”

The god stared, frowning, lightning flaring between his eyebrows.

“You asked for the most beautiful creature amongst us.” He widened his flaming eyes, and the woman’s speech quickened as she continued, “And we cannot deny that Speckles is the most beautiful of all of us.”

The woman gestured at the cat sitting on a purple velvet cushion. Its grey fur was dappled with brown and white. It flicked and coiled its tail. It watched the god with large golden eyes containing barely concealed superiority and boredom.

“Speckles?” the god repeated. His irate mood had paused.

The woman nodded and turned back to her colleagues who all nodded with her.

“Yes. Because of her beautiful coat, see?”

The god bent and looked the cat in the eye. The cat gave a long blink. She turned away and did an extended, back-arched, satisfying stretch, showing tooth and claw. She proceeded to clean her front paw with a wide pink tongue.

The god reached out one large hand, and the cat turned to it. She seemed to deliberate her options.

She chose to lean forward and nuzzle him.

“Charming,” the god muttered, turning his hand over for the cat’s purring scritches. Then, louder, he added, “I accept your offering.”

The woman beamed, and the crowd sighed.

“But!” The god interrupted the relaxed, quiet celebration, “For my next offering I would like the most beautiful person amongst you.”

There were whispers in the crowd.

The god was pleased. What could possibly go wrong?

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!

 

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.

CLEAVAGE & CONSPIRACY

Ava spoke calmly, her voice matter-of-fact.

“So, if I get you right, Inspector Drummler, you and the TIU—what was it again?—the Thaumaturgical Investigation Unit—accuse Brie and myself of having killed our husbands with a magic spell? This is ridiculous! I am no witch. I know Brie casually, as I do most people in our small town. I certainly don’t believe she dabbles in black magic.” 

Ava’s gaze drifted to the young, voluptuous blonde beside her, a familiar longing stirring within her. The inspector’s stare seemed fixed on the revealing neckline of Brie’s dress, an unexpected choice for mourning attire, a detail that clearly held his attention. 

Ava stood up and reached for her handbag. “I think we’re done here. If you need anything else, Inspector, contact my lawyer.” Then she turned directly to Brie. “How about it, shall we go grab a coffee?” Under the inspector’s annoyed glare, the two women left the room together. 

Ava and Brie settled into a quiet corner of the City Diner. Telly, a waitress and the town’s well-known gossip, took their order. “I didn’t even know you were friends. My condolences to you both, by the way.” Ava nodded. “Thank you, Telly. We actually just met at the police station, and since fate has struck us in the same way…”  

While Telly went to get their coffee, Ava whispered to Brie: “The story of our police station encounter will be all over town in minutes. So, there’s no reason to pretend we’re strangers from now on.”  

Under the table, Brie squeezed Ava’s hand.

Telly returned with their coffee after a considerable wait, looking agitated. “Have you heard? Some inspector at the police station went berserk and harassed Beth at the reception desk. He supposedly ripped her blouse open, forcing them to taser him.” Eagerly, she set about spreading the news to the next table as well. 

Doubt flickered in Brie’s eyes. “Won’t they see what you did when they review the video footage from the interrogation room?” Ava waved it off. “I leaned forward to pick up my bag and covered everything in the process. No magical gestures on the tape. On the other hand, there’s plenty of evidence of the inspector’s interest in your cleavage.”  

Brie smiled. “Actually, I wore that dress for 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.

THE NIGHT PARADE

The streetlamps cast their eerie glow upon the pavement as the parade marched along the empty street. A small boy beat his drum at the back while the others sang innocently in front of him. Mary Had A Little Lamb rang out from their youthful voices. The drum thumped, and the verses grew louder as they turned onto the cul-de-sac. The houses were all dark except for one. The children saw the dim light shining in the window above and shouted, “Come on out and play!” A terrified face peered down at them. The curtain snapped shut. There was the scrambling of feet down the stairs, and a bolt was drawn. But it was no use. The children broke into laughter and passed effortlessly through the front door. They joked and jostled each other as they followed the panicked maid to the second floor. The woman futilely tried to block their way to the room. But it was no use. As they crossed the threshold, they began to chant, “Ring Around the Rosie.” The thermometer dropped from the mother’s hand when she saw them, the cracked glass slicing through its last reading, 104 F. The house filled with her shrieks as the ghouls held out their hands to her child.

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

AVAILABLE HERE!