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.

HEART OF STONE

I woke up with a start, heart pounding, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like mist.

The same one again—a shadowed figure with wings carved of stone and sorrow, his eyes glowing faintly with some ancient, unknowable emotion. He wasn’t just watching—he was waiting. For me. This time, though, I could feel his presence more clearly, as if the dream was bleeding into reality. A gargoyle, always watching, always waiting.

I sat up, pushing the damp hair off my forehead and glanced at the clock: 3:17 a.m. The dream had jolted me awake at the witching hour. Of course it had. I sighed and flopped back against my pillow, staring at the ceiling of my dorm room. There was no way I was getting back to sleep now.

For weeks, the dreams had been plaguing me, growing more vivid each night. A campus full of magic and secrets, a stone figure watching from the shadows. Sometimes I heard whispers—fragments of spells in a language that felt carved into my bones. Other times, I’d feel the weight of his gaze—glowing eyes that saw through me, as if he knew the parts I tried hardest to hide.

I needed air.

Throwing off my blankets, I padded across the room, my bare feet cold against the wooden floor. I grabbed my favourite hoodie—the one with the Blackwell University crest—and slipped out the door as quietly as possible. The dorm hallways were eerily silent at this hour, the faint glow of emergency lights casting long shadows on the walls.

The loft space on the second floor had become my haven lately. It was a quiet little alcove with overstuffed chairs, a scattering of books left behind by other students, and wide windows overlooking the quad.

I made my way down the stairs; my mind still clouded with the remnants of the dream. Why a gargoyle? What was it trying to tell me? The dreams weren’t just random nightmares. They felt more like… messages. Warnings, maybe.

Professor Harlow’s voice echoed in my head—last week she’d warned us about the sentinels of old magic, stone guardians bound by blood and purpose. Some believed they’d been lovers once—bound to witches whose names had long since faded. I hadn’t dared to ask if any still existed. What if the answer had been yes? I couldn’t afford to draw attention to myself. Not after what happened at my last school.

Reaching the second floor, I pushed open the heavy door. The soft glow of a reading lamp lit the far corner. A stack of books was strewn across the coffee table.

I collapsed into one of the chairs, tucking my legs beneath me and pulling a book off the top of the pile. Ancient Runes of Protection and Binding. Perfect. If I couldn’t sleep, I might as well study. The familiar hum of magic stirred within me, always just beneath the surface, and I shoved it down. No magic tonight. No more dreams.

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.

SKELLIG MICHAEL

When they left New York for Ireland, friends told them to be sure to go to Dingle and Skellig Michael. Ethan and May met in the 1980’s, waiting in line to see the first Star Wars movie. Now they’d travel to where the last movie was filmed.      

            They hired a boat to take them out implying they were movie scouts. Their plan was to stay overnight, do some filming in costume. May’s  hair was in Princess Leia style braids. Ethan’s light saber was disguised as a walking cane. May wanted to get out before the tourist boats, to hide their supplies. Once the tourist boats left for the day, they’d have the rest of the day and all night to themselves.

            It wasn’t easy to make their way up the stone stairway of Skellig Micheal with all their equipment. Finally, they were  here, Skywalker country. May pulled the nylon blanket out and set it on the ground. She pulled out her altar bits, a candle, food offering, crystals.  It was impossible to keep the candles lit, though.

             May and Ethan sat across from each other, eyes locking on the infinite, and began to chant. Ohm was first, then bee breath. They stood and began qigong practice, to align with the natural energy. The wind began to buffet, but they didn’t notice, and they both began to feel aligned with the energies of this island. May was in a trance state. She began to chat up the monks from long ago in this alternative state. May explained what she and Ethan were there for, how they had met waiting in line during the first Star Wars movies, and this had been their dream.        

            As May explained this, she heard an exclamation of incredulousness and confusion. Silence! SILENCE !  May seemed to hear this from inside her head. Confused,  she looked up. Who was there?  With her third eye she saw a figure, wrapped in dark cloth, wavering before her. There was a strong sense of disapproval.

            Could this be Darth himself? God help her! It couldn’t be. May calmed and tried to imagine the strength of  Princess Leia. She stood regally, dressed in her Princess Leia costume. Behind the dark figure several more silent wraiths began  filling in with light. The sun chose that moment to break through the clouds, and damned if a sunbeam didn’t slice thru the lot of them. And yet they stayed.

            The figures began to chant, circled around the couple, holding crosses up. The chanting grew stronger and stronger. May and Ethan were overcome with the chanting, which sounded like old Irish mixed with old Latin. The crosses held high caught sunlight, and their attention. They fell in a heap.

            Much later, when May and Ethan woke in their B&B, memories of the day were foggy and they were both very hungry. May said,” Ethan, how about I comb out these braids, clean up, and we can find a restaurant?”

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.

CHRISTMAS EVE

Bastet weaves through the crowd stomping along the streets with ease. Everyone is dressed in thick winter coats and gloves, which she has also donned so she doesn’t stand out. Her puffy coat is a garish yellow with a bright orange scarf to match. They were the only ones she could find on such short notice.

As she attempts to scan the crowd again, her foot catches on a gap in the pavement. She pinwheels her arms before falling flat on her face. A few of the humans give her sympathetic looks as they pass her. She jumps to her feet with a hiss, running her tongue along a tooth that feels like it might be chipped.

She’s not used to a human body.

It’s been years since she had to use her human form and her clumsiness is evident. She had wanted to remain in her feline form, until she realised that there were too many humans. They’re celebrating a holiday called Christmas Eve, where everyone is required to rush about in a loud panic to get ready for Christmas. She doesn’t understand why they don’t just get ready in advance but knows better than to try to make sense of their customs.

A cold gust of wind blows her dark hair in all directions. The scowl on her face deepens and she wishes the human she was looking for would show himself already.

There’s a break in the crowd towards the road, so she darts through it. Her fingers begin to tingle from the freezing temperatures, and she just wants to return to her warm den.

But then she spots him.

A man, leaning against a wall of one of the human shops. His face is covered in sweat and his coat is unzipped as if he’s boiling hot. His skin is almost grey and his breathing is laboured, like his lungs aren’t taking in enough air.

But Bastet knows it’s him from the smell. Although he’s still alive, just, the scent of decay is unmistakable. Her lips press into a fine line as she mulls over her options. She must get him away from the crowd before the infection reaches its peak.

While crossing the road she once more stumbles over her own feet and curses to herself. In the second that she looked away, the man has gone.

Panic rises in her chest as she looks in both directions before spotting him. There are now colourful bags in one of his hands while the other is leading a young girl forward. Bastet’s instincts kick in as the man suddenly stops, clutching his chest. She rushes forward and manages to rip the girl out of his weak grip.

“Hey!” A woman walking just ahead of him whirls around. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The man moans and snaps his head to glare at the woman. Before Bastet can react, he lunges forward and sinks his teeth into the woman’s hand.

She’s failed to stop the plague. 

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.

ALWAYS NUMB

I walk the shoreline daily, sandaled-toes sinking in the sand, sea salt spraying my face and the wind twirling my hair.

It’s cold today, and drizzling, but that’s okay. I’m always numb.

While walking, I see a small animal trapped in some washed up seaweed, As I approach, I see a tail flap against the ground, then a little flipper sticks up. A baby seal? I remove the seaweed to free it—the creature looks back at me with a human face. A child of another world.

I wrap it in my shawl and head home. At last, I feel love.

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.

PRISON

“Anyway, I wanted to tell you in person,” the detective said. “But don’t worry… we’ll catch him.” He turned to leave.

Lucy smiled her thanks and closed the door. The detective’s footsteps echoed down the hall.

She approached her bookshelf. Gently she picked up a snow globe and considered the scene within. She shook it violently, then watched the snowflakes drift back down. Again and again she shook it, only stopping when her arm grew tired.

She placed the snow globe back on the shelf, watching the snow slowly settle. Tiny specks of red dotted the inside of the glass.

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.

HER BLOOD IN THE ICE

Deliverance spied the frozen heart-shape in a water-filled rut along the Arkham road, its frosty surface turned partly to ice in the November chill, late in the day, as she returned home from her market stall in the town. Her bundles of herbs and bottles of physick had not sold well, despite the farm families thronging the market. She laid the blame in part on the chill in the air, in part on a binding cast by her rival and former student, Sapphira. Not only had she cut into her livelihood, she had once stolen Deliverance’s lover. But two could play at opposing castings, one playing upon the other, point and counterpoint, spell and counterspell. No doubt this heart-shape had formed in the ice at Sapphira’s bidding, a sign to flout her power and taunt Deliverance’s weakened state.

She still had a snippet of her lover’s red-gold hair, hidden in a box beneath her bed, a token to recall the man and her sentiment for him, and a sample against his betrayal, in case she must return the favour. Returning to her cottage, she found it, taking strands from it which she wrapped twice about the base of her little finger. Venturing back into the cold and the fading day, she found the roadside rut, kneeling over it. Breathing on it once, twice, thrice, she warmed its surface enough to create a slick of water to form upon the icy glaze. Unwinding the hairs, she laid them upon the ice, and called upon the cold breeze to bend her way. The bare branches of the oak shading the road swayed; the breeze brushed her cheek, prickling in the sudden chill. She tapped the pondlet with a bare finger, finding it solid once again, the hairs embedded into the ice. Taking the bone-handled knife from her belt, she turned it handle downward and raising it, whilst murmuring her lover’s name, she brought down the knife handle. Once, twice, thrice, she struck the ice and once, twice, thrice, she spoke his name.

On the third pronouncement, the word on her lips rose to a scream as the ice broke beneath her strike, and a pain shattered her chest. She sank to the frozen earth, her cheek hitting the gravel and frozen mud. She would have laughed if the pain had not taken away her breath, if it had not already dimmed her eyes and slowed her heart. Too late she saw a reddish tinge in the mud beneath the ice. Some blood of hers, tokens to her lover and to her student. She should have expected as much, that the lovely sign also served as a trap. She should have expected her student would use such tricks. Sapphira had learned well, learned enough to entrap her teacher and end their partnership when the teacher had nothing left to give…

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.

FROST FAIRIES

Fairies in the frosted hedgerows, watching for lone travellers, giggle at the pranks they’ve planned.

Here comes one now, a fellow back from the tavern, a little worse for wear.

The fairies puff out handfuls of ice crystals which whirl and dance about the man, entrancing him with a scintillating swirl of light.

Out from the bushes they fly, leering at him, but he cannot see them. The fairies guide him off the lane and deep into the woods, abandoning him lost and alone, hiding in trees to watch him shiver and wander, confused, desperate to find his way home.

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.

MY DARLING

“For you, my darling.” Eighty-year-old Rudy produced a red rose from behind his back.

“It’s beautiful.” His wife Ava sniffed it, eyes glowing.

Her radiant smile warmed him, his heart overflowing. Wanting to bring her more joy, Rudy concentrated on the dirt at their feet.

It moved, a tiny sprout soon rising from the ground. The plant’s stem lengthened, leaves popping out.

As the rose bush grew rapidly, the earth shook. Clumps of soil shifted, more plants emerging.

Soon dozens of bushes surrounded Rudy and Ava.

She gently brushed her fingers across the blooms, tears of happiness in her eyes.

 

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.

TETHERED

He stands in his kitchen, coffee mug in hand. I don’t remember waking up.

Is it a workday? He’s wearing a tie… or is he? Everything is foggy. Distant voices—his wife and son.

He’s outside. The big oak in the front yard. Pushing Tommy on the tire swing. The rope fraying, but he knows it will hold. Is this a memory?

Tommy and the swing disappear.

***

Tom opens the car door, briefcase in hand. He hesitates, one foot inside.

It’s a clear, still day. Yet despite the lack of wind, the tire swing on the old oak is swaying.

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

AVAILABLE HERE!