Fruit of the Lonely Tree

There was a tree that grew music.

In spring, it sprouted symphonies. March overtures became triumphant swellings by May. On a mild April day, the melodies shamed the birds to silence.

In summer, the music continued, but it seemed to most that it was dimmer, paler. Not a patch on its earlier stuff, most people said.

In fall, it was nearly bare. A couple crisp, drying notes still clung to the branches. The birds sang over them and they shriveled in silence.

Come winter, there was no music left.

But spring would come again soon enough.

---

Word Count: 96

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Anshu Bhojnagarwala for providing the prompt photo!

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter

 

Advertisements

An Artist Inside the Painting

Glass roses sung like wind chimes in the morning breeze, crystalline stems trembling. The sun shone a brilliant gold and the cloud-marbled sky gleamed.

A bee buzzed by, clockwork wings carrying a wire-striped body, and alighted on long needle legs. In the sky the birds circled, watching with glinting eyes and knife-sharp beaks.

And in the crooked tower upon the hill, the metal man watched his creation unfold, his long copper fingers tapping like a typewriter. On his world he had been alone, an outcast in a world made of meat.

Here, in this wonderland he had made, he belonged.

---

Word Count: 100

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and providing the prompt photo!

Jumping Too Far

Verity hangs in the air, gravity tugging, orange curls flaring behind her, the deep water so far below and she remembers what her mother said: “Never jump unless you know you’ll land on your feet.”

But the rocks were placed so perfectly, one after the next, each just a little further, the waters between them a little darker, until at last she jumped and knew she wouldn’t make it.

The waters give way, tearing like silk, and she falls on, down into another sky, strange wind on her face, song in her ears, and a kaleidoscope of stars in her eyes.

---

This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Nattu Adnan for providing the prompt photo!

Strange Skies

The sky was strange in the Cursed Land that day. The people shielded their eyes and asked the hero Petromir to sort it out. Petromir was a hero in the traditional sense, which meant he had more swords than braincells and solved his problems by hitting them, which worked well when your problems were monsters but not when they were strange things in the sky.

Petromir sought out the wisest woman he knew and after knocking down her door so people didn’t think he’d gone soft, he asked if she knew what the thing in the sky was.

“It’s called the Sun,” she replied.

“And the colour?”

“Skies are supposed to be blue. You just can’t normally see it with all the ominous cloud in the way.”

“What does it portend?”

“We’re having a patch of good weather. I wouldn’t worry. Give it five minutes and the rain’ll be back.”

---

Word Count: 150

This is for FFfAW. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Jodi McKinney for providing the prompt photo!

My short story, “The Lazarus Riddle,” was published on Crimson Streets earlier this week. You can check it out here. 

Running Through the Waters

Saera heard the rush of the waterfall before she saw it, bursting from the thick of the woods and onto the steep riverbank. Behind her came shouts and the metallic jingling of swords and mail. They were coming for her, to slay her as they slew her mother and sisters.

But this was the wild. She held power here.

Saera knelt, touched the cold waters,  and whispered in the language of rivers.

The waters divided before her. Saera darted across as the soldiers came from the trees. They raced after her, through the river, but the waters closed upon them.

---

Word Count: 100

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Dale Rogerson for providing the prompt photo!

The Sorcerer’s House

He made his house from old stones. One came from an arena, stained with the blood of a thousand fighters, echoing still with the laughter of the crowd. Another was from a pyramid, worn by wind and sand and silence. A third was part of a tower, drinking tears and hearing laments.

They were stones full of memory, stones full of power. He made his walls of them, a fortress to keep out his foes. Spells dashed themselves against the rock and he was safe from their touch.

But when night fell and he lay in his bed, surrounded by old books, he heard the stones whispering and groaning and shifting. He tossed and turned but they would not be silent. Incantation after incantation he tried, but still the stones would not be tamed, would not be broken.

He had made his fortress, but it was a prison too.

---

Word Count: 149

This is for FFfAW. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Jade M. Wong for providing the prompt photo!

Publication – “Bright Young Thing”

Some exciting news: my fantasy short story, “Bright Young Thing,” has been published by Swords and Sorcery Magazine. You can check it out here.