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!

 

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.

ST. JOHN’S EVE

June twenty-third. My eighteenth Sankthansaften. Almost to the day, for I was a midsummer baby. Only one day past the full strawberry moon. Its conjunction with the summer solstice happens only once in twenty years. The first time in my whole life, and combined with my first flower ritual, the whole evening held the promise of magic.

Almost the whole village turned out for the annual bonfire. It is the highlight of our year, and the main part of our Saint Hans celebrations. We feasted on fire-roasted meats, summer berries and endless akevitte. Through the endless June evening we sang all the old songs, drank until the sun eventually slipped low in the sky, then the men lit the fire as the midsummer moon rose over the fjord.

Our beacon burned hard and fast. Rushing and roaring, the bonfire blazed high into the star-pierced sky, greedily devouring all the wood we’d been collecting for weeks and spitting out bright embers. The old ones say that the cracks, squeaks and hisses are the dying cries of evil spirits banished in the burning.

 All around Bunnefjorden, silhouettes and shadows flickered against a constellation of fierce fires. Atavistic whoops and howls and yells echoed around the fjord, criss-crossing its surface like interference ripples, while deep beneath the water lay still, cold as corpses.

We are never more alive than in the presence of death, and Sankthansaften is one of the thin nights. We grasp greedily at life – at the feast-meats, strong spirits and warm bodies – whilst we turn faces from that barely-veiled Other Place, only half-jokingly whispering promises and prayers to almost-forgotten forebears through a door briefly ajar.

In all the commotion, nobody noticed me as I slipped away.

As the sky lightened and the shortest night fled, I lay down to dream of my future husband. In silence and a maiden’s gown of fine white linen, I tucked my flower posy beneath my pillow, drifting into sleep blanketed by the sweetly anise scent of crushed fennel, one of the seven sorts the ceremony calls for.

 

. . .My vision clears, and I am standing at the fjord’s edge. I spy an old man with hazy blue eyes.

‘Welcome home, Daughter. I have been waiting for you.’

As is the way in dreams, I know he is my father, though he isn’t Pappa.

‘Beloved child, our time is short – this magical night is almost at its close. Ask your question, and you will have your answer.’

‘Father, who will I marry?’

‘This is your dream, child.’ He holds a bowl of polished obsidian, filled with swirling, iridescent water. ‘Look into the scrying skål, Freya, daughter of Njörd. Tell me what you see, I command you.’

The air reeks of ozone, lightning charged up ready to strike, and the wind rises shrieking, whipping my hair into wild knots and tangles. I stare down into the bowl, watching fascinated as the rainbow streaks move themselves purposefully into shapes. And I see. . .

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.

COMMUTER SPECIAL

I was running for the bus.

I waved frantically and yelled ‘Stop!’ as my legs kept pumping. The driver took pity on me, and the silver beast lurched to a halt. The doors hissed open, and she smiled down at me.

‘Thanks,’ I panted.

‘No problem,’ she replied. ‘Climb aboard.’

‘Climb aboard? So… I’m invited in?’

‘Sure. Why wouldn’t you-’ The driver froze, eyes widening in horror.

Too late! I leapt aboard and sank my teeth into her neck.

The air was suddenly dense with screams. Good. Let the passengers’ adrenaline provide a little seasoning.

I liked to eat my breakfast on the go.

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 FIRE BURNING BRIGHT

Another burned down house — piles of ash, deformed steel bars protruding from the walls like mocking ghosts.  The people who lived were dead — asphyxiated while asleep, charred, baring half-cooked flesh and bone.  Five of them there were — three adults, a boy and a girl — all disfigured, asymmetric, as though eaten up by a monster and then discarded.

“Back soon,” Constable Lara Smith conveyed to her deputy and walked out, vomited by the soot-filled wall.  Even the grass was black.  The tree by the window was a half-burned post pointing right to hell. 

Lara had seen corpses before.  For twenty years she had been in the business.  But that girl’s body — the only finger covered with skin, the pink nail, and the one eye exposed into a ball with an azure circle of the sky — made her feel sick in her bones.

Lara felt dizzy and slowly walked along the periphery of the house.  The backyard opened into a wild area where tall trees still stood, and she needed to see the greens, eye a living bird perched upon a bough.

The sky, though, was gloomy, as if the smoke had painted it with obscurity.  The shadowy trees looked more like a world now shrouded.  “Why’s smoke still lingering?” she felt angry.  “Smells of death.” 

“This place is bad!” She whispered. Could she not just get sick? Take off? Just once in her life?  She inhaled the pungent air slowly and sat down at a corner.  Bricks marked flower beds nearby, but only heaves of ash lay strewn across the soil.  “Maybe I will call sick,” she pushed upon the ground, attempting to get back up. 

That’s when she saw the rose.  Deep red, velvety, emanating a subtle aroma of sweetness.  A single plant, green, healthy — proclaiming life.

She brought the rose back to her apartment and put it in a crystal vase.  At night, she stared at it as she forked in pasta that still smelled of death.  Maybe she was getting a fever too.  The room felt hot, and she saw tiny flashes of light — red, blue, gold.

The doctor’s appointment was at nine AM.  It was at one AM, that the little creatures crawled out from the depths of the flower where the petals curled in.  They were a few inches tall, deep blue and with dazzling eyes burning with the fire of ancient sins.  They danced about the room and painted it with light as Lara saw glowing trees in her fevered trance.

At two AM, the creatures circled her and sang, and then they shot up to the curtains, buzzing, heating up the room with incandescent rhythms.

The curtains burned first, and then the papers, and then there was an explosion.  The rose stood still, unharmed, but stuck between two beams.

The eighth unsolved arson!  This one took down the entire apartment building.

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

AVAILABLE HERE!