Exiles

Mererid wandered three days through the winding forest paths, the sun hot upon her neck, before she came upon the stairs. They were no more than halved logs, stuck in the soil, but they meant perhaps Mererid was not alone in her exile.

A twig snapped and footsteps echoed through the trees. Raising her hood, Mererid hid.

The figure’s shadow stretched like an oak tree. His breaths were the snorts of a bull. For a moment, she saw two burning eyes amidst bark skin and thistle-beard and shoulders like mountains.

He passed, climbing his stairs.

Mererid went the other way.

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Word Count: 100

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

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The White Wreath

The hall was laid out for the Solstice. Sprigs of mistletoe were hung to ward off evil – “The gods know we need it,” the housekeeper muttered – and candles were lit upon long tables. Banners fluttered in drafts that slipped between stones.

“What if she comes?” King Sven asked.

“She will honour our traditions.” The housekeeper pointed to the white wreath above the door. “It is a sign of peace. The Winter Queen will not dishonour it.”

The next evening, the guests gathered in the hall, to eat and drink, commoner and noble alike. Sven feasted with them, though his hand stayed near his sword.

In the distance, the Winter Queen watched. She wondered for a moment if her brother would open his doors to her, let her feast with them under the white wreath as custom demanded.

She turned away and the thought passed like morning frost in springtime.

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Word Count: 149

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

Funeral Pyre

Sparks float like butterflies.

He watches and remembers.

She lay in his arms, blood soaking through her clothes.

“Promise me,” she croaked. “Promise you won’t leave me for the wolves.”

“I promise,” he replied. 

Fire plays with golden locks of hair, turning them to ash.

“You’re mad,” the villager said, pulling at his horse’s reins. “You can’t go into the Grimwood. Nobody comes back.”

“She’s in there,” he said. “So I follow.”

And he spurred his horse on, on into the shadows of the trees.

Ash settles on the snow.

“I’ll follow you,” he vowed. “To the very edge of the world!”

She laughed. 

He sees the grey at the edge of the trees. Dawn will be here soon.

The valley blazed, houses torched, villagers slaughtered, death as far as he could see. Her work, her butchery. 

He chased her so long. Now she is dead.

It’s over at last.

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Word Count: 150

This is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Enisa for providing the prompt photo!

Bury the Past

Tiffany knew her father had secrets. He never spoke of them and she never asked, but they were always there, shadows under the surface, threatening to break free.

There was a cellar under the windmill, hidden under dirt and straw. Sometimes he vanished down there, when he thought she wasn’t watching.

One night, when all was dark and every little noise seemed to carry forever, she went down there. All she found was a sword, old and chipped, with a lion-headed hilt.

She left everything as it was and never spoke of what she’d seen.

Once riders had come to the windmill, tall men on black horses. They had spoken with him in whispers and she had strained to hear. At last, they rode off, heads held low.

“Why were they here?” she asked.

“They were looking for someone,” he replied. “But he’s not here anymore.”

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Word Count: 146

This is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Fandango for providing the prompt photo!

A Visitor on a Cold Night

Once there was a yak-herder, who lived in a small hut the loneliest part of the steppe, where there was nothing but wild grass and cold wind for company.

One day, there came out of the mist a princess, riding on a grey-flanked pony, robed in fur and silk, whose eyes were like black moons and whose smile was like the dawn.

“I have no lodgings, no gifts, for one such as you,” he said, but she stayed with him through the night, laughing by the fire and drinking yak’s milk amongst the stench and the cold.

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This for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Jacco Rienks for providing the prompt photo!

The Girl Who Stole The Sun

“From beneath the giant’s gaze,” the girl boasted, “I stole his cattle. From the king’s halls, I stole his drinking horn. There is nothing I cannot bring it to you.”

“The Sun,” her love replied. “Bring me the Sun.”

And so the girl crossed the circling ocean and climbed the high peaks until at last she came to the rivers of night. In those dark waters she swam, fending off shades and elder things that the gods had cast there, till at last she came to the secret harbour where the Sun rested during the night.

She put the Sun in her bag that could hold anything and then stole forth, back across the mountains.

All the world was silent as she returned to her love’s hall. No birds sung, no horns sounded. The sky was dark and there were no stars.

Within, her love lay in endless, dreamless sleep.

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Word Count: 150

This is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Goroyboy for providing the prompt photo!

Bound in Spell and Stone

Adisa was the most beautiful woman in the world. Her eyes were as dark oceans, her skin as polished jet. For her, princes went down on their knees in worship, yet she turned them all away.

One was not to be refused. He was Azutan, sorcerer of the west, who held ten demons in rings. Azutan forced her to wed him, though she wept all through the ceremony.

Life in Azutan’s palace was bitter, though all the halls were full of diamonds and each meal was as a king’s feast day. One day, she saw out the window the laborer Obi, his bare back lashed red, and fell in love, swift as a bird struck with an arrow.

In secret the lovers met under moon and stars. Yet one night Azutan followed her and saw them embrace.

“A curse upon you, Obi,” he snarled, and twisted one of his rings. “You shall stand forever before her window, always seen and never had.”

Obi’s flesh turned to cold grey, spreading from his fingertips to his wide eyes.

“No,” Adisa vowed. “You shall not part my love from me.”

She pressed her lips to his and froze there, never to move again.

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Word Count: 200

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit to Eric Witlund.