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 FIGURE IN THE FRAME

It arrived in plain brown paper, unmarked and anonymous, tucked in the corner of my grandfather’s antique shop as if it had always been there. I do not recall anyone bringing it in.

The frame…dusty, ornate, almost vulgar…held a portrait: a figure facing away in a rust-hued haze, only a cheekbone and a jaw visible. His back was straight, his hands clasped like broken birds.

I meant to hang it and forget it. But I kept returning, drawn to the stillness, the suggestion of something unfinished. I told myself it was just curiosity. Nothing more.

Then, one night, the figure had changed. His right arm now hung at his side, fingers splayed. The left one outstretched. I stared at it.

Then I heard it…barely a whisper:

“Save me.”

His eyes, now facing mine, were not cruel. They were haunted.

The next day, I searched the library. Old painters, I read, often reused canvases. Layers of work buried beneath fresh paint. It explained the texture…thick, scaled brushwork at the center.

That evening, I scraped.

Beneath the top layer: another figure. Younger, mouth open in a silent scream.

It looked, by God, like my grandfather.

I scraped again.

Another. A younger man…but with familiar features. And another. Each more frantic. More decayed. Faces pressed to the surface like insects in amber. Going back through time to some unnamed past.

That night, the whispers came from the walls: “Save me!”

At dawn I returned. The canvas was white.

But not for long. Color rose through the gesso like blood through gauze.

A new figure formed. Familiar. Reaching.

It was me.

I tried to run. My limbs failed. I screamed. The sound curled inward.

The figure reached toward the edge of the frame.

And pulled me in.

They’ll find it again. They always do.

And someone will hear me whisper:

“Save me.”

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 BEAUTY’S PRICE

In the fae realm, Eloise’s beauty was both a gift and a curse. She was blessed by the gods with skin like the moonlight and eyes that held the dawn.

But no matter where she looked, the curse spread: those who look at her for too long would be trapped in endless dreams, unable to wake.

Eloise would weep under the hollow tree, longing to be free of the curse.

One night, she found her way out of the curse, by losing her beauty forever, by finding true love.

Now, everybody looks at her differently, she walks among the mortals, her soul free of grief. Some gifts corn at a high price.

 

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.

TIME FLIES

“Time around here… misbehaves.”

“Pardon?”

The old man at the other end of the bar chuckled mirthlessly and took a swig of his ale, “You’ll see, young man, you’ll see.”

Rob grinned. With his greying hair and dodgy knee, it had been a long while since anyone had called him young. He lifted his glass in salute to the old man, who scowled and went back to reading his paper.

“Don’t mind Amos, he’s harmless enough,” the barman said with a grin, revealing heavily stained teeth. “How are you settling in?”

Rob was still wondering if he’d ever met anyone actually named Amos when he realised the barman was looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, I was miles away,” he said, shaking his head. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you were settling in okay. I’m Henry, by the way.”

The two men shook hands awkwardly over the bar.

“Fantastic, thanks. The place could do with a lick of paint, but otherwise it’s in remarkable condition, considering its age. The estate agent said the house had been empty for some time?”

Henry paused—eyes narrowing—as if about to share some kind of secret. Then his expression cleared.

“Aye, I suppose it has been a while. But no matter now, eh? If you don’t mind me saying so, though, it does seem a big house for just one person.”

Rob laughed. “Oh, it’s not just me. Cathy and the kids are still back home in Seattle, sorting out the last few things over there. They’ll be joining me soon.”

“The States? Well, that explains the accent.”

“Actually, I was born over here, but we moved when I was a youngster. Folk over there think I still sound English.”

Some sixth sense made Rob glance over at Amos. The old man was glaring at him. Then he turned and looked meaningfully at the clock above the bar. Rob followed his gaze—and blinked.

“Wow! How old is that thing?”

“The Wells Clock? Dunno. It’s always been there, and I suspect it’ll be there long after we’re dead.”

“Does it work?”

Henry shrugged. “Not a clue. I’m sure it did at some point.”

“Fair enough,” said Rob. “Right, I gotta go.” From the corner of his eye, he could see Amos nodding—a humourless smile on his face.

“Give me a shout if you need anything,” said Henry.

“Thanks. I will.”

Rob opened the door—and stopped dead.

He’d gone into the pub at lunchtime. How was it now dark? He’d only been there an hour.

As he approached his new home, his concern grew. Why were the lights on?

He took out his phone, ready to call the police.

Unlocking the door, he stepped inside. “Hey!” he called. “Who’s there?”

Cathy appeared from the kitchen. “Oh, Rob, thank God it’s you. Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick.”

“What do you mean ‘Where have I been’? You weren’t due until the twelfth.”

His wife frowned.
“Rob… today is the 15th.”

 

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 TRANSFORMATION

One sings unintelligible words to an unknown melody.

One stirs the cauldron.

And one dances around her sisters in wild pirouettes to an ever faster beat.

 

The situation is exactly what you would expect at the beginning of a fairy tale. But this is no fairy tale. These witches go to my class; they probably found the book in the hands of the first one at the flea market. Actually, they invited me to cocktail night. But I wouldn’t willingly drink this concoction, the smell of which bites my nose, even without the crazy dancing and the spells. But now that I’m sitting in an old armchair with my arms and legs tied, I probably won’t have that choice.

Until a few minutes ago, I was talking at them incessantly, but the witches, who were just normal girls, don’t listen. They seem to have danced and sung themselves into a kind of trance. Their stare reminds me a little of the dancers at the disco I sometimes go to when my parents allow it.

“Cats are great,” one of them said at the very beginning, before they persuaded me to try out the comfy recliner, lie back in it and close my eyes. So it was a cat. I’m actually allergic to cats, but they found that even funnier.

They are already singing the last verse, stirring one last time, finishing the dance: the potion is ready. I keep my mouth firmly shut as they approach with the steaming ladle. But after one of them pulls the glowing poker out of the fire, I no longer resist. Part of me still hopes that the magic is less real than the glowing iron.

As I take a sip of the hot, smelly brew, the three of them sit down around me and stare at me. Their eyes look normal again, curious and perhaps a little scared, as if they are slowly beginning to understand. But that doesn’t help me anymore.

The hot potion bubbles in my stomach and the heat begins to spread, slowly but steadily. Where I was tugging at my bonds until a moment ago, I feel the change first. My skin seems to soften, becoming almost liquid, to let the extra hair through. I’m not in pain yet, my arms and legs no longer belong to me. I hope it will stay that way.

The others only notice when the change reaches my bare hands. I don’t see the expected triumph on their faces. They almost seem sorry. But now it’s too late. All we can do now is wait.

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.

WHAT HE DESERVED

Drawing fiery symbols in the air with her wand, Morticia chanted words of power, and a lightning bolt split the sky.

She eyed the abusive rat who’d had the nerve to deny her accusations only moments earlier, and knew calling him that was an insult to actual vermin. More accurately, he was a putrid, festering pustule on a louse’s ass. For abusing her sister, he deserved what she’d planned and much, much more.

Aiming her wand at him, she finished her spell, and watched her magic course through his body, changing it completely.

One thing was certain. He’d never hurt a wife again, not unless a different type of female became partners with him and he harmed her, too.

Morticia gave him one final look, smiled grimly as she admired her handiwork, and walked away.

Behind her, the transformed man-now-roach trembled.

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.

KEEP YOUR MOUTH CLOSED

“What is your greatest desire?”

Katy pinched her lips. She focused on the swirling black smoke, unable to speak.

The handsome djinn offered riches and servitude, but she remained frozen in agonising fear.

That beard. Thick and braided like oiled rope, it beckoned her closer.

When Katy didn’t approach, it coiled in a spiral, the loose ends forming a head that hissed and snarled. The viper stretched and elongated…closing in.  

Lightheaded, her guts twisted up, she screamed.

The braid unraveled. Thick tendrils slithered down her throat; suffocating smoke enveloped her whole body, and the wicked djinn possessed his new vessel.

 

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.

PHASE TWO

Body going stiff, the rat toppled over without uttering a sound, fluids seeping from every orifice.

“Not bad,” Dr. Filan commented. “That’s much faster than before.” 

Dr. Moon nodded. “If we don’t dilute the mixture as much…”

“The reaction would be almost instantaneous.”

Two days later, they exchanged satisfied looks and Filan announced, “It’s time for the next phase.”

Moon agreed.

When the first wisps of gas trickled from the hidden canister, nobody in the theater knew. The people standing closest to it collapsed. Those sitting slumped sideways or forward, and soon, the rest of the audience were affected, too.

Newspaper accounts identified the culprit as a random gas leak, but a certain group of people knew better and were delighted. The first human trial had been a complete success.

 

 

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.

BALANCE

From the cover afforded to me by the tangled branches of the yew trees, I watched the rangers as they surveyed my prey. The younger ranger stared down at the battered body lying on the trail, the fur matted with blood, antlers splintered as though they were nothing more than snapped twigs. A red deer. A big one too. Not an animal so easily felled.

It had been foolish of me to leave it on the open path. My father had taught me better than that.

“What do you reckon?” the older ranger asked.

 “No idea,” the younger ranger said. “Another stag, maybe?”

The older ranger shook his head. “Don’t know about that. It isn’t rutting season and as far as I know deer don’t leave claw marks like that on each other.”

He gripped his rifle with a well-practiced ease, causing my fur to stand on end. I couldn’t help but loose a low snarl. They didn’t know I was doing them a favour. That I was out here serving the land as they did.

Why would they? As far as they knew, the last wolf in Ireland was killed in the 18^th century. Hunted to extinction because of Cromwell’s bounty. They didn’t know we still roam this land. That we hunt together in packs. Or that we could walk amongst them in their form. How could they? We are only folktales to them.

My snarl must have been heard because the younger ranger whipped his head around, staring at the copse of trees where I now hid. I froze.

“Remember,” I heard my father’s voice in my head, “we don’t kill humans.”

I’d try my best, but if one pointed a rifle at me, they wouldn’t give me much choice.

The younger ranger took a step towards the trees. “Who’s there?”

The older ranger came to stand beside him, raising his rifle. My heart pounded. I didn’t want to be seen. If wolves were discovered here, we would be rounded up, captured, and probably put in some kind of zoo. I couldn’t have that. There was too much work left to do.

“There’s nothing there, you eejit,” the older ranger said. “Come on, we need to report the deer carcass.” He turned around, walking back towards their vehicle. Eventually, the other ranger tore his gaze from the trees and followed. At last, I could breathe.

Without hesitation, I sprinted off in the opposite direction of the path, through the forest, relieved to still have my freedom. I wondered if they would eat the deer or let it go to waste. Humans were terribly good at that.

I wished I didn’t have to take so many risks. But as my father had taught me, if we did not hunt the deer then there would be too many, they would overgraze and eventually the forest would be gone and with it so much life. I am ní tíre. A daughter of the land. And I must hunt to keep the balance.

 

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.

OUR LITTLE SECRET

While cutting some homemade soba noodles, I accidentally sliced off my forefinger.

Reacting quickly, I dropped my hand into the pot of water boiling away on the stove. I hummed as I stirred the water gently and watched the small stream of blood swirl into a pretty chrysanthemum design before dissipating into the bubbles.

When the bleeding stopped, I was pleased to see that the wound had already healed over. Blood I can handle, but exposed bone, na-ah.

I rinsed my severed finger and placed it on a piece of paper towel to dry, then rinsed off the cutting board. All is clean again!

Hmm, but what to do for a new finger? I eyed the soba noodle dough. The color is a bit dark, but a little magic will fix that…

I broke off enough dough to roll out a new finger, comparing the length and shape of the severed one; rolling and kneading until it was perfect.

When I was satisfied with my clever craftsmanship, I held the soba finger against my stub and muttered an effective healing spell. The soba finger attached nicely and adjusted its shade until it matched my skin tone. A new nail grew, and I even discovered fine hairs growing above the new knuckle. Flawless!

I gave the new finger a wiggle to confirm that it was firmly bonded. With a chuckle and a grin, I tossed my old finger into Butterscotch’s bowl. That cat kept all my secrets; he deserved a treat.

We had a little cuddle together later, and he chewed my ear playfully—always the left one.

I think he can still taste the cinnamon cookie dough.

 

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.

AFTER THE BATTLE

I watch as in the castle cellar he scrubs his spear, the knife he employed at the end, all that gore needing to be scraped off before he can use anything again. My man stands straight now, but I know he limps from the blow I gave him with my tail.

He still wears the armour that withstood my fire, battered now and covered with broken scales, and in this dim light the steel seems dull, though there was a brief moment when I thought he shone.

But my mind plays tricks, I think. It’s understandable; the occasion was significant. He appeared small outside my cave, sweat stains already present on his horse’s few caparisons. I did wonder why they’d sent this one after all those armies I’d faced. His helmet wasn’t even plumed, and the cloak he wore was threadbare.

Now I ponder his horse; I never liked killing them, and maybe that’s why I hesitated, that valiant animal rushing pell-mell in my direction with no thought spared for itself. But no: he had his own skill, that thrust he made with his ancient sword stretching towards my heart.

Tomorrow they’ll place the bright crown on his ragged hair, adorn his bruised body with jewelled robes. I hope he gets some sleep between now and then, for his shoulders slump with weariness, and there’s a burn on his wrist from my blood-poison.

Over the years, there have been other heroes, maybe better. This one slayed me, though, so I stick with him. 

 

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

AVAILABLE HERE!