Happy Halloween tomorrow!

Time for spooky bite-sized stories from around the world. Don’t forget to look for the links after my story!

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Harvest

Fall is supposed to be a time of abundance, of harvest. Only problem is—the thing gettin’ harvested is me.

Weather is still t-shirt during the day, hoodie at night, but there’s a scab in the crease of my elbow, right over the vein that wasn’t there last night, before my friends dragged me bar-hopping, no hoodie involved. A backless front with string ties in a shimmering copper that lit the highlights in my hair, skin-tight pair of jeans, sky-high leather boots.

Not much of a hangover today and no gaps in my memory. So how did I get that mark and the bruise around it?

Time to retrace my steps along the bar-route.

In a hoodie.

Fool me once, shame on you. Twice? Mama gonna rise from her grave to shame me herself.

*

Ain’t never been a bar that looks at good in the daylight as it does at night. Most of ‘em—bartender included—just look sad, and this one ain’t no exception.

He’d be tall, dark, and handsome, ‘cept for the bags under his eyes and the irritation all over his face. “We don’t have cameras,” he tells me. Again.

Out of desperation, I shove up my sleeve, show him the mark.

He freezes, uncomfortably long, to where I just want him to breathe again and am getting ready to tell him so, but then he says, “Could be a spider bite, but we don’t have bug problems here. Check the sign.” Points.

Someone’s tacked up an inspection certificate and the date on it’s recent. I give him the hairy eyeball, but he doesn’t budge. Eventually, reluctantly, says, “Try two bars down.”

So I go.

Two bars down is a little more upscale—newer carpets, newer paint, three anemic-looking dudes vacuuming and wiping tables. Lights are still dim for daytime, but I can see the cobwebs in the corners and an eight-legged shadow in the dark.

I shudder. If that thing bit me, I outta be Spiderman by now. Ain’t never coming back to this bar. No way, no how. I catch the eye of one of the vacuumers and ask him a few perfunctory questions, but I can’t hold out for long. There’s more webs, more spiders giving me the ick.

Yeah, one of them bit me somehow while I was drinking or dancing. At least it wasn’t vampires.

Not that vampires exist.

*

 Outside that bar, I convulsively wipe off my hoodie, feeling spiderlegs on my skin where there aren’t any spiders. Need another drink.

And since the sun is setting and the bars are opening, I may just get myself one. Not at the spider-bar though.

Another shudder.

The other bar—where I talked to tall, dark, and tired—has potential. I head back that way.

In the shadows of the alleys between the bars, something moves. Something white flashes and then there is a soft, wet sound. Suspiciously like slurping.

No. I’m letting all the pumpkin spice eat my brain. The Something in there is likely two people having sexy-fun-times.

Doesn’t sound like that, though. Someone groans just a little, like they’ve had the best meal of their life. One shadow sets the other shadow gently on the ground.

Turns toward me.

My feet are frozen and my heart is racing.

There ain’t no such things as vampires—

---

Too much pumpkins spice? Giant spider? Vampire? Let me know your best guess! :D

We don’t have many stories this time around, but here is what we do have:

Existential Conundrum by T. R. Neff

The Big Red Eye by Gina Fabio

How I lost Tom by Katharina Gerlach

Broken Hearted by James Husum

Time for tiny treats from around the world - bits of sweet and savory and maybe even sour all in bite-sized chunks from some of my favorite authors…

And here’s a bite of my own which might end up a series of stories, and might or might not be the first in the series (not sure yet!) But I hope you enjoy getting to know my thief -

Scroll to the bottom for links to the other stories!

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Thief

I don’t like to steal from my co-workers, but sometimes— sometimes need outweighs want. Especially when magic is involved.

This time, it started in the break room.

I’d been intending on a quick, quiet lunch, but when I walked into the space, someone else occupied it and their lunch smelled like fish.

Ew.

“Oh, hey, Tia.” Her voice rough, her eyes red with crying and a hint of hopelessness, and— as she turned away from me— the Bvlgari watch on her wrist flashing.

In that moment, despite the fish, I wanted.

And started to plan.

We didn’t work on the same team, so I’d have to do it arriving at work, or leaving, or lunch.

Not this lunch, though. If I was caught, it would break the magic. If someone noticed but didn’t have quite enough to accuse me— sheer awkwardness.

So I watched her for days, plotted my attack, did a couple dry runs, then committed.

After one of those big rah-rah sales meetings, I just happened to walk out in the same group, just happened to have parked my quiet little Camry next to her shimmering blue four-door Tesla.

Matched our paths as more and more of the crowd peeled off. Found the surveillance cameras’ blind spot.

Reached—

My cell phone vibrated.

Only thing more important than stealing was not being caught, so all in the same breath, I drew my phone from my pocket, circled around the front of my car instead of the back, and answered, “Hello, Sunshine!”

“Mom, you wouldn’t believe—”

I let my daughter’s voice wash over me, wash away the burning need, as she shared the minutia of her college day and I walked away from the theft I’d planned and planned.

*

Of course, I didn’t give up. I told you— need, not want.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a matter of pushing back a day and going with the same plan.

Sarah called in sick for the rest of the week.

Whenever I despaired, I pictured it again— the hitch in her voice, the crying, the hopelessness, the watch— and resolved to be patient.

She finally showed up on a Friday, right before lunchtime.

“Tia, Tia, Tia—” My boss had noticed me watching Sarah. And from the look on her face, my boss had also noticed my lackluster performance this week.

All the excuses rushed to escape. I cut them off, pressing my lips closed. Blinked hard to form up some tears. Waited.

She hesitated, derailed from scolding. “Everything okay?”

“Some personal stuff,” I quavered bravely.

“Do you want to take some time off?”

Leave before Sarah? Miss what might be my last opportunity? No!

That would look great— me lurking near Sarah’s car instead of going home. Popping up when she opened her door and slipping past— stealing—

Politely, “No, thank you.”

“Then clock out and go to lunch,” the boss said sharply. She softened her tone and continued, “Get your head on straight. Then get back here and focus. Finish something so I can justify not writing you up.”

I could do that. Finish something. Lunch— my fingertips itched. If Sarah came into the break room, I could steal it then.

Today, the break area smelled inexplicably like spaghetti, though none of the five other people in it were eating spaghetti. I nodded a casual hello, ate my salad, read my book, lingered past when I should have and lingered until just before a reprimand—

Hustled back to my desk, only to have a coworker pop her head over the divider. “Did you hear? She quit! Took her check and went!”

Right— more than just my boss had noticed my attention. Getting sloppy.

Then the words really hit me. She’d quit? Left the building, never coming back?

Dammit.

Missed my chance.

*

Pure happenstance saved me.

That and a lovely cool slushy on a hot day.

I snuck into the closest gas-and-snacks and she walked in after me, towing a little boy. No Tesla in the parking lot, just a jacked up black truck.

Every nerve on my body lit up, but I got my drink, watched Sarah and her boy get a few snacks. Watched her swing her long hair over the left side of her face.

She’d done a great job with her makeup, but unless you have the right shades, it’s hard to truly cover up a bruise that spectacular. And in the shape of a handprint.

Maybe a bruise under that watch, too.

Need thrummed in me and my focus narrowed.

In the snack isle, I brushed against her, elbow to elbow.

Stole the swell of hopelessness.

Grabbed some peanuts to go with my slushee and headed to the counter to pay.

A giant of a man took my cash, and when our fingertips touched, I stole from him too— not much, just the edges of the need to not get involved. He was mostly there anyway— he’d noticed the handprint. All I did was nudge.

Then I turned and watched as Sarah’s chin came up and her lips thinned and she found the courage that had been smothered under hopelessness. She couldn’t look the convenience store clerk in the eye, but she still whispered, “Do you have a back exit?”

The clerk-turned-hero nodded. “Back that way, ma’am,” he murmured, “And I have a friend who likes to help in these situations. A woman. If you’re willing to wait a bit. She’ll take care of everything. He won’t be able to find you.”

Sarah took a tighter grip on her little boy’s hand, but she nodded and slipped to the back of the store.

The hero stepped outside. Despite the size of the truck, loomed over Sarah’s husband until he fled with a squeal of tires.

Two thefts for the price of one. Maybe three— four?— if I counted stealing a wife and son from the abusive asshole.

A good day.

---

Check out the other stories here:

Spam or Not Spam, That is the Question! by Katharina Gerlach
Two Feet by Chris Makowski
Trampler of Dreams by Gina Fabio
Good Dog by Angelica Medlin
She Stood by Lyn McCarty
Not all Heros Wear Capes by Vanessa Wells
Morning Monsters by Jon Cloud
Some Imagination by James Husum

Happy spring! It’s fine for free stories from around the world.

My contribution this month has a familiar theme, but a slightly different take - let me know what you think!

And don’t forget - scroll to the bottom for the other free stories! Enjoy!!!

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POSSESSION

It smelled like any other courtroom—stale coffee, sweat, desperation, and triumph. To add to the insult, it looked like any other courtroom too—the TV version—heavy wood everywhere, the judge’s stand in the center, the jury box to her right, and on the left, the court stenographer’s desk.

 Prosecutor and Defense Attorney tables between the court area and the audience seats. Empty, empty, empty.

 Dana took the long, slow walk to the lectern facing the judge, murmured, “Where do I sit?”

 rosecutor’s table, the demon—unpronounceable name who grudgingly told her she could call him Bob—grumbled inside her.

 “But I’m also the defense. You’re suing me,” Dana reminded him.

 Bob snarled, Simple case of landlord/tenant under statute—

 “Save it for the judge.”

 A side door opened and a uniformed officer stepped into the room.

 Then a priest.

 Dana wasn’t versed enough in the common religions to decide which denomination he belonged to, but he looked appropriately attired—in the movie sense, again. Why didn’t she know these things without relying on movies?

 One of the doors behind her also opened, and her attorney came through, chatting with the demon’s attorney. Both she and the demon straightened.

 “Ah, yes.” The prosecutor eyed her up and down. “Demon Bob is also present?”

 The demon rose up inside her, took her vision, her muscles, her mouth. Here.

 “Excellent.”

 The defense looked as if she wanted to break in, but the prosecutor hurried on, “We’ve talked about it. You’ll sit where you belong, depending on who is… in charge?”

 “Ascendent.” Dana and Bob together, giving so much power to the word that the lights flickered and dimmed.

 The priest raised his bible, but before he could do more than that, the defense said sharply, “None of that. That’s part of the problem, isn’t it? None of that today.”

 Dana and Bob bowed their head.

*

It had looked, Dana later reflected, somewhat like a bizarre game of ping pong. Their body had moved back and forth between the two tables, doing their best to be in the correct place depending on who was ascendent, but both of them had a tendency to be snarky when under pressure, and how could there be any more pressure than when deciding their fate?

 So back and forth they went, with everyone else watching suspiciously each time they moved.

 By the end of it, the priest was a twitching mess but the uniformed officers had finally relaxed.

 During one particularly droning expert, she wailed silently, “Why are you doing this?”

 He snorted. I’m here to stay. Deal.

 “But—”

 And then the attorney asked another question and they were off again.

 The stand, at least, was simpler, from the movement point of view—their body could stay in one place while testifying, even if they had to switch who was in charge. Especially since because she hosted the demon, Dana had been denied her right to plead the fifth.

 So they testified and were cross-examined, and the tension wound tighter and tighter until their body prickled with sweat and the priest wilted in his chair.

 But in the end, it seemed all her arguing had been for nothing. After hearing all the witnesses and Dana and Bob themselves, the judge decided, “Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” and forbade Dana from any more exorcisms.

 The gavel smashed down like the final period to end the sentence of Dana’s life.

 Bob receded, triumphant and secure, leaving Dana to stagger out of the court room. The attorneys each said things Dana didn’t hear. She passed them by and made it to the front steps of the building before her knees gave out.

 Dazed, she watched the priest run down the steps, fleeing her and her corruption, then the lawyers, chatting like old friends.

 Her partner had already left, holes in their apartment and life she hadn’t yet filled. Her family would disown her.

 But—so quietly that the demo Bob wouldn’t hear it—she whispered to herself that he would never leave. In fact, he’d fought to stay. Fought harder than anyone else in her life.

Maybe his possession wouldn’t be so bad after all.

---

More stories here:
Automatic Transcript--Part 6 by Kathrina Gerlach

Working With Stan by Bill Bush

Lessons by T. R. Neff

The Perfect Gift by Gina Fabio

The One That Got Away by James Husum

Sneak Peek: Midlife Ghostwalker by Juneta Key

Happy End of February!

Time for our blog hop - flash fiction (under 1k words) from around the world. This time, the basic story concept has been nagging at me for a couple years, and if I get around to it, I’ll expand it out to something longer (but other stories are in the queue first).

Enjoy! And don’t forget to scroll down to the bottom for links to the other stories in the blog hop..

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A Whole New World

I blinked, rubbed my eyes, looked again. The body on the worn carpet did not do me the favor of becoming any more human.

“What is this?”

“Dead body.”

I gave him my not amused glare. “No shit.”

“There are more things in heaven—”

“Do not quote Shakespeare at me. In public.” More in a hallway than in true public, but— A grin stole my mouth. “Someone might overhear you and get the wrong idea… that cops can be educated. Dare I say… ”

“Smart?” He snorted, the corners of his eyes squinting as he held back his own smile.

“Don’t laugh either.”

“Not while standing over a dead body?”

“Public perception,” I reminded him, cheating a glance toward the front room where more and more people were arriving. “Dumb, heartless bastards.”

“Yeah.” He sobered. Stared back down at the body. “So…?”

“Right.” I let my eyes focus beyond the body, scan the room. “Could be an elaborate prank.”

“Could be. Except for—” He jerked one thumb, indicating the Hispanic woman currently sobbing hysterically at the patrol officer and everyone else in the living room. As her family gathered around her, they seemed to catch her hysteria. I’d happily deal with the dead body rather than the family.

Not that I blamed her— if she’d seen what I saw.

And what I saw…

The victim, sprawled on her back between the bed and the door, in the only empty floor space. We’d hit the body with the door, forcing it open enough to see the victim was dead. And big, bigger than me, bigger than my partner, and he wasn’t short. Top half— woman, with a blue tint to her hair and bluer skin than would be accounted for by death. Bottom half— fins and scales.

I looked past the elephant-fish in the room. Small desk in one corner, the top overflowing with papers and leftovers from last night— a local Peruvian place to die for.

Well, hopefully not.

Neatly made bed and on top of the blanket, a veritable bucket of makeup, some of it open. Smudges of foundation on the victim’s face and fingers.

She’d been killed while making herself look more human.

I strangled the rising sympathy before it got past my breastbone. Feelings could come later, when I was alone and safe. Now, though— “Isn’t there some rule? About hiding from the humans?”

“Sure.” He winced. “I mean, I’m sure there must be, or they— we would have seen more of them. Before now.”

Now I turned my tell me the truth look on my partner. Let it dwell. He was tall and thin, pale with dark hair, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. In my line of work, leaning on stereotypes could get me killed. I murmured, “You got a call before Dispatch did. Anything you want to tell me?”

He had some resistance, but the longer I waited without speaking, the more he sweated, and the more he sweated, the more his mouth opened and closed, biting back words, and then— “I need your help. I don’t have the training for this.”

“Yet.” After all, I was training him.

He nodded. Looked relieved I hadn’t demanded to know what he was. “Yet. But these murders are happening now—”

“Murders. Plural.”

“Yeah.” His shoulders hunched. “Yeah, now. Three so far.”

“Same M.O.?”

“We covered up the first two.” Now he sniffed as if he hadn’t agreed with someone else’s decision— then wrinkled his nose and covered his mouth, regret at sucking in a giant whiff of death. “I’ve done what I could. Questioned everyone who knew the victims. But I’m obviously missing something, because—” he waved toward the newest body.

My gaze went back to the tail. “A real, live… er, dead, mermaid,” I breathed. “But why was she living on land?”

He shrugged. “Allergic to water.”

“Sorry, what?”

“It happens in about ten percent of the nereid population.” He started to shove his hands in his pockets, reconsidered, let his arms hang awkwardly at his sides. “They get rashes and their scales fall off in patches. It’s a whole thing. So they live on land and only get wet once a day in the shower, and everyone’s happy.”

“Obviously not everyone.” I squatted, examined the ligature mark on her neck. “What did they strangle you with, huh?” The mark had a faint pattern to it. If I could just make it out—

“So, you’ll help?”

I looked up at my newbie detective partner and realized two things— first, I’d twisted my neck at such an awkward angle it felt like a pulled muscle; and second, he loomed a little more than I liked.

Maybe that was a clue to his… race? species?

Either way, goosebumps ran over my skin. I stood back up and took a step away, carefully skirting the body and a paper on the floor. That gave me enough distance so his loom wasn’t quite so obvious. “Of course I’m going to help.” I snorted. “She was obviously sentient. Those are bank statements, and her landlord out there said she was quiet and kept to herself. Went to work, paid rent on time. More or less—” another glance at the tail— “exactly the kind of person I want living in my city.”

He raised his eyebrows.

I squared my shoulders. “I’ve seen weirder stuff on a Friday night in the bad parts of town. And I’m not letting a serial killing have their way in my city.”

He sagged a little. “Oh thank gods.”

“After, though, you owe me a drink. And a story.”

---

More free stories here:

Eye of the Beholder by Chris Makowski

Subject: If You Don't Hear From Me Again by Gina Fabio

Percival's Bane: The Demon and The Void by Juneta Key

Rabble Rouser by James Husum

First Real Assignment by Bill Bush

What If by Katharina Gerlach

I'm sitting in comfy pajamas, looking out at fresh snow and mini snow flurries and brightening skies, and thinking of you, dear readers.

Despite all the stressors, I hope your holiday season gives you many good memories. For me, the holidays mean food and family - both fraught with joys and perils, so I'm trying to be in the moment, enjoying what I can. And reading to escape what I cannot.

I just read The Wishing Game and loved, loved, LOVED it. Puzzles, heartbreaks, joys - the perfect escape into someone else's life. I may read it again in the next few days just to savor it like a second cup of hot chocolate.

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Oh dear. Looking over my last posts, I’m realizing I never posted that Hidden Priestess went live and is available everywhere. Oops!

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

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May your holidays bring you happy moments - and many books.

Happy October! Time for free stories from around the world.

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Truth Speaker

The man who had watched her from across the room since the party began finally approached and said with great portent, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” The words hung heavy in the air, and half the room turned as if they could see them, while the other half turned as if they wanted to.

Helena let the words fall around her, waved her drink, and said the words that continued along a path no one had foreseen. “Join me?” 

She’d been warned aliens were attending this party and she was supposed to be a good company representative—and human representative—but she hadn’t seen any aliens yet, and her favorite co-workers had abandoned her for shots at the bar, and—most of all—her husband, who was supposed to come with her, had refused to attend “yet another stupid work party.” Their relationship was already stretched tight and thin, and another man looking at her the way this stranger did, the way her husband hadn’t for years, plucked fiercely at it.

So the man who wasn’t a man at all sat with her and admired her and after too many drinks, slept with her, and left her with two impossible things.

*

 “I’m pregnant,” Helena told her husband. Three months since the party, three months of resentment and suspicions on both their parts.

“But we haven’t—”

“No.”

For a moment, he looked as if he might stay, but Helena read pity in his gaze and used her words as weapons, “I don’t need you. We don’t need you.”

Those words fell weighty into the room, almost as heavy as the words the man who wasn’t a man had spoken to her months ago, and somehow, in that fall, they became true.

So Helena’s husband left her to their small apartment, and left the space station too, unable to stay, and under the various gazes of her coworkers and neighbors, Helena grew the first alien-human child in her body.

As she’d said she didn’t need him, and her words were heartfelt and true at the time, she gave birth to the child, and named her Lara and raised her alone for seven long years. Helena loved Lara more than anything and told her so, and it was true. Lara looked like her mother more and more every day, but sometimes she cocked her head as if listening to words no one else could hear.

And then, just after Lara’s seventh birthday, the girl was performing her gymnastics routine in front of her class and their parents, when Helena spotted the man who wasn’t a man—who she hadn’t seen since That Night—on one side of the room, and the man who had been her husband on the other side of the room, and they both looked at the girl like they wanted her, and more than she could give.

For the first time in a very long time, Helena spoke hasty words she felt in the moment—“I wish I’d never slept with him.” The words fell from her lips with all the weight of the world.

Everything stopped.

Started again.

Wrong.

*

Unlike the stories she’d read, Helena and everyone else remembered exactly what had happened before her words.

And they all remembered the other version of what had happened after.

The years had still passed, her marriage had still broken, but she had no little girl to show for it. Instead she stood in the back of the gymnastics performance watching her neighbor’s child. Her ex-husband watched his new family. And the man who wasn’t a man watched Helena.

She grabbed him by the arm and towed him into the hall and spluttered, “What--? Why--?”

The man who was not a man choked like his heart had broken inside his chest. When he regained a semblance of normal breath, he straightened and said, “Your leaders called us liars because we look human and are not, but my people call you liars because you say things you mean but then you stop meaning what you said. Without her, without our daughter, will we ever be able to understand each other?”

“She is truly gone?”

“She is.”

The pain of it swallowed Helena whole. When she surfaced enough to gasp a breath, the man who was not a man touched a tear, lifted it from her cheek.

“Perhaps,” he said, “in our heartbreak, we can become allies after all.”

Bereft of the child she’d loved so deeply and lost via her own words, Helena intertwined her fingers in his and nodded.

---

Check out the other stories!

A Furry Problem by Vanessa Wells

The Final Verdict by Bill Bush

The Boon by Juneta Key

Snakemouth by T.R. Neff

Ritual by Gina Fabio

Folks, I seriously thought I’d already shared this cover… I love it so much! But looking through my posts, I don’t see it… so HERE IT IS!

I seriously can’t wait for y’all to read it… BOOK TWO of the City of Temples Series. And… I need to get back to writing book 3!

Good morning - or afternoon - or night, wherever you are. It’s time for more free stories from around the world… bite-sized and sometimes poignant, always surprising…

My story this month was inspired by my own brief foray into plumping - replacing the bathroom faucet - and may I just say… NEVER AGAIN. Plumbing always goes wrong for me. Even the “easy” jobs. But, I got a story out of it! Enjoy —

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PIPES

Have you ever had a clogged drain come and go with no rational explanation? No plumber, no de-clogger, no drain-snake…? It might not be what you imagined. 

The first time my sink drain clogged, I poured a de-clogger down and scowled when it didn’t help any. Then my baby boy wailed from the other room and by the time I had him settled and my phone in hand to call a plumber, the water ran fine. I convinced myself I’d not given it enough time and went back to parenting.

Two days later, the sink clogged again, but I hadn’t sent anything down it but toothpaste and soap, though the boy had managed to tip a whole roll of toilet paper into the toilet bowl and wasn’t that a fine mess to clean up? Between getting him down for a nap and clearing out the toilet and showering myself as I hadn’t yet, and then a bottle for him and three bites of a sandwich for me, when I returned to the sink, it had unclogged itself again. I was too grateful to look at it closely and went on with my day. 

The third time—

My boy was overnighting with his grandmother and I decided it was time to clear the pipes. A small screwdriver, several curses, and two screws later, the child-locked vanity door came off. Then I removed and threw away most of what had been in the cabinet under the sink. Then I shut off the water, prepared myself with towels, and unlocked the u-bend. I twisted, curled up, set it in the tub.

Most of the water went into the towels, so that part had been successful. The top of the u-bend had a bit of muck, and the bottom some murk, but less that it should be, for a clogged pipe, and clogged it was—I couldn’t see down into it properly.

I held it with one hand and turned on my phone flashlight with the other, then shined the light down inside. Two dark, glossy eyes blinked at me.

“Eep!” I hurled the u-bend into the tub and backed away. Animal control was not going to be pleased about a ‘gator in the pipes, but I wasn’t going to risk my fingers doing their job. I kept my eyes on the tub in case the beastie tried to escape, so I saw it poke its mottled gray head up and examine me, much more calmly than I examined it.

“Not a ‘gator…” Even on the internet, I’d never heard of an iridescent black-and-gray variety.

It shook its head no, slowly and carefully as if I were a child.

“You… understand me?” Oh dear. I’d finally started seeing things that weren’t there.

Now it nodded yes, and its mouth fell open, a grin with sharp white teeth.

At least my hallucination wasn’t attacking. I set my phone down and let my eyes trace from its black tentacle-like whiskers to its tiny silver horns, down its spiked back, to its tiny black claws… it looked suspiciously like an Asian dragon—as compared to the fatter, winged English cousins—if its creator had leeched all the reds and blues and purples and greens from the painted depictions. But no self-respecting dragon would live in mypipes.

It shook its head again, somehow mournful.

“Not self-respecting? Or not a dragon?”

The creature blinked at me. One silver tear slid down its scaled cheek and disappeared into its whiskers. And now I’d made my imaginary dragon cry.

“But why are you in my pipes?” Drawn forward, I knelt at the edge of the tub, just out of clawing and biting distance. The creature didn’t seem inclined to hurt me, but better safe.

It pointed imperiously to its mouth, then flashed to the u-bend and nibbled delicately at the muck.

“You’re hungry? And you eat… that?”

Again, it nodded. 

Even immured to nausea as I’d become, thanks to my son’s diapers and baby-vomit, my stomach lurched. I swallowed. Decided.

“Right. You can eat anything in the pipes—” ew, ew,ew— “and I’ll tell you when I need to use the sink. How’s that?”

The creature nodded frantically, its whiskers tickling my wrists. How did it get into my cupped hands? 

Then I eyed the tub drain. “What happens if you’re fed more? Do you get longer or fatter?”

It twisted and turned, giving me the impression of immense length.

Gently, I set it into the tub and pulled up the drain-stop. If it wasn’t my imagination, it could be useful. “Enjoy.”

The pipe dragon paused long enough to bump its head against my fingers, then scurried to the drain.

And so our partnership was born. I’ve become the unofficial plumber for the building in exchange for baby-sitting services, and the creature and I have found three other pipe-dragons clogging up drains. My boy and my creature and I are learning sign language together, so perhaps we can have a real conversation in the future.

No more de-clogger for me—and you take care for what might be in your pipes too, please.

---

Check out these stories:

From Bad To Worse by Bill Bush
Under Surface Of The Stars: A Story Poem by Juneta Key
Un-Nefer's Triumph by Kate Flint
Super Jill by Vanessa Wells
Timeless by T. R. Neff
Desire by Katharina Gerlach
Covenant by Chris Makowski
Autonomous Militarized by Gina Fabio

HOW is it APRIL?

But it IS April, I suppose. Can’t really argue with my calendar. So it must be time for a blog hop again… free stories from around the world!

For your reading pleasure, I have an all-new piece of flash fiction I wrote this week - bite-sized like a cookie and a little… off… like Utah’s winter and spring this year (yes, we’re still occasionally getting snow).

I hope you enjoy it!

Don’t forget to scroll to the bottom after for the links to all the other free stories.

---

Cursed

The early twenties caucasian girl snapped her gum, and in a bored California valley-girl accent said, “Like, I curse you, I curse you, I curse you.”

With her spraytan and long silver fingernails and newest-model cell phone, she didn’t match the narrow but deep, velvet and crystals and ceramic dragons store. The second rack of nicknacks smelled faintly of peppermint and insence.

I was old enough to be her mother.

Over my shoulder, mall-walkers still walked, semi-feral teens still sauntered, fountain-of-youth peddlers still peddled. None of them made this suposed curse delivered so casually sound any more real.

“Uh huh. Thanks.” I backed out of that store and headed off to the next. Shopping at a mall any time irritated me, but I’d foolishly let Father’s Day in Suburb, USA get far too close, and now I fought the other procrastinators for trinkets for the kids to give to their father. Yes, my adult kids. Yes, their father, still my husband. Families are complicated, and sometimes it was just easier to enable all of them than deal with the hurt feelings.

Fifteen or twenty stores, two gifts, and a melting credit card later, a sharp pain suddenly stabbed at the center of my forehead. I doubled over, cataloguing it automatically— worse than pulling a muscle in my back, not as bad as childbirth. And it ended as soon as it began, so probably nothing to worry about.

A child shrieked. Automatically, I sought the child out, as if seeing them would lessen the shooting pain in my head… and did, actually. They were a tall three or a short four years old with dark hair, dressed in cheerful yellow, and garbling something incoherent about a teddy.

“Allá,” an old Hispanic man told me, and pointed.

I followed his gnarled brown finger and saw a bedraggled bear discarded behind one of the atrium pillars. The child’s screams had escalated to floor-flopping and snot. Mom’s two other kids hunted the area in the opposite direction, nowhere near the bear.

“Why don’t you get it?” I asked out of the corner of my mouth.

Hispanic man gestured expansively, and I finally noticed he was a little see-through.

Oh no.

Okay, me yelling “Ghost!” wouldn’t help at all.

The child’s ongoing shrillness sounded inconsolable, so I stalked toward the offending bear, scooped it up, edged closer, then thrust it at the child.

“I’m so sorry.” Mom hid her face. “He gets like this sometimes. Autistic—”

“Not judging.” Poor kid. Poor Mom. “I have a couple of my own, grown now. They all get like this sometimes… even the grown ones.”

The kid’s screams subsided into sobs as he cuddled his bear close, and Mom risked a glance at me. “Graçias for— You… have something, just there?” She brushed at her forehead.

“Thanks.”

I turned away and spotted my reflection in the glass of a jewelry store. My forehead did indeed have something— shimmery, like glitter, in the shape of an eye.

First I searched where I was sure the curse-store had been, and questioned the lotion and underwear vendors who hadn’t noticed an entire store disappear. Then I searched the whole blasted mall. No Nik Nak Gifts. No California valley-girl accent. No way to undo the curse.

Family with the upset kid and the bear— gone. Old Hispanic ghost— gone. Other see-through people— ghosts— darting close each time I paused, felt like gossamer cobwebs on my forehead and cheeks.

Mall security followed me since I’d snarled at the neighboring shop employees. Hadn’t asked me to leave yet. My hair fluffed from my fingers running through it and I smelled a bit of fear and sweat, and my eyes were a little wild, so any moment now…

Time to go.

The curse I might have to live with for now, but what obsessed me?

Why now? Why that store? Why that girl? Why ghosts? Why me?

Why?

---

Blog Hop Stories ——————————— Enjoy!!!

A Different Kind of Raise by Amy Keeley

Night At The Museum by Vanessa Wells

Flowers For Angela by Curtis Phills

Ninea by Chris Makowski

Archive by Gina Fabio

Royal Assassin by Vanessa Finaughty

The Big Bad Wolf and the Easter Hare by Katharina Gerlach

Earthquake Aftermath by Bill Bush

The Gynnos Seeker Project by Juneta Key

Y’all, it’s 2023 already! I’m starting to feel like my grandparents… “time goes so fast…”

BUT - it’s that time again! Time for me to share free flash fiction from around the world. I hope you enjoy my story and please scroll to the bottom for the links for other stories.

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Fiddle of Gold

The first time I tried to sell the devil’s fiddle of gold, I was broke and desperate.

You see, being the best durned fiddle player alive isn’t worth much if everyone knows you’ve sold your soul, and they see through the lie that you haven’t because you can’t get pregnant and, worse than that, your hair doesn’t go gray and you move like a girl when you ought to be an old lady.

So I left that small town with the little I’d saved and traveled as far as I could go and when the money ran out and no one knew my name, I sold that fiddle for a meal and a place to sleep.

And during the night, the two-bedroom shack burned to the ground and the man who’d taken the fiddle cursed at me standing there in the blaze without burning, and threw the fiddle at me so hard it bruised me where it hit.

And I ran away until my legs gave out and I cursed the devil and his fiddle and my own pride.

The second time I tried to sell the devil’s fiddle of gold, I was rich and famous and living under a different name in a big city and still looking as young as I had a century before.

You see, I thought being a big city girl would protect me this time and I fell in love and thought maybe if I got rid of that fiddle I could finally grow old with my beloved.

So I took it to the most powerful man in the city and offered it to him for a dollar and then watched the greed take him. He hit me and took the fiddle from my fingers and threw me out into the street, and then he fell down after me and broke his neck and they accused me of killing him.

So I took my fiddle and the clothes I had on and the money I had in my underthings and ran away again as fast as my feet and a good horse could take me, and they accused me of stealing that horse too, though I bought it fair and square. And I had to start all over again with a damned fiddle and another name, and I cursed myself more than I cursed the devil that time, but I still cursed my own pride worst of all, and for a long time after.

The third time I was smarter—I didn’t try to sell the fiddle of gold, nor show it off to the wrong person. I heard of a boy named Johnny who thought he was the best fiddle player in the world, and I made my way to Georgia to challenge him for the title.

But I left my rosin behind, and I walked on foot instead of taking my fancy, new-fangled automobile, and I didn’t sleep more than an hour at a time, and I didn’t eat at all, because I meant to challenge Johnny to play better than me, and I meant to lose.

So my guts cramped and my knees shook and ghosts haunted me by the time I stepped up on the porch at Johnny’s house in the far end of the holler, and I challenged Johnny to play better than me and promised him the fiddle if he did, and still when it was my turn to play, my foolish pride made me play as best I could, sore and hungry and delirious, and I almost won him anyway.

But he sicked his blue-tick hound on me partway through, and that gave me just enough reason to drop my bow, then pick it up, and finish playing.

I didn’t much complain.

I gave him the fiddle made of gold and I walked away, feeling the tattered bits of my soul wrap around me for the first time since I’d made my own wager with the devil. And I’d never given him my true name so I went home and lived the life I wanted while he called me a devil and told everyone he was the best that had ever been.

---

Other Blog Hop stories:

The Origin of a Reluctant Supervillain by Vanessa Wells
Help Wanted by Juneta Key

Fishing Expedition by Laurie Hicks
The Deed by Chris Makowski
Fetching Water by Katharina Gerlach‘
Cataclysmic Disaster by Bill Bush

Hello! Happy New Year… ish depending on where and what you celebrate. My family will tell you I’m not exactly chatty, which seems to translate … well… here.

So, in a grand effort, I’d like to tell you about the best errand I ran today - to mail a signed copy of Lost Priestess to a reader - THANKS READER!

I slogged uphill both ways in the snow (er… in a lovely heated SUV, but there was snow) to elbow my way through scads of people (or stand quietly in line and wait for the one person in front of me to finish). And obsessively checked and rechecked the addresses (both mine and theirs because that’s the way my brain works - thanks Brain).

But the point is—

What is the point? Ah - yes - I mailed out a signed copy of my latest book.

And that was a good day.

Have I shared this cover with you? I can’t remember. But I’m so in love with it. I actually purchased another cover for this book and then HAD to buy this one instead… it’s like the artist reached inside my brain to get my story….

See for yourself:

I love this cover!

“Black and blood” is the catchphrase for this book…

And those tattoos…!

What do you think?

I think I can’t wait for Dec 6!

Happy summer!

It’s time for the blog hop where you can read flash fiction from around the world for free. I hope you enjoy my story First Encounter… and scroll to the bottom to see links for the other stories.

---

It started with a strange haze around my condo that nearly convinced me my eyes were going. Make an appointment for the optometrist, I noted on my to-do list. My dog nudged his nose into my belly and gazed at me with soulful eyes. Haze or no haze, Boo the Boxer had to be walked.

I slipped on his collar and clipped his leash. Boo hadn’t met a human or animal he didn’t love, but the HOA was tyrannical about dogs on leash, and I’d been fined twice the first week I’d moved in: once for a leash violation and once for failure to pick up poop.

I’d tried explaining that I had forgotten a bag and was just running inside to get one, and it was my own lawn dammit, but that had earned me no mercy, and perhaps a spot on their watchlist for swearing.

The dog waited for my command to step outside, then walked beside me across the minuscule lawn before his hackles rose and he growled.

Boo never growled.

I lurched to a halt, my heart thundering in my chest.

Coalescing on my lawn, two creatures stepped out of the haze. They swirled iridescent blues and purples and reminded me of squids but standing on their tentacles instead of floating in water.

Not right. Not right and not possible.

Swallowing, I cleared my throat enough to snap, “Halloween is not for months,” even though I knew they weren’t neighbor kids playing a prank. Boo had growled, after all.

“We observe you many days,” the taller of the two said. “Need help knowing treasure.”

Boo sat on my foot. He didn’t seem concerned anymore, so I sucked in a deep breath. “You… need my help?”

“Identify treasure!” The shorter held out a yellow plastic bag… a bag which looked suspiciously like the one I had in my pocket, only full.

*

I stared.

And stared.

When Boo leaned against my leg to demand scritches, I blinked and blurted, “It’s dog poop.”

“What is… dog poop?”

Oh boy.

“This,” I said, gesturing to Boo, “is my dog. He eats, and… well… anything his body doesn’t use, he excretes. He gets rid of. He poops out.” Rubbing the dog’s ears until he groaned with pleasure, I muttered, “Everyone poops.”

The aliens’ mouth tentacles braided and snarled. “Excrement. Unneed. Discard.”

“Yes.”

The smaller one spoke. “But you gather careful in bags. Place bags in bins. Collect bins. Transport and give back to planet.”

“It’s trash.” I was a little fuzzy on the details of city sanitation, but then Boo hopped off my foot, squatted and hunched his back.

Before I thought, I had the matching yellow plastic bag out of my pocket, covering my hand, and I readied myself to swoop in and pick up the offending poop before the HOA could see it.

The aliens made a raspy sound.

Lacking knowledge of their body languages, I wasn’t sure if they were laughing, crying, or pooping themselves.

Nah. Not the last.

With the warm poop in my hand, I tied the bag shut, then thought about it.

They had a point about that treasure business.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “It’s just poop. There are rules. I’m just following the rules.”

Boo pulled at the lead and I allowed him to drag me away for his walk. “You should probably go,” I called back. I mean, they must have been studying us for a while; they spoke English even if they didn’t understand poop. “Have you seen our movies? I don’t want you to end up experimented on by the government, and neither do you. Trust me!”

*

The blue-purple somehow-upright squidly creatures were still on my lawn when we returned from our walk and that weird haze still glowed around my condo.

I sighed a little. I hadn’t seen anything strange until I had crossed my property line, so maybe I was safe from being reported to the police—or worse, the HOA!—by my neighbors.

“Help!” The smaller said through waving mouth-tentacles.

Boo’s tail wiggled, so I shrugged. “Help with what now?”

“Bring excrement. Lots excrement.”

I scowled. “You’re kidding.”

“Is goat offspring excrement also treasure?”

“Goat…?” My headache was coming back. “No. Not those kids.”

“Then why—?”

I held up one hand, and they both flinched back. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I muttered, lowering my hand. “Just… you want me to get dog poop? For you?”

“Yes!” The shorter alien wriggled. It gargled something I didn’t understand, continuing, “are treasure. We examine. We use to fuel ship!”

“What’s wrong with your ship?”

“Ship crash.” Another wriggle. “We fix.”

“Why me?”

“Dog has best concentrations—” gargle, gargle—“in excrement. Must have.”

I’d thrown the dog poop in the dumpster. I was all for positive human-alien relations, but going dumpster-diving was out of my realm of comfort.

Way out.

“What if I show you where I put his poop? You can get it yourselves, right?”

The squidly aliens looked at each other, then at me.

“Yes. Show.”

I pointed. I explained. I even made a cradle with my hands for the smaller one to push itself off of into the dumpster.

And that was how Boo’s poo made First Contact.

---

Blog hop stories:

Who Can Blame Him by Bill Bush

New Stork by Katharina Gerlach

The Stuff of Nightmares by Sue Abrie

Regarding Dragons by Vanessa Wells

Midlife Ghostwalker: Katje Storm Episodes 1 thru 10 by Juneta Key

I’ve got another story for you - rogues, heists, betrayals and double-crosses - it’s a good time all crammed into a short story… With a beautiful cover put together by my friend Cat.

Check it out!

https://www.amazon.com/Ship-Chip-Doomsday-Book-ebook/dp/B0B2M1ZRY1

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/ship-chip-barbara-lund/1141580104

Free flash fiction from around the world!

As light returns to our world (at least in the northern hemisphere), let’s dip our toes into a bloody, dark world where magic is power and one woman is fighting all the traditions of her predecessors. Here is a bonus scene that didn’t make it into the novel The Lost Priestess, which is currently in the edit phase.

Enjoy! - and scroll to the bottom for links for the other stories.

---

In a temple full of short tempers and dark magic, aided by fear of the dark goddess, I planned for catastrophes but usually dealt with small problems. 

The lantern-lit hall, the black-veined marble underfoot, the midnight blue walls were normal. The closed, magically sealed door was not. Possible catastrophe, possible problem.

Either way, unacceptable. As the high priestess of Maldita, Vessel and Voice of the dark goddess Herself, every room in Her temple was open to me, even if I rarely used the privilege or power.

Maldita disliked defiance. She disliked closed doors and the sounds of a fight beyond. She disliked all these things enough to flex Her power. My muscles spasmed, locked. Every nerve burned with Her fire. My jaw clenched, keeping my scream inside my throat. Then I collapsed onto the floor, Her displeasure suitably expressed.

For now.

I panted, lurched upright. My hand found the doorknob and twisted. My magic found the door itself and pushed. The seal broke. The door opened a crack, and my blood-sister stood in my way.

 I tried to shoulder the door open.

Aimi, the next-most-powerful priestess in the dark temple and my blood-sister, pushed back with her shoulder and her magic. 

Someone had been practicing.

My own magic surged. Strands of my hair floated. My eyes prickled, shifted from blood-red to black, lid-to-lid, as the dark goddess found someone else to focus on. All the tones of hell echoed in my voice as She spoke through me. “Are you challenging me?”

Aimi's lips moved.

I fought the dark goddess back, took enough control to ease our hold so Aimi could whisper, “No… High Priestess…”

“Good.” I pushed her out of the way and discarded her; my hair still floated, my eyes still prickled, the goddess still surged forward to take control. But I held Her. That was what being the high priestess meant.

The room was in shambles. Two women, one Blue, one Green, were locked together, throttling each other, smashing against one wall after another. Two of Her high priestessi, acting like children.

Bleeding from scratches on their faces.

The dark goddess reached for their blood, intent on sucking them dry, sacrifices to Her damnation. I yanked Her away from them so hard my back slammed against the door, shattered it. From the hall, I raised my hand. Pulled the air from the entire room. From their lungs.

Time slowed. I held their lives in my hands. I could give them to Maldita, blood, bone, and soul. I could keep the air from their lungs until they died, solve this argument that way. Or I could let them breathe and attempt to solve their disagreement via persuasion.

My predecessor would have chosen either of the first two. Spite and stubbornness chose for me-- I would be different, bless it.

Better.

I let my magic drain away. Let the air back in.

"Now that I have your attention," I murmured into the silence, "let's talk."

The priestessi in the room bowed their heads, temporarily obedient.

The dark goddess grumbled, but-- resigned to my will-- she curled up inside me, waited for her next chance to strike.

And I-- I had neither given in to Maldita nor to my own dark inclinations. We would all live to see another day.

Success.

---

Click on the links to enjoy more free stories from authors around the world:

Dragon's Tale by S. R. Olson

Coming Out by Katharina Gerlach

Rabid Rabbits Revenge by Jemma Weir

Jory's Gamble by Juneta Key

The Battle of Jamie Stewart by Vanessa Wells

Tribute by Lyssa Medana

Moon Flower by Melanie J. Drake

So, I’m only a little behind on the blog…

These three - First Mage Hiding, Second Mage Questing, and Last Mage Standing are all re-covered, re-titled, rebranded and available now:

AND…. so is Blood Descendant!

Blood Descendant came about because I wanted to know the story of the chosen one’s sister… not special, not chosen, and in trouble. I love this novella - I love the story, the characters, the cover - I’m so excited to have it out there in the world!

Be warned… it’s a little dark.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

I have to say: I love this cover SO MUCH. I saw it and had to have it… and it gave me the perfect way to rebrand my Crowns Peak series, because I did those covers myself and they… well, they were’t the best.

In face, they sucked.

But they were the best I could do at the time, and they served their purpose. Now I can do better.

I hope this beautiful cover will help more people find this series - I want to share Ava’s stories with everyone who is or could become my reader. So - if you already own Creeper, please don’t buy First Mage Hiding…

Unless you really love the cover.

I do.

So there was this event. In Hollywood. Right next to the Eternals world premier… no, not that event, our event - Writers and Illustrators of the Future:

I won the first quarter of 2021 - the large blue trophy… which included the conference, hotel, flights, and publishing in volume 37.

Then - what I wasn’t expecting and had totally talked myself into believing one of the others would win…

I won the ginormous red trophy too - Grand prize for the year - the Golden Pen Award.

There may have been shock… and tears. What a privilege and what an adventure! I just finished reading through the anthology and every story was amazing - I still can’t quite believe I won.

Happy July!

Story time again - check out the links at the bottom for more stories from around the world and let me know what you think about Abigail. :)

---

Abigail

I thought I'd be safe: it was July for spiritssake and nowhere near Halloween; the town was out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere tiny and not Portland or N'Orleans or San Francisco; and none of my family had ever lived there so the ghosts wouldn't know my name.

But trouble follows me like chicks after their momma, despite the cabin in some fishing town in Nowhere, USA.

I'd relaxed, just a little, when I saw the "cabin" which was more a house in a clearing in the woods than a cabin. The street was paved all the way to the driveway. There was electricity and running water--even if it was well-water--and wi-fi. And I wasn't the first one there, nor the last, so that horror-movie luck had skipped me as well.

I greeted my friends and had dinner and slept all night in a decently comfy bed. No cold spots, no moaning or creaking other than the normal sounds a house makes. When I got up the next morning, nothing had moved that couldn't be accounted for by those up before me. When I practiced Tai Chi under the trees, no animals came to stare at me inappropriately. 

I relaxed.

Then when we went walking along the road--the road, mind you, not a trail we didn't know nor alone, nor late at night but at near-midday--we heard the baby cry. I'd not brought my nearly grown babies along, having determined this would be a vacation, but I was sympathetic enough to other mommas to know how difficult babies can be, so other than a slight pause, we kept walking, talking of stories and family and food.

 When we turned around, I startled enough to stop my friend mid-sentence.

"Was that there when we went past here the first time?" I asked her, suddenly unaccountably hot under the late morning sun even though I'd needed my hoodie just a minute before.

"No," she whispered back to me. Being the practical sort, she took another step along the road, but my feet weren't quite ready yet.

The doll had been propped up on a log so it looked almost right at us, its blue glass eyes wide and its painted red lips silent. Its long blonde hair draped across its shoulders in loose curls and its white lace gown was as pristine as if it was staring at us from a shop shelf.

I shuddered and startled again when the baby started to cry, but that broke my feet loose and I hurried past, taking my friend's arm to pull her along.

She had named the doll Abigail by the time we got back to the house, and made jokes about it with the others, but I kept silent. Sometimes the more you say about something uncanny, the more power you give it and I wasn't giving the doll any more power than it already had.

At dusk, I walked out again with a marshmallow to try to appease the spirit, but the doll was gone.

I refused to search for it after dark. I've seen the horror films and had my own brushes with evil. A high-pitched whine tangled in my ear that night and by the next morning nothing could do but to find the thing again and see what it wanted.

By dawn's light--late in the mountains of the fishing town--I walked up the road with the tools of my trade tucked into my pockets. Bits of string to tie the spirit, bites of chocolate to sweeten it, blessed scissors and wax, and cards to give it a voice.

The baby was crying again. I walked past and came back, and there she was, Abigail fair of face and dark of spirit. As I'd been taught, I started by giving her my family name like a pedigree. The baby's cry stopped and silence blanketed our bit of the road.

I started with the chocolate, setting it before her like the offering it was. Best start with honey over vinegar, though I had both. "I'm here. What do you want from me?"

An ATV roared in the distance but it didn't come close enough to disturb us. The doll said nothing.

The chocolate disappeared, and if I hadn't been watching so close I'd have been convinced it was the spirit and not a tiny mortal hand that took it. I crouched down. "I'm here to help," I said softly.

The child that peeked out from the green behind the doll had the same solemn blue eyes but her face was pinched and a bruise mottled the left side of her face. She crawled out of the leaves and stood, glancing over her shoulder at me before she staggered toward the cabin.

Horror-esque, it was rotting clapboard over termites, but I followed her anyway, drawn as much by this mortal child as I ever had been by a spirit. She continued down the ruts in the rock, never letting me too close, but making sure I followed.

Flies wreathed the windows but she went in through the door anyway and when I ignored the stench of death and stepped inside, she slipped her hand into mine and tugged me past the bodies on the floor to the cradle. The baby cried faintly.

I took the living out of the house of the dead and down the road to the fire station where I waited for the local police to come and deal with a homicide/suicide while I fed the girls and held them while they slept and wondered if it was so bad to deal with spirits when mortals were evil enough on their own.

From then on, I was haunted enough for any two people, but I helped when I was needed. It was what my family did, after all.

---

More stories here::

Rainbow Girl by Katharina Gerlach
A Brood of Harpies by Sabrina Rosen
Crossing A Line by Bill Bush
True Face by Nic Steven
A Touch of Summer Fire by Jemma Weir

I’ll admit I didn’t write something new for this blog hop… I’ve been in the middle of editing, so I took a scene from my work in progress - The Dragonscale Throne - cut out the parts that don’t make sense if you haven’t read the book, and polished a bit for you. I hope you enjoy!

Don’t forget to scroll to the bottom for more super-short stories from around the world.

---

(Honeybee on a yellow and pink Dahlia - with thanks to Annette Meyer from Pixabay)

Bees

Wind Dancer led Roshi into a new part of the forest, thick with bees and riotous flowers. “Look,” she said, pointing out the main hive set in the crack of two trees.

So far, the bees were the only normal things inside the wilding wood: yellow and black and as big as her thumb.

“Outside the nali nethali, the homeland,” Wind Dancer continued, “the bees must hide their hives from predators, but here they know they are safe. We speak with them and they with us. We share with them new flowers and they share with us their honey.”

Staring, Roshi let her feet carry her forward one step, then two. “Bees make honey?”

“Yes, bees make honey.”

“But won’t they sting us?”

Wind Dancer laughed, a low chuckle that encouraged Roshi to join in the joke, instead of making her angry. “Why would they sting us? We are them and they are us. We are the same. We both want the hive to thrive.”

“You… speak to them? I could…?”

“Of course.” Wind Dancer hummed something, then pointed. “Stand there. You must learn their language to leave safely.” Then she turned her back to Roshi and sang to the bees.

Terrified, Roshi stood where she was told and waited for the winged insects to attack her, but as Wind Dancer had said, she was safe. For the first few moments, all she heard was her heart thundering in her ears and all she tasted was blood in her throat.

How could she speak to them? They were small, possibly lethal bugs. While eavesdropping on the kitchen workers in the castle, Roshi had only ever heard rumors of the honey-gatherers dying from too many stings, never that they had sung to the bees. Wind Dancer was insane!

Eventually her fear ran out, and she saw the sunlight filtering down through the petals of the pink flowers snuggled up next to the white leaves of the red-bark trees, and touching the purple leaves and periwinkle flowers of the deep blue trees, and shying away from the black trees. The bees flitting around Wind Dancer sparkled and hummed as they dropped from their hive and dipped into the talit flowers running low to the ground and up the black tree trunks. The talit flowers were an odd, shimmery color somehow mixing black and teal and blue.

Roshi’s feet moved a fingerwidth wider, and her hips relaxed so that she stood straight. Under the bees’ buzz, this part of the forbidden forest was almost silent, so she became as still as the trees and light as the sunlight.

But still when she listened to the bees, she heard buzzing, not words.

“Good,” Wind Dancer said. “You’re almost there.”

Startled, Roshi blinked out of her stillness. “I… I can’t understand them.”

“Imagine what they might be saying. Bees speak not just with sounds but with their bodies.” Wind Dancer stood in the fall of sunlight and glint of bees, her body shimmering and vibrating.

By my father the king, the wilding girl is beautiful. Blinking again, Roshi tore her eyes away from Wind Dancer and let her gaze track the bees.

They shimmered like Wind Dancer.

The tiniest vibration started in Roshi’s middle and expanded out to her feet and her hands and her hair.

Little sister, she heard, taste.

An explosion of tastes filled her mouth: the sweetness of honey, with hints of the talit flowers Wind Dancer so loved, then dozens of other flowers—bitter and sweet and strange—she didn’t have names for, and then at the very last, a hint of the roses her sister had loved in the castle gardens.

You’ve flown far, she replied with sound and shimmer and taste.

As have you, little sister.

Roshi opened her eyes and found shimmering bits of light—bees—tickling her skin and flying around her as they were around Wind Dancer, and then she tried to call out her joy…

And lost it all.

The feel, the sounds, the taste, all gone, and the bees were just insects again, and she had to fight herself not to swat at them.

Wind Dancer laughed. “Your face, Roshianna,” she said.

“I had it!” Holding herself very still, she reached for the bees’ language again, but couldn’t quite hear it.

“And you’ll have it again,” Wind Dancer said with a tiny smile. “Don’t try so hard.”

“But it takes so long—”

“What is time, little resnali, but our own construct? The sun will rise and fall, the moon will glow, the stars will shine. Try again.”

Muttering curses under her breath, Roshi tried to remember the steps she had taken, and found her shoulders tensing. She waited and waited, wondering how the sun could stay in the same place in the sky while what felt like hours passed for her under the trees.

Just when she had decided to run for it and risk the bees’ wrath, her feet moved, and the vibrations came.

Yes, little sister, now you hear us.

In a daze, Roshi stretched her hand out for one of the indigo blossoms. Biting her cheek, she bled and remembered the scent of her sister’s roses, the taste of rosehips tea, the careful way to hold the stems so the thorns didn’t bite.

And the indigo blossom in her hand changed, petal by petal, to a blood red rose.

One of the bees flew to the rose, tasted it, danced it. Well done, sister.

Wind Dancer held her hand out and Roshi knew it was time to leave. Still dazed, she clasped the girl’s hand and they slipped through the trees away from the hive, and when they pulled their hands apart, Roshianna’s fingers dripped with rose-scented honey that Wind Dancer gathered into a tiny pot and handed her with a tiny smile.

“A gift from the bees,” she said, and though Roshi tried, she could think of nothing but the bees all afternoon.

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