Tag Archives: fantasy

Story A Day May #31

Woo hoo! Totally did it! Even with the six days I missed, I’m pretty darn happy with how the month went. Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in my created fantasy world writing that I forgot, or more often feel, that I have no other stories inside me. It has been refreshing to let go of that space and get out of my head, and it has given me the added bonus of boosting my much needed final revision/editing of the last six chapters of my novel. Thanks so much to everyone who has been following along this month. I’m sure many of you already know how amazingly (and needlessly!) scary it can be to throw your fiction out into the world, which is what makes these past four weeks even more wonderful. Enjoy the last story of May, and I’ll have a progress report in the next couple of days on whatever I feel like writing about. 🙂

May 31, 2015

The kettle whistled. She turned the burner knob off quickly, knowing that the louder it became, the more likely the dog was to bark. The dog did not care for the high-pitched, insistent squeal of steam.

A lavender teabag lay nestled at the bottom of the ceramic mug. It wasn’t a small mug, although she had one of those brown hotel mugs, taken once out of a want to always have one of the plain, almost Middle Ages looking item. Apt to drink out of it while reading fantasy novels or imagining fantastical characters who carried swords. So simple, the shape of a mug or teacup. Simple and pleasing. This one wasn’t over sized either, not that she didn’t have plenty of those kind.

A red glaze, warm in tone, colored this mug. She liked it for its reminiscent upside-down bell shape and the smoothness of its surface. She liked the art of making hot tea, and the vessel must reflect the mood.

This particular evening, she felt contemplative. Settled and content. A long day after little sleep turned less exhaustive by a simple yet delicious dinner, and time spent playing tug-of-war with the dogs in the cooling evening air. She’d picked a sprig of lavender from the garden, just to rub the leaves so she could smell it on her fingers. The fresh sprig rested on the kitchen windowsill, reminding her again of her imagined world and all those characters swirling about her head.

She added sugar to the mug, and poured steaming water from the red kettle. The fragrant tea begging to be tasted, though it would have to wait a few minutes. There is simply no rushing tea.

Photo May 31, 10 00 03 PM


Story A Day May #30

Two bitty bits of flash fiction today. I’m currently in a crazed state as I was cleaning up my iTunes and decided to go ahead and update my phone as well … and now my phone is in recovery mode, so I’m going to post this and then continue to quietly freak out. 🙂 Enjoy!

May 30, 2015

Rush Hour Traffic

             “Wow! Look at that!”

I pointed with my right index finger. My husband followed the line of my finger as I stared at the sculptured shrubbery of the high end jewelry store parking lot.

“Yeah, that’s been there.”

“I’ve never noticed it. I thought it was a giant butterfly before I noticed the horse. That’s cool,” I said, still peering out of the window while we sat in traffic.

“Yep. It’s a Pegasus. I think it’s a Pegasus. Or a unicorn? No, because Pegasus’ don’t have horns, do they?” he said.

“Uh, nooo,” I said.

“”Cause unicorns fart rainbows and vomit cotton candy and all that crap.”

“Yes. That’s exactly what they do. Gosh, honey, everyone knows that.”


Strange Beliefs

             “Elyssa thinks that mice grow up to be rats,” said Ann.

“She does not,” said Erin.

Ann nodded, laughing. “She really does. I’ll prove it.”

She walked to the phone and paged for their coworker to come to the cosmetics counter. Ann started telling Erin different stories about their manager. It was a few minutes before Elyssa made it over to them, and by that time both Erin and Ann were laughing loudly.

“What’s up?” asked Elyssa.

“You seriously don’t think mice grow up to be rats, do you?” asked Erin.

“I don’t care what you guys say, I still believe that,” said Elyssa.

Story A Day May #22

I had a long and weird conversation with a customer at work today, (the things random strangers will say!) so that is the reason for today’s bit of fictional exchange. 😄

May 22, 2015

Jonathan looked up from the screenplay he was reading. He glanced at the new one that had just landed on his desk, then glanced at his partner.

“What’s this?”

“You wanted a different screenplay for our next project,” said Adam. “Here it is.”

Jonathan set the one in his hands aside and grabbed the other one. “‘Rejection Slip’. This doesn’t sound like sci-fi.”

“It’s a comedy.”

“Okay, and I clearly remember saying that I was tired of doing crass comedies. I want something with substance.”

“This has substance,” said Adam. “It’s about a single professor who gives out rejection slips after bad blind dates instead of telling the girls he doesn’t want to see them again.”

“Oh, well, that makes it sound so much better,” said Jonathan. He tossed it to his partner. “Lemme guess, guy meets girl, guy gives girl a slip, but she rejects his rejection, or she gives him one at the same time, they try to one-up each other, and eventually,” he gasped, “they fall in love?”

“Okay, okay. But sci-fi? Ugh.” Adam’s face lit up. “Wait … what if the guy in this movie is a robot?”

“That’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not. Robots are funny. Haven’t you ever seen a robot?”

Jonathan stared at him. “Have you? Besides your Roomba?”

“That thing is hilarious.”

“So what’s your problem with science fiction? Or for that matter, fantasy or drama?”

Adam waved his arms around. “Sci-fi always has bugs. I hate giant bugs. Dramas are too dramatic. What do you want? The next goofy kid with a magic wand movie?”

“Abosultely. Go find me that.”

Story A Day May #21

Using the

www.writingexercises.co.ukwebsite again today, as I’m again writing on break at work and have just a little time to knock something out. (I might be a bit of a procrastinator.) I guess it’s good that I don’t get off work until 12:15am, and actually have the office to myself unlike if I worked early. 🙂

And, not really knowing the exact mechanics of water wells, besides digging a giant hole and fishing water out of it, we’ll all just pretend that the following bit of fiction is ‘technically correct’.

May 21, 2015

Random First Line Prompt:

There was a legend about the well in the garden. All the children knew it. They grew up hearing about it from Old Mother Mabel. She used to speak in hushed tones, telling the tales of the nymph and water elves that lived at the bottom of the well, deep underground. Every child knew that you had to toss a coin in for good luck every time you passed. The nymph blessed their village with rain and good crops.

Old Mother Mabel picked her way over the worn forest path, knobby walking stick tapping on the ground. She soon reached the clear spring that ran along her property. The woman stood on the bank, and grinned at the coins shimmering among the rocks. No one ever knew that the well was fed by her spring.

First Line of Dialogue Prompt:

“You embarrassed me this evening.”

Sally trailed behind her mother, who was walking with quick steps, the click of her heels echoing on the marble floor. Sally carried her shoes; her tiny feet hurt, and papa had said that she could take them off.

Papa waited at the bottom of the steps, speaking with their driver. He was finishing a cigar. Mother didn’t let him smoke in the house. He glanced up, smiling at them, but then caught the look of misery on Sally’s round face. When her mother met him beside the car, she proceeded to tell him how his daughter completely embarrassed her and the family. In front of Everyone!

Sally walked over the gravel driveway, not caring that her white tights would get dirty. Papa came over and picked her up. He peered at her in only the way a father could.

“What did you say that was just so awful, my baby?”

“Auntie Clementine asked mother what she was doing Sunday morning. She said they should go out for brunch. I said that mother couldn’t.”

“Oh? Why can’t your mother have brunch?”

“Because Sunday is bloody mary breakfast day.” Sally’s little face wrinkled in hard thought. “Papa, what’s a bloody mary?”

Story A Day May #18

Confession, I really felt like doing anything else than writing, at all points of this day. However, in the spirit of the challenge, and challenging myself, I knew I’d feel worse for not posting a tale, and like I’d let everyone who has been kindly stopping by down. I apparently also needed some extra sleep, since I did not get out of bed until noon, on my first day of having two off days in a row from my job. I also didn’t leave work until 12:20am and got to bed at 2am, with a house full of animals morning feeding in between sleeping for eight hours, so that might have had a little effect on sleeping late. So without further procrastination, enjoy today’s entry!

May 18, 2015

The sound beyond the silence, she was once told in her lessons. If you wait long enough, concentrate long enough, push past the barrier, then you will hear. It won’t be quiet anymore.

Too many times she had come to the circle of trees. So many that she’d lost count. The first time she failed to hear the spirits, she felt the hopefulness of the recently initiated. After a dozen times, she began to feel dismayed yet kept coming. There were times she cried. Times she raged. How could she be worthy of such a gift? The ancient spirits were cruel, or laughing. Both.

She’d never be good enough. Never be blessed enough. But still she came. Each day, an hour before sunrise. When the world was painted in that strange bluish tone, and the nocturnal creatures were preparing for sleep, and the diurnal ones were preparing for the day.

She stood among the trees, eyes closed, on what she didn’t know was her ninety-ninth morning. She felt worried on the walk here but the moment she broke the circle, it melted away like snow on the coming of spring warmth. Something felt different inside, so she waited.



The moment she felt peace with not hearing the spirits became the moment the world stopped. Silence like she never experienced. She couldn’t even hear her own breathing.

She heard the whispers.

Story A Day May #16

First, if we all haven’t seen Mad Max, then we should stop reading, go see it, and then come back. Just Sayin’.

Second, I got an inkling of a story while passing Cave Hill Cemetary on my way to work. It’s on the U.S. National Register of Historic Places, and if you ever come through Kentucky, it’s a beautiful place to visit. Chartered in 1848, it has a Civil War burial section, as well as offering walking tours. Anyways, enough history lesson and on with the fiction!

May 16, 2015

It stood, almost a lone sentinel. All the others gone by decay or age. There were only five others around the meadow. The house was long gone, but the stone markers were still there. A few of them nearly covered with weeds and wild strawberry plants.

The two nearest to it were slowly dying. It could feel their strained life. Not enough moisture these days, or nutrients, and no human souls came by anymore. But it didn’t much care, for it had stood for a hundred years, and it would stand longer. Proud. Healthy. It knew others would grow eventually; seeds dropped by the birds or the wind.

It still remembered the day he came. It was growing through a tight space between two flat stones. It had not much life left, as the dry, stamped down earth offered no room for it to flourish. He’d knelt, a looming shadow, and traced a finger over the trembling leaves. It had only six then. He said, You’ll never hope to grow here. With a stick and his fingers, he gently dug, unearthing the shallow roots.

It could remember the short-lived panic as it left the earth. But the panic was for naught. It soon found itself in a new home. Dark soil, full of all life, encased it. It could breathe again. There were towering ones nearby that gave encouragement. And always, him. He watered and sang, and when it grew big enough, he sat beneath it.

There were long stretches of time when he went away. It would wonder if he’d return, sometimes thinking that he wouldn’t, only to be happy when he did. As the decades passed, the man spent more and more time among his stone fortress, among his fields, and always the majestic oak tree.

When the General passed, surrounded by family, they buried him at the foot of his favorite tree.

And so it stood, proudly watching over the one who saved him.

Story A Day May #14

Ah, technology! Whipped this up while on break at work. Emailed it to my phone, copy & paste, and voila, story. 

I was reminiscing a bit today about my old WoW days, and my favorite mount, the albino drake. Loved that thing. 

Enjoy, everyone! 

May 14, 2015

Jesselyn knelt by the bedrolls packing the last of their supplies. Krane came back a few minutes later with a pot full of water. He dumped it over the low flames, the charred wood hissed and spit water droplets in protest.

“Have you got everything?” he asked.

She nodded. “We are fine to leave.”

He gave her a guarded look. “We’re fine once he gets back, you mean.”

“Don’t be a hard ass. I sent him off to eat. He’s been going too long between meals lately.”

“We haven’t?”

It was her took to give him a look. “It is not the same and you know it, Krane.”

“Fine, but he’s been away since before dawn. It’s nearly noon.”

“Drop it!”

He shrugged, but left it alone. The warrior paced around the small clearing that had served as their campsite for two nights. Jesselyn tried to ignore him. She tried not to worry about her darling, out all alone, circling the area in an attempt to find suitable nourishment. He’d been pushing himself too hard lately, and not just because they’d had to flee three days earlier from a large group of their enemy.  She glanced at Krane’s back, studying, as she always did, the scarred line the ran down from the back of his left shoulder to his elbow. She asked him once about it, and all he said was that it was a hell of a fight, and sometimes his arm still bothered him. When it was cool or damp.

Jesselyn admired him in a way. Especially his armor. As a warlock, she couldn’t wear anything heavier than thick cloth layers. At the age of ten, she tried on her father’s gaunlets, and his chainmail shirt. Within minutes she felt the incredible weight of it. The weight of all that a warrior carried. The face to face combat, the closeness of a kill. The metal blistered her skin, and when her father found her minutes later, he wasn’t angry, but upset at the pain she felt. He’d hoped for another warrior in the family, and as her older brother left to learn with the hunters of the wild woods, he’d really hoped it would be her to carry on his legacy.

Her mother had been a caster – a mage. Mage, she thought with more than a touch of conceit. Damn mages and their damn fireballs. “Phew, phew, phew,” she whispered, imitating the hand motion. “Silly mages and their ridiculous showy spells.”

A breeze kicked up. She heard the flapping before the shadows of his great wings darkened their site. Jesselyn stared at the descending albino drake. He landed with grace and immediately hopped towards her, gleam of excitement in his red eye.

“What is it, boy?” she asked, and then took a step back. “Eww. Benji!”

“What’s the matter?” Krane came dashing over.

“Benjamin! I’ve told you a hundred times that we do not play with our food”

The drake averted his eyes. He gave a shake of his neck, and the limbs of the troll shook. They heard his cursing. Neither of them spoke troll, but they could pretty much figure out what he meant.

“It’s rather amusing,” said Krane.

She gave him a dirty look. “Do not encourage him.”

The warrior reached out, ran a hand along the young drake’s long neck. “I still don’t know how a warlock managed to get herself the loyalty of one of these. How long have you had him?”

“Four years. You should be happy that he’s carrying us both,” she said.

“I am.” He stood next to her. “So is he going to eat that dreaful excuse of a troll, or am I chopping its head off?”

Krane started to draw his sword. Bejamin let out a squawk and hopped away. He pawed at the ground.

“Benji, sweetie, just eat the damn thing,” said Jesselyn.

He began chomping on the troll. Within seconds nothing remained, and the drake stretched his neck out and belched.

“Disgusting,” she said.

“What’s disgusting is that name,” said Krane, carrying their supplies to the drake. “What the hell kind of weird name is Benjamin?”

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