“What are you doing out so late?” The old man gave me a penetrating look, wizened eyebrows knitted together in thought.
“Same as you.” I flicked my hair back and pulled my scarf closer.
Why did anyone go out at night? That time when the darkness steals vision away, giving in its place the teasing small lights. The lights and shadows twinkling like ghosts toying with mortals in the darkness.
He didn’t answer. Instead, just like the gentleman he had been for all his life, he took my arm in his own and we walked together in silence. The tranquility was a warm invitation for thought.
We watched the streetlights flicker against the golden colors of the leaves long into the night.
A microfiction I wrote before NaNoWriMo. It is a little more traditional than the fantasy I tend to write. Enjoy!
I’ve seen a lot in my lifetime. I’ve seen grown men come back from the brink of death, I’ve seen children die. But that was nothing compared to this. The smell of death and charred bodies was everywhere.
Golden light glinted off my sword even as ash fell onto it. I held it ready, the metal ready to tear into whatever hideous flesh might await me.
The precipice stretching below me was jagged, a sadistic bloody smile waiting to devour me. An internal glow emanating from the earth below was the only light in here. It was the perfect den for a worm. I held <old English for fire or truth> in my hands, ready for a strike. The enchanted sword had been made for my hands, its power intertwined with my own heartbeat, life of my own life.
I descended, wondering at what turn I would see the black eyes of the terrible dragon, Meremoth.
I’ve been dealing with quite a few computer problems over the last couple of days and with my Camp NaNoWriMo participation this month I haven’t been able to post as often as I would like. So here’s a couple microfictions in the meantime.
The hordes below the mountainside were as vast as a hill of ants. A cold sweat broke out on the sentry’s brow. His hand tightly held his sword for the comfort of its steel, as his fingers remained close to the trigger of the gun embedded in its hilt. The enemy was moving directly toward his village.
Scurrying backwards he moved silently, a figure quickly obscured by trees as he raced through the night to make his report.
He had found his lost show, along with the gold inside. The other guy hadn’t been so lucky.
The corner of the room was getting too packed for Regi’s tastes. He was watching the door, waiting for Selica. The room was unusually warm and the coffee more bitter than even those of the shops in Liran’s old town. He nearly jumped from his seat as a cup fell nearby. His nerves were tense, as they should be, not everyone survived planning a coup d’etat.
Selica was the key to the royal palace. His smooth talking would have to be at its finest on this “date”. If he could convince her to let him in, that would be all his plans needed.
The microfiction below is not my usually fare, however, the prompt generator gave me the challenge so I went with it.
It had to be under 50 words, be romantic, seasonal, contain “We can fix this”, and have an athlete in it. Total time spent was around 30 minutes from prompt generation to story completion:
“We can fix this.” The school’s star quarterback spoke gently, holding the girl’s violin in his hands as she slowly got up from the floor.
Her large brown eyes were still filled with tears, “But the Christmas concert is tonight.”
He held her close, “Then we’ll figure something out.”
(For prompt ideas check out The Story Shack Writing Prompts)
I have been challenging myself to write microfiction each weekend. The following is based on the one word prompt “chestnut” written and edited in about the span of an hour:
We’re standing in the middle of the wide open, rocky grazing land. The mesas rise like otherworldly sentinels in the distance and the brush covered land between is absolutely perfect. My partner, a beautiful chestnut mare, is standing just behind me to my right.
She started life as a wild mustang and was still pretty young when I got her at the auction. Mustangs are the best type of horse in my opinion, they still have instincts other horses have long lost in their domestication, even if their training can be long and intense.
She nudges my shoulder, the strong willed horse is ready for some water and fresh hay back at the ranch. I oblige with a grin and a quick rub of my hand on her velvety head as it sits on my shoulder. Of course, she doesn’t know why I make a point of coming out here but I know the land won’t always stay this way.
Even now I’m responding to queries from resort developers almost monthly. But for now, in this one small glorious moment of time, the land and I still have a bit of the wild running through our veins.
I saddle up and pat her neck, “Let’s go home.” Together, we ride off into the horizon.
The words of the forest were dimmer today. The young mage was unsure how to approach the ancient trees. The soldiers would be here at any time and the mage needed the words of power, now. She felt sweat bead on her forehead as the pounding of horse hooves began to echo closer. The inquisitors were likely behind their speed. She looked at the trees and then at the sky. “Please.”
She was not sure where the plea was directed, but moments later her body filled with warmth, like golden light filtering in through a storm.