Category: Flash Fiction

A Drift of Quills for February 2020

2/7/2020

Hello, all!

This month we Quills are back to one of our favorite types of posts. That is, we will share some new flash fiction tales with you. (Here is a quick link to a page identifying where you can find our prior stories.)

This time, P.S. Broaddus, aka Parker, author of A Hero's Curse, chose the picture for which we each created a story. Entitled Learning to Fly, it is the work of Adrian Baluta, found on ArtStation. When I first saw the pic, the word "whimsey" came to mind. You'll see how I made use of it. In the meantime, let's see what Parker and Robin have for us ...

Parker? Off you go!

Welcome to Sky
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2020

"My dad could eat your dad."

"Not if he can't catch him first."

"He's one of the best fliers we have!"

"He still can't outfly my dad. No cat can outfly a bird."

"Bet I could outfly you."

"Not a chance."

The nestling and the kitten eyed each other. The kitten broke the terse silence. "I'm Starbucks. I was named after-"

"I'm Boeing!" The nestling interrupted. "I was named after the fastest flying machines of the old gods."

Starbucks huffed. "As I was saying before you interrupted me, I was named after the elite fuel of the old gods."

(Readers, be sure to following the link for the rest of Parker's story.)

How about you, Robin? I can't wait to see where your flash fiction tale takes us.

Learning to Fly
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2020

Striped Chasca, Seventeenth of the beloved and revered Fluffy, picked her way delicately down the garden path. She held her ears up, chin at a haughty angle, and let only the very tip of her tail twitch—just the way she’d seen the senior members of the clan do. Every dozen steps or so, she paused to preen, using the opportunity to sneak backward glances at her magnificent wings.

(Again, readers, be sure to follow the link for the rest of Robin's story.)

Thank you so much, Robin.

And now, it's my turn. Coming in at 970+ words, title and all ...

Huckleberry's Whimsey Day
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2020

His muscles aching and his wings tattered, Huckleberry tumbled through the air, his four legs akimbo, before finally righting himself. Looking down, he spotted a branch below, largely clear of brush. He aimed for it, confident that like all kittens, he would indeed land on his feet.

Keeping his knees loose, his paws touched. He bounced up, and then aimed yet again for another, even clearer branch, just below. On arrival, he teetered. Regaining his balance, he heaved in a deep breath in an effort to still his wildly beating heart. All the while, he contemplated on how his panic had added to his difficulties motoring through the air, which in turn, had resulting in his landing here—quite less than gracefully.

He glanced skyward, noting that the storm that brewed above the treetops had not yet made it to the ground, even as nearby leaves began to dance and to chatter. It wouldn’t be long now, he thought, so he’d best make it to the ground before the full fury of the tempest reigned down on him.

Turning away from the furious, roiling skies—skies that seemed to reflect his present mood—Huckleberry pulled his goggles up over his forehead. Then, “Oh, hello,” he mewed on realizing he was not alone.

“Hello, yourself,” chirped a ruffled-feathered sparrow, in response.

“I’m Huckleberry,” the kitten said.

“And I am Whimsey. Are you okay?”

“As best I can be under the circumstances, I suppose,” Huckleberry replied, “which isn’t saying much.”

“But you made it down safely. So that is something to be grateful for. Right?”

The kitten frowned. “Look, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to get down before the storm makes its way here, into these trees.” He stepped past the bird.

“Wait!”

Huckleberry turned back, a scowl tattling on his impatience.

“I wondered if you might help me. You see, I was out for a joy-fly, when I got caught up in that storm.” Whimsey spread out a wing, showing a series of broken feathers. “I’m afraid it slammed me into these trees and, as you see, I’ve injured my wing and also— Well, it seems I’ve sprained an ankle.”

“Hmmm. But what can I do?”

“Well, you see, my nest is a distance from here and I'm unable to fly. Given this storm, I might be safer down on the ground at the present. Still, it is a long way down for me and in my present state I wondered . . . Might I hitch a ride with you?”

Huckleberry shrugged. Then, “Fine,” he mewed. “Hop up.”

Minutes later, Huckleberry’s feet met the soft moss that carpeted the forest floor. Sensing the storm was only seconds behind now, he made a quick inventory of his surroundings.

There! he thought, upon noting a hollowed out log just ahead. He made a mad dash for it, scooted inside, spun around, and then crouched down to watch.

Whimsey hopped from the kitten’s back, wincing from the pain that shot up his ankle on his landing. Then he turned to his savior. “I cannot thank you enough!” he exclaimed.

“Yeah, yeah.”

The sparrow cocked his head. “What happened to you up there?”

Huckleberry shook his head. “My day started out fairly acceptably—for a change. I was happy, even, I guess. So I decided to take to the skies. My take-off off went fine, but then, there I was, cruising along, when I found myself pondering on my problems . . . The storm came in, adding to my difficulties. I wasn’t prepared . . . and my motor gave out. That’s all.”

“Your motor?”

“My purr.” Huckleberry sighed. “You see, I purr when I’m happy. When my problems weigh down on me, I’m unable to sustain that and then— Well, you get the picture.”

Whimsey sat quietly for a long minute, looking out at the rain that now beat down, mercilessly. Finally, he turned back. Then, “Are you so injured that you could not fly back home if you could still purr?” he asked.

“Oh, no. These tatters you see? They’re nothing compared to some damages my gear has suffered in the past.

“So then,” Whimsey began, “you are injured and your gear less than perfect, and yet—”

The kitten covered his ears and responded sharply, “I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t want to hear it!”

“And yet,” the sparrow continued, “you are here . . . safe. You are whole. You are alive. You can mend. Your tattered wings won’t hold you back from returning home. There are so many things—”

“To be grateful for. Yes. Yes, I know.” Huckleberry sighed, then turned back to face Whimsey. “You are right about all of those things, but I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a funk. Still, I suppose I might eventually find my way out of this mess.” He paused. “So, yes, I appreciate your friendly reminder of how I’m to do that—of how I’m to find my purr again.”

Whimsey sidled nearer. “May I lie next to you, to warm up? I don’t know how long this storm will last. Likely until tomorrow morning, at least, and I’ve got quite a chill.”

“Sure,” Huckleberry said. He lifted a paw to make room for his new friend to draw nearer. Then, “I suggest we get some rest, then,” he said.

“I quite agree. And you just wait. Things will look better soon. Joy comes in the morning, you know.”

Whimsey snuggled in close and kept quiet. Finally, when he was sure the kitten slept, he nuzzled even nearer him, then whispered in his ear, “You are not alone. All will be well.” With that, the little sparrow closed his eyes to rest.

With morning, sounds of raindrops falling from the trees above . . .

And of birdsong . . .

And of a joyful purring . . . filled the air.

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A Drift of Quills for November 2019

11/1/2019

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I cannot believe it is November already (even though I woke to a dusting of snow this morning), but there you have it. Cold notwithstanding, from my perspective there are two great things about this month. First, it will soon be Thanksgiving, which is my favorite holiday. Second, we Quills are coming to you this month with new flash fiction tales!

This time, I got to choose the pic. Here it is:

I first found these boots/moccasins on Pinterest, then tracked them down to a site for Turtle Island Moccasins. It seems you can actually order yourself a pair of these! What do you think of that?

When I chose our inspirational pic, I asked my fellow Quills if they wanted an added challenge (as if writing a flash fiction tale isn't challenge enough). I suggested the following for their consideration:

Include in your story, something about The Forest of Infatuation, or the Temple of the Unknown Slave, or The Drum of Unbearable Silence ...
Or … maybe your main character has an odd personality or behavioral quirk, like he or she is notoriously rude, or expresses emotion inappropriately, or is homesick, or is always looking for a fight …
Or ... maybe your main character has a pet. Perhaps it’s a dog that steals keys and other small objects, or that never comes when called, or that commonly gets stuck in silly places ...

In the end, we decided we would each choose for ourselves whether to take on an added challenge, and if so, what that challenge would be. For my part, I chose a couple of items from the above list. First, I included the Forest of Infatuation. Second, I combined features from the second and third options. Namely, I added a pet with an odd behavioral quirk.

Are you ready? Coming in at 815 words, title and all ... here goes!

Calico Dew and
the Boots of Ominous Delight
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

The ramshackle hut sat in a damp tree-shaded hollow, deep in the Forest of Infatuation. An occasional bright green patch of mold stood out on its thatched roof and spotted its weathered, paint-crackled, windows.Their half-open shades looked like eyes peering down at the bed of poison ivy just outside the hut’s door, which hung slightly askew on its rusty hinges.

Nearby, Calico Dew hid. She patted Sneaker, her faithful canine companion, whose shaggy mottled coat helped him to meld into his surroundings. This well-served Calico’s purposes in carrying out her duties as an official retriever of stolen magic artifacts. However, Sneaker also came with a downside. That is, while his physical traits allowed him to rummage about stealthily, he also possessed a particularly annoying personality quirk. Specifically, he ofttimes absconded with small, shiny, objects. Calico’s mind wandered as she recalled how she’d one day discovered—quite by accident—what he did with them, but then she cautioned herself to return her focus to the present.

Just a day earlier, the nearby Wolfwater town denizens had informed Calico that the witch, Rosita Brack, who resided at the hut, was out of town. So Calico rushed there, hoping to find that which she sought—that which was rumored to be there, namely, the Boots of Ominous Delight. Ages old, they had proven most dangerous over the years, as anyone donning the footwear would find themselves delighted to remain lost in the forest. Too many good people under their evil magic had wandered their way off cliffs hidden in those woods, or into waters rushing through them, or down the jaws of the dangerous wildlife that inhabited them.

Calico was grateful she had the means to break the spell of the boots. She felt outside her pocket to confirm she still carried the tool necessary to do so: the Brooch of Nonexistent Misery. Made of gold, with a dozen inset light-reflecting precious stones of various colors, Calico could almost see the brooch shimmering through her pocket. She knew if she wore the item, its powers would allow her to wear the boots without danger (which would be most beneficial, as then she would not have to carry them back home or find room for them in her already over-filled backpack).

Having witnessed no movement around the hut, Calico approached. At the door, she hesitated, listening closely. Hearing nothing, she pressed on it, then winced when its hinges squeaked before directing Sneaker inside to scout.

After sniffing about to confirm that no one hid there, Sneaker whined his master’s way, inviting her to enter.

There!

Almost immediately, Calico spotted the boots she sought standing in the corner opposite where she stood. Struggling to repress a grin, she retrieved the broach from her pocket so as to pin it on her tunic and thus, make short work of her venture.

At precisely that moment, the door squeaked once more. Shocked, Calico’s arms went flying, causing the trinket to pass from her fingertips and through the air. In a flash, her eyes followed its arc before turning back to find Rosita Brack, leaning against the doorsill. The woman's witchiness was most evident in the manner in which she had shadowed her now-narrowed eyes (likely with coal) and in which she had artfully painted her thin, scowling lips (in a color so deep and dark a red as to border on pitch).

“Caught you!” Rosita cackled.

Calico knew Rosita’s history. The witch would put a spell on her, force her to don the magic boots, and then send her on her way. After all, she derived her greatest joy from the suffering of others.

Shaking, but with no hope of convincing the witch to spare her, Calico addressed her with a quivering voice. “Well,” she said, “it seems I’m trapped.”

“Indeed, you are,” Rosita responded. Within seconds, she spun her dark magic, rendering Calico compliant. Then she directed her to put the magic boots on. Once done, with a laugh bordering on the maniacal, Rosita sent Calico on her way, Sneaker at her side.

Trudging through the forest, Calico found herself delighted with her surroundings. Even so, somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew two things: first, that danger lurked; and second, that she possessed the means to overcome it. She had, after all, witnessed that precise moment when, in a flash, Sneaker had snapped the Brooch of Nonexistent Misery—after it flew from Calico’s fingers—out of the air and into his jaws. He had then—as Calico might well have expected—swallowed. And, thus, the means to escape the evil witch’s intentions walked at Calico’s side. In the end, while those means might not prove exactly … convenient ... or clean ... or odorless (eewww!), Calico was confident she would know freedom once more.

Well? What do you think? Please do, share your thoughts!

Lucky for you, there is more. Next up is Robin Lythgoe.

I can hardly wait, so take it away, Robin!

Starry-Eyed
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2019

The autumn sun slid toward the horizon, gilding the moors and pulling twilight ever closer. Little streamers of fog drifted this way and that, half-formed fairy ribbons. Archibald Cumming laughed to himself. The old man was getting to him. Had already got to him, years ago, truth be told. And where was the old fool now? Shifting his backpack, he trudged up the sparse hill. Hands on hips, he stopped at the top to catch his breath before he had a look around. When he had his breathing under control again, he straightened and stood still and quiet, listening. Listening as he'd done dozens of times already just today. This wasn’t the first time the old codger had taken off on his own.

He was about to move on when he heard it …

Excellent! Thank you so much.

And now, for Parker.

What have you for us, Parker? Did you take on any of the added challenges?

FOOL'S FEET
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2019

"I'll be requested by kings," said the shiny face of ambition, caught somewhere between a boy and a man. But the glint in his eye was ageless.

"You'll be an outcast."

"Princes will offer me untold wealth and honor," he continued, unhearing.

"You'll reject it all."

He rubbed his hands together unconsciously, unaware of how silly he looked, how small and unworthy. "My name will be known from the border of Darjil to the Jabob River and beyond."

"Where you will be unwelcome and hunted until the last of your days." The old man sighed. Ambition turned his head, the sigh finally catching his attention. Was the old one dying? Would he pass on the boots now?

"Master Eli...are you well?"

The grizzled beard, streaked white and grey and sandy-desert brown, twitched. Eli looked full at his apprentice. Looked in his soul through the undisguised eyes.

The boots would instruct him.

"I must go." Eli struggled to his feet. He could not rest. Not yet.

The apprentice's long eager fingers grasped an elbow, half helping, half clinging. "I'm going with you."

Eli shrugged. "Do what you must."

Great stuff, Parker! Thank you.

We would love to know what our readers think, so we invite you to share your comments. Also, please feel free to share your flash fiction stories with us.

Thank you for stopping by. Until next time!

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A Drift of Quills for August 2019

8/2/2019

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It is almost impossible to believe, yet true, that August is upon us. The days are growing shorter, the nights longer, and for the most part, also cooler. I am looking forward to a much needed get-away before summer's end, but for now, I'm excited to bring you the August post for A Drift of Quills. We are back to what has quickly become our favorite kind of post, and it seems to be yours, too. What kind is that? Why, flash fiction, of course!

This time around, Robin Lythgoe, selected the picture that we used for inspiration. It is always great fun to read the wildly different stories the three of us come up with to go with the chosen picture for these posts, so prepare yourself!

Below is the photo.

We Quills all seem to view the parameters of flash fiction a bit differently. My personal goal is to stay within 1000 words - if at all possible. Today, I've managed to do just that - coming in, I believe, at 998 words, title and all! But before I share my flash fiction story with you, I'm anxious to read what my fellow Quills have for us all. (Make sure you follow the links for each of Parker and Robin to get the full story for each.)

P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, is sure to have a great read for us, and no doubt it will be loaded with wit and charm. Take it away, Parker!

The Standing Stone
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2019

The guardian standing at water’s edge hadn’t always been there. At one time no shadow from the pillar of rock crept across the long salt-grass, as the western sun sank into the wine-dark sea. The path that ran along the coast from the capitol of Plen toward the high timbered trees of Greatwood Forest didn’t always have the patch of stone shade that marked the half-way point. There hadn’t been a section of the monolith rubbed smooth by thousands of hands, touching the rock and then touching the forehead for good fortune.

As mentioned, Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, selected the pic for us this time around. I can't wait to read her story. So . . . here goes!

The Judgment Stone
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2019

There’s a town near the Rhogan coast that has a unique way of dealing with undesirables. Their “undesirables” consist of murderers, rapists, and arsonists. Thieves—unless their theft ruins a citizen’s livelihood or affects the entire town—are generously permitted a second chance. Upon conviction, the criminal is immediately taken to the Stone of Judgement, bound there, and left to the whims of the local dragon. If he or she is still breathing at the same time the next day, freedom is restored. Apparently the almighty dragon decide whether or not they are innocent, no matter what other proof previously stood against them.

You can safely imagine that those who escape leave the surrounds and never return. You might also imagine my astonishment at being arrested, tried, and found guilty of something called “High Thievery.” I’ve never stolen a thing in my life, unless you count a nap now and then. Well, I have helped myself to apples in the orchards I pass on my way between towns… But a face? How does a person steal a face?

And now, it's my turn. Ready?

Here goes . . .

Left Ahead
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

A musty odor greeted Lorna as she awakened, stiff and cramped. She groaned. Her head hurt; her body ached.

A clicking sounded out, as something brushed her cheek.

Lorna’s eyes flashed open. She bolted upright, then turned to the source of the touch. Although semi-dark, there was no mistake.

“Onyx!” she cried, recognizing her long time companion, a snowy owl that had adopted her shortly after her father’s death. She wrapped her arms around his neck and combed her fingers through his soft fur-like chest feathers.

Onyx hooted.

“Where are we, boy?”

He cocked his head.

“Wait.” Lorna got to her feet. Looking about, she found herself in a room roughly the size of Archwarden Elowen’s shoe closet. Bare of any furnishings, through its single large open window, a sliver of grey light shone. Whether predawn, or eventide, Lorna could not tell.

As she stepped closer for a better look, Onyx perched on the sill.

Looking out, Lorna found herself several stories high. Below, and spread nearly to the horizon, sat a forest. At its outermost point, glimmered a blue light, instantly recognizable as the Codex Capital where the Archwarden resided. To its north, sat Avoncaster Sea. There was no mistake then. Lorna was in the Arcane Tower, home of the evil Wizard Odell, best known for his shenanigans at playing games with time.

Rubbing the back of her neck, Lorna contemplated her situation. The last she remembered clearly, she and the rest of the Archwarden’s freedom fighters, had set out to arrest Chamber Dawson. In serving Wizard Odell, Dawson had run afoul of the law on one too many occasions. But, Lorna recalled, things had not gone according to plan. As her second in command, Kit Trescott, led a group to approach Dawson’s hideout from the front, she and Margrave Taffy made their way to the back so as to insure that Dawson didn’t escape via that route. To her surprise, someone stepped out from the darkness, grabbed Margrave, and held him in a chokehold. Then Lorna found herself face-to-face with the man she sought. Before she could cry for help, Dawson’s blow struck.

Lorna tried to conjure up more details, but few came to mind. She did remember being carried away, and dropping in and out of consciousness for a time thereafter. She also vaguely recollected having been left in the very room in which she now found herself, and she recalled how immediately after that, Onyx flew in through the window. But from that moment, she’d lost all consciousness. For how long, she knew not, but she surmised that her pet had not left her side all the while.

Onyx hooted, interrupting her reverie.

Lorna sighed. Her head ached, but she knew she had to reconnect with her fellow freedom fighters. She expected they’d look for her at Brackenclutch. A mere stone pillar, the outpost served as a common meeting place for the Archwarden’s supporters.

Turning to the opposite wall, Lorna found an arched door. Hoping she wasn’t too heavily guarded, she decided she’d have a look.

Unsheathing her knife, she tentatively approached the door, then reached for its handle. To her surprise, it turned.
She cracked the door open and peeked out.

Yet another surprise met her: the hall was empty, but for a lone, crackling pitch torch, settled in a wall sconce. Its flames cast eerie shadows across the damp walls.

With Onyx at her side, Lorna wasted no time. She made her way out of the castle, then sprinted off, into the night.

Two overcast days and nights later, as dusk approached, Lorna arrived at her destination. The earliest evening stars peeked out in the, at long-last, clear sky.

Lorna stood at a distance. She sensed something out of order, but couldn’t place what.

Quietly, she made her way through the brush that surrounded the outpost. Approaching the stone pillar, in hopes her comrades had left a message there, she looked skyward at Onyx, gliding overhead. Then, what had troubled her earlier, suddenly became clear.

The night sky was all wrong. She, Kit, Margrave, and their cohorts, had set out for Dawson’s hideout in the early spring. But the constellations told her that autumn approached.

At that moment, a chuckle sounded out.

She spun toward the sound.

Before her, stood Wizard Odell.

“So, the great Lorna Rinn, the Archwarden’s chief defender, finds herself in a spot,” he mocked.

“I see you’ve been up to your games again,” Lorna said, “toying with time.”

The wizard grinned.

She frowned. “Look, the last I remember before awakening in Arcane Tower, it was early spring. But I see that autumn approaches.” She sighed. “I suppose that explains why my pals are not here to greet me. They could hardly wait a half year for me to show up.”

He chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, my dear,” he cooed, “you are not a mere six months off.”

“No?”

“No, my dear, you are sixty years off—give or take. Your Archwarden Elowen is newly born—an event her father celebrates with a festival.”

Lorna’s heart pounded. If what the wizard said was true, she didn’t know another living soul. Even her parents didn’t yet exist.

“Undue this!” she cried.

“Mmmm … I think not. But you’re lucky, you see. Since your pet here,” he gestured toward Onyx, “stayed with you in my tower, he also was ensorcelled. So, you are not wholly alone. And of course, one day, you will return to the loved ones you left … ahead.”

Without more, the wizard, smiling, stepped away and disappeared into the night.

Lorna sat quietly for a time. Then, finally, she addressed Onyx. “He didn’t win, you know. Evil never does. His mistake? Sending me back in time, not forward. Now I can undermine his plans, circumvent the efforts of those who would help him, perhaps even before they come into existence.” She stood. “Well, come on then, Onyx. We’ve work to do.”

As always, we look forward to your comments. What do you think?

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A Drift of Quills for May 2019

5/3/2019

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May has arrived and we Quills are at it again, writing flash fiction tales. This time, Parker (that is, P.S. Broaddus) chose a picture to inspire us. He also threw in an added challenge, namely, that we would use the pic as the background for writing something new to one of our prior tales. Here it is:

The picture is from the game, The League of Light, by Mariaglorum. It conjures all sorts of ideas, doesn't it? (Perhaps if you are inspired, you will write a tale that you can share with us.)

Before getting to my story, I'll share those of my fellow Quills.

Parker took our challenge to new heights, in that he has provided various alternate beginnings to his prior work, Nightrage Rising. If you've not read it yet, here's your chance to jump in. If you have, you're sure to enjoy the beginning from these various new perspectives.

Beginnings
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright, P.S. Broaddus 2019

TIG

Tigrabum Fendor had never been, nor ever would be, an ordinary cat, thank you very much. He examined the new pin that had been placed in the latch and chuckled silently. When would they learn?

He pried a paw between the crate and the pin and wiggled the latch. The addition of a pin added a finesse requirement and five extra seconds before he freed the lid. He hopped up on his hind feet, resting his forepaws against the crate to look around the dock. Nobody had noticed him yet. He hooked his paw under the lid and lifted. Hundreds of blank, white eyes stared up at him, cold and unfeeling.

Wow, Parker, you were really busy. Thank you so much!

Now, we move on to see what Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, has for us. Robin?

A Thief Worth His Salt
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright, Robin Lythgoe 2019

I have come to the conclusion that all great people have their rivals. Qahan Nijamar, the mythic hero of yore, had his Ashlock; the pirate Maid Mihriban had her Princess Pakize; I have Raza Qimeh. Or at least he likes to think so. Most of his success stems from the fact that no one would believe someone as tall or broad or loud as he could ever be a quiet, agile, wily thief. Typically, he’s a mere thorn in my side. Like now, for instance ...

Find more on Robin's site.

And now, it's my turn!

Fantasy authors often create their worlds in a first volume, and then use those creations in a number of volumes in a series. Occasionally, an author might write spin-offs, providing a whole new series around a lesser character from the original. These tales might precede the original, run parallel with it, or come later in time.

I’ve decided to use our inspirational picture—and Parker’s challenge—to tell a parallel story. In essence, I'm “adding a scene,” if you will, to Oathtaker. That said, I didn’t want to give anything away for anyone who has not yet read that story. Thus, you’ll find a blank space in my new scene. Also, I’m not giving you a full-fledged, stand alone story, as I prefer to do with flash fiction (and as I’ve done with my prior flash fiction tales), because I am unable to do so with a “parallel” scene. Even so, I hope you enjoy it …

To set the stage, in Oathtaker, Volume One of The Oathtaker Series, Mara travels with a group of friends, seeking safety for the infant twins, Reigna and Eden. The group makes its way to the City of Light. There, they can easily visit sanctuary and spend time studying. Mara knows their ultimate destination is the camp that Lucy created and then shielded with magic. Still, while reports from Ezra’s spy network tell Mara that Lilith is still some distance away, she wants to learn all that she can. Eventually, she sends everyone in her group, except for Dixon and Nina (who is wet nurse to the twins), ahead to Lucy’s. They take the great scepter with them so as to get it to safety as soon as possible. Later, Mara, the infant twins, Dixon, and Nina, will join them.

In the original Oathtaker, just as Jules, Samuel, Basha, Therese, and Adele, are leaving The Clandest Inn, someone new shows up there. The portion of the story reads:

Excerpt from Oathtaker
by Patricia Reding

“I’ll take the map,” Jules said.

“Don’t make any markings on it,” Dixon cautioned. “We wouldn’t want anyone to know where you were headed.”

Nina sat down. “It seems like someone is always coming and going,” she said as she glanced Jules’s way.

“It can’t be helped, Nina.” Mara rolled up the map. “I want to get the scepter to safekeeping. I probably should have sent the group off sooner.” She handed the scroll to Jules whose gaze rested on Nina.

His chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it back. “We can still get an early start—and we’ll need to if we’re to make it to Aventown before nightfall.” He tucked the map under his arm. “I checked at the stables earlier. Our horses are saddled.”

Adele groaned. Moody for days now, she’d intercepted Mara at every turn, each time with yet another argument for why she should stay behind. She’d even gone so far as to ask Mara to check with the oracle about whether to send her with the others, but the Oathtaker thought the idea preposterous. Why would the oracle bother over such a detail?

Bundled up in shawls and capes, they all made their way to the stables.

Dixon, late for an appointment with Ezra, clasped Jules’s forearm, urged him to keep everyone safe, then returned to the inn.

Mara and Nina each held one of the twins as the travelers mounted. Mara grasped Eden’s arm and raised it in a mock wave. Nina grinned, then followed suit, waving Reigna’s hand at those departing.

As the riders left the courtyard, a man in black, on a large rust gelding, rushed toward the inn. He nearly collided with Adele. Mara winced at the encounter, glanced briefly at the newcomer, then turned her attention back to her departing friends.

Adele stretched so far back in her saddle, that for a minute it looked like she was riding backward. She appeared troubled.

“Poor Adele,” Mara said as she, Nina, and Samuel, headed back to the inn.

Just then, the man in black nearly ran into them.

“Excuse me,” Mara said as he jostled past.

He glanced at her briefly, then went inside.

With this passage as background, I offer the follow coming in at just under 900 words. For those unaware, Adele had been a servant at the palace of the Select in Shimeron. She’d managed to catch an unexpected magic ride from Mara when Mara went to the palace to save Dixon from Lilith’s grasp, and she has been traveling with Mara and company since.

Arriving in Aventown
by Patricia Reding
Copyright, Patricia Reding 2019

The moon, now full, lit the way for the traveling entourage as it entered the village of Aventown. Dixon had described the town as “sleepy,” and so it seemed to be, in that few lights shown through any windows, although the hour was not yet late.

Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop. The travelers’ horses drummed a steady rhythm as they made their way down the cobblestone street, announcing their presence to anyone in the least interested. The sound startled Adele from her musings. Then just as she turned her thoughts inward again, unexpected laughter interrupted her reverie.

“What’s so funny?” Basha asked Jules who rode at her side.

“It looks like someone here held a contest for the wildest place names. See there?” He pointed. “It’s ‘The Pain in the Glass Pub,’ and next to it is ‘The Brewed Awakening Inn.’”
Still chuckling, he pointed once again. “Oh, look there! It’s the ‘Knead a Massage Parlor.’”

Basha, and her charge, Therese, laughed along with him.

Then, “Oh! There’s one!” Basha exclaimed as she gestured ahead. “See there? It’s the Quick Voyage Book Store.”

“And there’s the Inkwell Tattoo Parlor,” Therese added.

“These are great names,” Jules said.

“Yes, the place certainly seems friendly enough,” Adele offered with a pout.

“I guess we’ll know soon enough,” Jules said. Then, “There’s the inn ahead,” he added. “Earlier, I thought its name peculiar. I mean, who would use a name like ‘The Night Mare” for an inn, anyway? But, Dixon said I’d understand when I got here. Now I believe I do!” He waved his arm. “Come on, then, let’s make sure they have room for us.”

After confirming that there was indeed room at the inn, Jules sent the women ahead with Samuel to get a meal started. Then he assisted the young man in charge of the stables with feeding and grooming their mounts before he headed back inside.

Meanwhile, Adele remained in quiet thought while she helped to prepare dinner. Still upset about having to leave the twins, however, she left her own meal uneaten. Instead, she sat in a rocker in the corner, musing.

Shivering, as the inn’s stone exterior made for a damp and cold interior, she pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. Her rocking remained slow and steady as she searched for some semblance of serenity.

“Is all well, Adele?” Basha asked her.

“Fine.”

“Something bothering you?”

The young woman bit her bottom lip, then shook her head and said, “Nothing. Just thinking.”

Adele could not get the image of the man who had arrived at the Clandest Inn just as they were leaving, out of her mind. She was certain she’d recognized him, and the thought of his being anywhere near the twins, worried her.

After some minutes of silence, Jules spoke up, addressing no one in particular. “I made arrangements with the innkeeper, who as you all know is a spy in Ezra’s network, to send a messenger back to the City of Light to update Mara and Dixon on our progress according to the itinerary we'd prepared earlier. I know we won’t have the luxury of doing so everyday, but I’d like to keep them as informed as possible.”

Adele turned his way. “You’re sending Mara a messenger?” she asked. “This evening?”

“That’s the plan.”

“May I send one, as well?”

Jules glanced at Basha who then addressed the young woman. “There is no going back, Adele. Mara will catch up with us at Lucy’s soon enough.”

“No— I mean, yes, I know all that.” Suddenly overcome with a longing for the infant twins she’d grown to love so deeply, a tear ran down Adele’s cheek. She wiped it away. “I just— May I send a message anyway?”

Jules shrugged. “So long as you don’t mention where we are or where we’re going.”

“I won’t.”

Adele waited for Jules to finish writing his note, then took up his quill and ink. For a moment, she couldn’t think just what to say. She didn’t want to alarm Mara unnecessarily, but that creepy man was too close to Lilith for her liking.

Adele bit the end of the quill. Finally, she penned: Mara. Had to write immediately. Thought I saw _________ as we left the inn. He’s trouble. Use care.

She wondered if she should say more. Should she tell Mara how the man frequented Lilith’s chambers? About how the two of them laughed at Lilith’s threats of cruelty? Should she tell Mara about how he stood by when Lilith did the most despicable things, and that he did nothing to intervene? In truth, Adele didn’t have any more evidence about him, or against him, than she’d had when she left the palace. While there, Dixon hadn’t seemed particularly concerned about him—and he’d not mentioned the man since he’d escaped from Lilith’s clutches. So, maybe there wasn’t cause for great concern, after all.

Still, she argued with herself, Dixon couldn’t possibly know everything that she knew.

Confused, she shook her head.

“You need anything Adele?” Basha asked.

The young woman sighed. "No. Like I said before, I'm fine." With that, she turned back to her missive and added: We're all well. Once done, she signed it, Adele. Then she folded it, affixed a wax seal to it, and handed it to Jules.

I admit that while I appreciated this challenge, my personal view of flash fiction is to tell a full tale in only a few words. Unfortunately, this time around, I cannot say that I fully met my usual goal. Even so, it was fun to revisit Adele back at a time that I know was a difficult one for her.

So, what do you think of our latest flash fiction efforts? We’d love to hear your thoughts.

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Spring Flash Fiction Fun

4/26/2019

1 Comment

I've had such fun of late creating flash fiction tales inspired by pics, that I thought I'd do it again. Here's the one I chose this time around. What do you think of it?

This image, entitled Steam Punk Assassin, from Giby-Joseph is also posted on Pinterest. Notwithstanding its title, it summons a wide range of possible storylines.

I try my best to keep my flash fiction stories within 1000 words. This time, I just hit the mark, after honing the story down, down, down. (It is more difficult than you might think!)

Please take a minute, enjoy, then share your thoughts.

A Minor Magician
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

Tying her pants, Brigid Dosser muttered, “I must eat better. So what if I can’t afford it? I could take up bribery . . . or begging.” Recently discharged from employment, embezzlement was no longer an option. “Or maybe good old-fashioned thievery,” she added.

“What did you say?” asked eight-year old Amelle.

Brigid looked her way. She’d been shocked to discover that the girl hadn’t fallen to the wiles of the criminal deviants that abounded on the streets where she’d found her living a couple years earlier. It was a testimony to the girl’s curious genius that, almost miraculously, she melded into her surroundings. She had an uncanny ability to seem invisible while in plain sight, thereby learning the most confidential things. So when Brigid needed information, Amelle was her most reliable source—and it was details Amelle had learned and shared with her on which Brigid would act tonight.

“Nothing, little one.” She pulled a protective leather band over her arm. “Now you wait here,” she ordered as she headed for the door.

“But—”

“I’ll know if you follow,” she warned.

“No you won’t—err—wouldn’t. No one sees or hears me when I don’t wish for them to.” Amelle grinned impishly.

“I’ve no time for arguments. I must mizzle.”

“Where are you going?” 

“To find Derry Rault.”

“No, wait!” Amelle cried, but her protector, dagger in hand, was already gone.

Brigid scurried out the back door and across the street, then hid in the alcove of the Forever and Ever ink parlor. There she waited, making sure no one followed.

Finally satisfied, she wrapped a bandana over her cheeks to keep the streetlamps from reflecting off them. Then she climbed to the rooftop to make her way expeditiously to Derry’s favorite pub, The Good Ferrett. She’d learned from Amelle that there, he intended to meet Liza Kergoat, the best-known fence around. The woman was shrewd—and ruthless. To cross her was to sign your death warrant. But while Derry was Brigid’s former flame, she wished him no ill will. Thus, she had to act quickly.

Back on the street, she removed her kerchief, then entered the pub. She glanced across the room. Sighting Derry with Liza, she headed their way.

“Oh, you!” she cooed as she reached his side and sat. She greeted him with a kiss that lingered excessively given their estrangement, but then everyone agreed Derry Rault was one fine looking man.

Surprised, he pulled back.

“Who’s this?” Liza asked.

Derry sat mute. His eyes narrowed.

“Oh, hello, Ma’am,” Brigid said, grinning. “Don’t mind Derry. He’s shy.”

Liza’s brow rose.

“We’re . . . together.”

“I see.”

This time Derry opened his mouth to speak.

Then, “Honestly,” Brigid said, nudging him, “has the cat got your tongue?” Leaning in, she whispered, “You have the wrong package.”

He pulled back. “No, I don’t.”

Giggling, playacting, she drew even closer, keeping her voice low, yet choosing her words carefully in the event Liza overheard her. “I didn’t know you’d intended to meet Madam Kergoat.” She turned to smile at the woman. “Now, then, Derry—”

“I don’t know what kind of trick you’re playing.” He extricated himself from her hold. Then, standing, he dropped something on the table and pointed at it. “I’ve the correct items right there.”

Brigid sucked in a breath, hoping she could save the man from himself. “No, surely, this is the purse you meant to take.” She stuffed a pouch in the palm of his hand.

Liza’s eyes never left the two.

Clearly angry now, Derry deposited Brigid’s bag back into her pocket, roughly. Then he took up the one on the table. He opened it, removed a few jewels from it, showed them to Liza, and then returned them.

Slapping the pouch back down, Derry glared at Brigid and growled, “Enough of your games."

Dumbfounded, she stood, then turned away. What had happened? She’d stolen the jewels from Derry earlier, leaving him with a bag of stones. The only reason she’d tried to return the goods now was because she didn’t want to learn of his death at Liza’s hand. But then . . . how could he have brought the gems to The Good Ferrett?

Upon returning home, she called for Amelle, but got no answer. She called again.

“Here!” Amelle slipped inside.

“I told you to stay put! Where were you?”

“Saving you.”

“Wh—what?”

Amelle hung her head. “I knew you’d stolen the jewels from Derry. When I heard he planned to deliver them to Liza, I also knew I’d have to give them back. So I took them, leaving a bag of stones for you, hoping I could replace it later. I’m sorry, Brigid, I know we need to eat, but I couldn’t bear to think what Liza would do if she thought Derry had tricked her!”

“You should have told me.”

“You left too quickly! So I flew out the front door to evade you, then headed straight for The Good Ferrett, where I’d intended to go anyway, to save Derry.”

“And you gave the jewels back to him. But . . . when?”

“Right after you handed your bag to him.”

“I’m sorry?”

“He dropped his pouch on the table. You tried to give him yours, but he shoved it back in your pocket, then opened the one on the table.”

“So?”

“Well, during the confusion, I’d exchanged the bag I took from you earlier for the one he’d set down. So he picked up the correct bag.”

Brigid fell back into a chair, dumfounded.

“Then, I removed the bag from your pocket as Derry handed his to Liza. You left and she put the loot in her coat pocket.” Amelle reached into her own pocket, then dropped a purse in Brigid’s hands. “And I replaced it with the one you’d brought along, leaving you with the jewels here.”

Patting her empty pocket, Brigid’s eyes widened. More than ever she was convinced the child was a magician—an invisible, lifesaving, pick-pocketing, wizard.

So what do you think?

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A Drift of Quills for February 2019

2/1/2019

4 Comments

We Quills are back this month with what has quickly become my favorite type of post. That is, we selected a single picture for which each of us has spun his or her own flash fiction tale. This time around, I got to select the inspirational image. It is entitled, A Quiet Man, and is by PeteMohrbacher, found here, on DeviantARt. What do you think?

There are so many ways this could go that I cannot wait to see what my fellow Quills have for us. But for starters, I present to you (at exactly 1000 words, inclusive of the title!) ...

Breaking Spells
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

Aiden Piper journeyed from the Burara Wilds, back home, where six years earlier, Fenella’s father, Nigel Duke, had forced Finn Mock to put a spell on him. It happened the day before he and Fenella were to exchange their vows in the cobblestone-paved Dorberg village square. As a consequence, Aiden and his love would remain divided until they broke Finn’s spell. But Nigel, taking no chances, had paid crimpers to trick Aiden, drug him, and then set him aboard a ship that hauled him away.

Soon after awakening in chains, trapped into sea service to the cruel pirate, Wyn More, Aiden fell victim to jungle fever. For months he knew only the mercy of forgetfulness that unconsciousness granted him. But eventually his illness passed and his memories returned. They harassed him unceasingly. He longed for Fenella and the revenge he would have when he returned home where he knew she waited for him.

When the opportunity arose, Aiden jumped at his chance to escape. The cliff from which he dove was higher than the three tallest trees imaginable standing one atop the next. Still, he’d have taken the risk even if that distance had been doubled. Fortunately he resurfaced alive from the water below.

Aiden didn’t have a single copper buckle to his name. Nevertheless, he headed for Dorberg, rendering his services along the way in exchange for food. Occasionally, he picked a pocket, but only after confirming that his mark was truly wealthy, and even then, only when in dire straights. He’d never forget that gelid morning when he awakened, shivering, to find his boots missing. Then there was the time he went for almost a week with naught to eat but a half loaf of stale bread ...

Back in Dorberg, Aiden’s first stop was The Tipsy Dove Inn. Entering, he jingled the buckles in his pocket that he’d won at dice. He was proud to have played without cheating—well, mostly so, anyway.

Sitting in a corner, a hood obscuring his face, he watched his old friend, Payton, tending bar. He surmised that Payton had wed Bronwyn Glynn, daughter of the previous barkeep, as she was waiting tables. Sadly, the intervening years had not treated the now-buxom lass kindly.

No one recognized Aiden, but then he’d yet to cut his scraggly locks or to trim his beard. Also, he remained underweight following his recent adventures. Still, he kept his hood up. Nigel mustn’t hear of his return too soon.

The evening grew late when, unexpectedly, a waitress shuffled to his table. Glancing up, Aiden went speechless. There stood Fenella, so close he could smell her sweet breath.

“Shift change,” she said, setting down a mug of bock roughly. Some sloshed out. A towel in hand, she wiped the table clean. “I’m waitin’ your table now. Need anything ’fore the kitchen closes?”

Aiden struggled to contain his delight in seeing her, but caution won out.

“Bread ... please,” he whispered, eyes downcast.

She set off, then seconds later, delivered his order.

The sight of Fenella encouraged Aiden. He knew how to break the magician’s spell, as Finn Mock had included that information when he’d cast it. Such was required of any mage who didn’t want to risk his life operating contrary to the rules. So to reunite, Aiden and Fenella would have to face Nigel together—since he was the party responsible for the spell—and confirm their undying love for one another.

At closing, Fenella removed her threadbare apron, then tossed it over the bar. “To home!” she exclaimed as she departed.

After leaving payment, Aiden rushed to the Duke estate, grateful for his familiarity with it. At least something good had come of his having served as secretary to Nigel in years past!

He made his way to the man’s study through secret passageways he’d created for his former employer. There, he went about his task, pilfering no small fortune from a lockbox he knew of. Then he absconded—like the thief in the night that he was.

The next morning, his pockets full of coin, Aiden set out for the public baths, then to the barbershop for a grooming. Lastly, he visited the tailor, grateful to find some premade clothing available for purchase. Now he could meet his love!

Throughout the day, Aiden listened for news of Nigel or Fenella. He rejoiced when he discovered the two would dine at The Tipsy Dove Inn that evening.

Handing a street urchin a short unsigned missive along with the last of the buckles he’d stolen from Nigel’s lockbox, Aiden instructed the lad to deliver the note to father and daughter while they dined. It read, “Awaiting you in Nigel’s study. Hurry home! Grievous news.”

At evenfall, sporting striped trousers, a wool cape, and the finest boots available in Dorberg, Aiden returned to Nigel’s study. He poured himself a glass of his former employer’s finest claret. It’s color, bordering on purple, glistened in the firelight. Gazing into its depths, Aiden anticipated the moment he’d reunite with Fenella.

He added a log to the fire. Its crackling flames flickered. Satisfied, he emptied his glass in one swallow and then refilled it again before settling into Nigel’s favorite chair, a tentative smile on his face.

Loud voices soon sounded out from down the hall, interrupting his thoughts. Initially unintelligible, they quickly grew nearer and clearer.

As Aiden stood in anticipation, Fenella’s voice rose out above the shouting, clicking of heels, and clanging of weapons.

“Duncan!” she cried. “Father got a message! Was it from you? Oh, what is happening? Hurry, my beloved husband! Hurry! Hurry to Father’s study!”

Aiden’s grip on his wineglass loosened as he grasped the facts. Fenella loved another. No longer could he face Nigel together with her for the two to swear their undying devotion to one another. No longer could they break Finn Mock’s spell.

With that, Aiden’s glass slipped to the floor where, like his dreams, it shattered.

Now that was fun! I'm excited to see what Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, has for us this time around. So, here we go!

The Sword of Seysan
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2019

Let me tell you a story. I was chosen as the Royal Companion to Seysan, the younger prince of our fair country, on account of my virtual nothingness and my . . .

Find more on Robin's site here.

Of course, not to be outdone, P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, presents his take on our pic of choice. Here it is:

The Trickster Guardian
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2019

When Gregus first took the idea to imitate his master it had been as a joke. At least, that's what he later said.

It happened like this.

We do so enjoy reading your comments, so please take a minute to let us know what you think. Don't forget to stop by to visit us again the next time we post!

4 Comments

Flash Fiction Fun

8/13/2018

0 Comments

Recently, I met an amazing young woman, Veronica Clay, who it so happens, is quite the writer! We chatted briefly about flash fiction—finding ways to tell BIG stories with few words, and thought we might do some flash fiction writing together. (See the side post.)

A short time later, Reyna, another terrific and talented young woman who I've known since she was born (and who it so happens, is friends with Veronica), decided she would like to join us.

Together we three decided we would choose a single pic, and then each of us would write a story using it for inspiration.

The simply gorgeous pic we chose, entitled, Maori Pirate Princess, is provided, below. You can find more information about it, here. Of course, I never make things easy, so I decided to tell a story about the subject of this artwork as though she was not a pirate. Below is my offering. I hope you enjoy it!

Having received permission from both Veronica Clay and Reyna Myvett, their stories are also set out, below. They are fabulous!

Throwback Awakening
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2018

Standing near the communal bonfire, twisted tendrils of acrid smoke surrounded me, irritating my throat, stinging my eyes, and making me cough.

My heart raced as I watched the elders change their places. Soon, they encircled me. All the while they clapped their hands to their thighs in a steady rhythm. The eerie wailing of a wooden flute joined their percussive mix.

Earlier, I had begged mother to tell me about the ritual event, but she just spouted the same word she used whenever she didn’t want to discuss something with me: “Throwback.” Although I’d tried, repeatedly, to get her to explain, she’d refused. Each time she struggled to hold back tears and then changed the subject, behaving as though she’d already said too much.

But I’m pretty sure I know what she meant.

Mother used the word to describe me because I am like those of our clan’s long ago days. I know that much from paintings on the walls of our village buildings. I look like those ancients—but I differ from everyone around me. My skin is darker. Across one cheek and the bridge of my nose, runs what appears to be a jagged scar—although Mother insists it, and a similar circular marking on my left cheek just below my eye, is a birthmark. Self-conscious, I wear a bandana over that part of my face to cover the area as best I can. A bronze tattoo runs from my chin down my neck. I have a vague memory, like a dream, of getting it. I don’t suppose I was even three summers old at the time . . . Also, my eyes are a deep walnut color—not the warmer tones of a spring fawn like the other villagers. And . . . I see things—unexplainable things—that they do not. Then of course, my body type is— Well, Mother calls me “sturdy.”

In short, I am different. And everyone knows it.

I remained standing, motionless, my eyes downcast, when quite unexpectedly, the cadenced clapping and odd melancholy fluting, ceased. Only the crackling fire sounded out.

Not a soul moved.

The smoke, having settled closer to the earth, leveled out at about knee-height. It swirled and billowed around me.

Gasping with anticipation—or perhaps it was fear—I looked up as the ring of adults suddenly broke open. Then from outside of it, a single hooded figure approached. I couldn’t tell by its body size, the width of its stance, or the length of its stride, whether it was a man or a woman, but soon enough his—or her—gloved hand stretched my way, palm up.

Eyeing the figure, unsure, I reached out, seeking direction. Upon perceiving a single quick nod, I placed my hand in the one before me.

Instantly, the clapping resumed.

After the figure guided me outside the circle of adults, we walked on, leaving the gathering behind. Soon we reached a building at the edge of the river. As directed, I stepped inside first. Then I turned back just as my guide removed the hood that had covered her face. Yes, I could see her now for what she was. But the surprise was not in discovering her gender. Rather, it was in observing that she looked so very like me.

Dropping hard into a nearby chair, I gasped, staring.

“What?” she asked.

“Ahhh—”

“I am Aytama,” she said.

Still, I stared. Never before had I seen anyone I resembled. Then, “I’m Codee,” I muttered.

“Yes.”

“What is this all about? Who are you? Why am I here?” I threw questions out without pausing for answers.

“I have come for you. As a Throwback, it is time you took your place.”

My head cocked, I repeated her. “A Throwback.”

“Yes. You understand.”

“Ahhh . . . no, I’m afraid I do not.”

Staring at me, her eyes narrowed.

“My mother has used the term, but she’s never explained it to me.”

Aytama sighed. “Yes, I suppose I might have expected that of Damira. I think she never came to grips with your situation.” She shook her head. “Well then, what do you think it means?”

“Well . . . I assume it means that I’m somehow cursed, that I’m to be some sort of outcast—that I’m unworthy of—”

Aytama rapped her knuckles against the side of my head and scoffed.

“Ouch!” I cried.

“Be not daft,” she scolded.

I glared at her, wincing, rubbing the spot she’d struck. “Well, what am I to think? I know I look like our village ancestors, but I’m different from all those around me—and they avoid me. So, I assume I am something lesser, or something—”

“Tssssk!” Once more, she knuckled the side of my head, this time more forcefully. “What is the matter with you? Do you think that one’s likeness to others makes them equal? Better? Superior, even? Goodness, I would have expected Damira to have taught you better than that!”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said, scowling.

Aytama watched me carefully, as though assessing the veracity of my words. Then, “Codee,” she said, “our people have suffered over the past generations, following war, famine and disease. Along the way, they lost their strength. But you— You are not cursed, you are blessed. You are a Throwback. That mark you bear identified you as one, at birth. You have the physical, mental, and spiritual powers of our forebears. Like other Throwback children, you were raised in your village so you could learn the ways of our people.”

Aytama sat in the chair opposite mine, folded her hands, and set them in her lap. “You are not inferior to those around you, Codee,” she continued. “If anything, you have a superior calling. Our people have great need of you.” She patted her chest. “I have need of you, for I am old, as you can see.”

It was true. Aytama was old. Even the birthmark across her cheek that so resembled mine, and the copper tattoo at her chin—again, like mine—drooped with her wrinkled skin.

“I have waited for you to come of age,” she said. “I have not much time left and if you are to be of any value to our people, you have a great deal to learn before taking my place. So together, we will journey to the forest home of the Throwbacks. There, all your questions will be answered. There, you will learn all you need to know so that you may be of service to our people.” Pausing, she took in a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and then continued. “But first, you must agree to put childish things aside.”

“Leave here!” I cried. “B—but what of Mother?”

“What of her?”

I pulled back. “Well . . . I didn’t get to tell her any of this.”

“Your mother has known from the moment of your birth, child. I assume it is why she never told you. She could not face that I would return one day to take you from her.”

“Return? When—”

“Was I here last? On your naming day, of course.”

Aytama picked up a carafe of water from the table at her side. She poured two cups. Handing one to me, she said, “Codee, you were born to help your people, to bring them wisdom in the years to come. A great force will aid you in your endeavor. But you will not be able to perform your duties faithfully if you cannot leave some things behind. Do you think you can you do that?”

“What must I leave?”

“Your home. Your mother. Your . . . immature and fruitless thoughts—first among which is that you are lacking in some way. You, girl, are exactly as your Maker intended you to be. You would be incapable of seeing to your calling if you were anything else.” She paused for effect. Then, “Can you do that?” she asked again. “Can you leave your childish beliefs behind?”

Somehow I knew as I gazed deeply into Aytama’s eyes, that everything she told me was true. I had a purpose—and it was one I was anxious to pursue.

“Well?” she prodded.

A faint flash of a possible future danced before my eyes. Then, “Yes, Aytama,” I said, nodding, “I am ready.”

Well, there you have it! Now, are you ready? Veronica Clay's story, follows . . .

Midnight Marauder
by Veronica Clay
Copyright Veronica Clay 2018

Josmund tied the stained apron around his waist as the back door of the pub swung open, pouring warm light into the dark evening.

“Hurry up! Yer late,” the cook called.

As soon as Josmund stepped inside, he reached for the tankards of ale and pitcher on the back counter.

“Thirteen,” the cook said groggily, having tested the ale himself one too many times.

“Thanks Briggs, you’re a life saver.” Josmund grinned over his shoulder as he left the kitchen for the front counter.

In his fourteen years of work in the pub, Josmund had only been late twice, once when he forgot his apron, the other when his mother caught the bird fever. Had he known that was her last day under the sky’s eye, he would have stayed home, but he was only eleven then.

“What held ya today?” Ryan, a bus boy, called.

“There’s a new ship on the dock,” said Josmund amusedly. “One I ain’t ever seen before.”

Ryan grinned, “That’s what’s got everybody buzzing. She’s here!”

Before Josmund could ask who or what, Ryan disappeared in the swells of thirsty sailors, thieves, and mongrels, but Josmund wasn’t concerned. He knew he would have all the information he needed soon enough.

Taking three tankards to a table of old, sea-weathered fishermen, he heard one croak, “Aye, ’olds only 23 men and the cap’n. ’S why she’s so swift on the seas. No man e’er saw ’er comin’.”

It was the ship Josmund had found himself gazing at for a time too long. She was sleek and tall with four pale, folded sails. But what caught his attention was the wood, dark as tar in the torchlight of the pier.

“Midnight Marauder,” a grizzly-haired drunkard called out from table fourteen. “Ne’er saw ’n quite like ’er,” he mumbled to his slumped companion. Josmund topped off the man’s tankard and removed the empty plates before moving on.

“A dangerous ’n, that cap’n is,” a raspy voice whispered as Josmund grabbed more finished plates from the next table. “…Soiled three merchant ships in a fortnight. ’Course they couldn’t hold it all—just let ’em sink.”

“’S a shame,” a gruff voice replied.

Upon returning to the kitchen, Josmund threw the scraps out the back door for the hounds before grabbing the soups and bread for tables six and seven.

“Ya ’ear ’bout the cap’n?” the cook called.

“Not yet,” Josmund replied, “only that his vessel’s called The Midnight Marauder.”

The fat, grease covered cook grinned. “Careful, boy. Cap’n’s a she.”

Refusing to believe the cook’s outlandish claim, and wanting to hear the truth from the sailors for himself, Josmund hurried back out to the floor. Listening more carefully, he ignored the crooning of the sailors’ songs, their cacophonous laughter, and the bettors’ cajoling for “more time.” Finally, a low and speculating tone sounded out.

“I heard she’s a half-breed,” a wiry cabin boy in tattered clothes murmured. “Mum was a West Indies slave on some French ship.”

Josmund’s ears perked up at this as the boy’s older drinking mate replied, “Aye boy, you ought know yer ships better. The Adelaide was the best of its kind, ’til it was caught in the storm and dashed to pieces on the reef!”

After dishing out soup and bread to the men at tables six and seven, Josmund began clearing the long tables where a crew of eight had just been sitting. Nearby, six men sat huddled, as though trading secrets, though their drunkenness made them loud.

Among them, a bald man with a stump for a leg cried, “’Er father was the cap’n hisself! When they wrecked on that craggy island, only ’e and the babe survived—they ’adn’t chained ’er up yet—”

’Er wrists were too small, woulda slip’d right through!” a dimwitted looking oaf interjected to the irritation of the first man.

“I woulda kil’t ’er,” a scrawny sailor sneered in a nasally voice. “Let ’er drown like ’er mother!”

“He woulda!” the bald man exclaimed. “But she was the only heir ’e ever sired. ’Course, ’e didn’t really want ’er, but ’e thought God might spare ’im if ’e spared the child. Swore ’e’d even raise the mutt if ’e got off that blasted island.”

“How’d they survive?” a young lad with wide eyes asked the storyteller.

“They say the babe’s cry was ’eard. ’S why the cap’n—”

“Josmund!” Ryan called, “Table three needs refills!”

“Got it!” he replied. He abandoned his eavesdropping and grabbed a nearby pitcher to fill at the cask in the corner.

While there, a sniveling, common thief whispered to his companion, “…Scar’s up half ’er face from a fight with three crewmen. They say she lost an eye, but they lost their lives—all three throats slit by the same blade.”

Josmund wanted to listen longer but knew he had to get back to the kitchen. He quickly refilled the men’s drinks, snatched straggling dishes and empty tankards strewn across the floor along the way, and collected his next orders.

“Eleven and nine!” the cook called.

Josmund left the kitchen with his new orders and swung by the bar. As he was grabbing the specialty drinks, the bartender called after him, “No more for table two ’til Eric pays his tabs! I don’t wanna hear any more of that scum’s excuses!”

Simply nodding, Josmund went on his way, light on his feet among the traipsing and staggering guests, careful to step over the snoring man on the ground. Rowdy laughter and a string of curses filled the air, but he focused on the conversations of those who had only drunk half their ale.

One man drawled “…Tattooed herself with the symbols of her people, snake lookin’ marks, but only half of ’em. Can’t imagine why…”

At table five, an ancient fisherman missing all his teeth gummed, “Killed the captain herself and took the ship. O’ course a few crewmen mutinied, but she finished ’em off like some sort of siren.”

Refraining from chuckling so as not to start a fight, Josmund could only shake his head at the sailors’ tales. After years of practice, he had learned to sift myth from truth, but tonight seemed especially full of fishermen fantasies. Indeed, as the evening progressed, the rumors only grew stronger, with each story building off the one before.

In the wee hours of morning, the gossip dwindled to a murmur. By the fireplace, one pirate played a worn fiddle, while another sang of a heartbroken sailor and his lover. The flickering lights of the fireplace and lanterns danced on the walls, mesmerizing watchers. While most of the pub’s inhabitants had been lulled into a drunken stupor, Josmund still heard the occasional whisper of the mysterious captain.

“Eh, boy,” the bartender gestured, “Come ’ere.”

Curious as to why he didn’t call out like usual, Josmund drew near the counter, ready for his instructions.

“There’s a guest in twenty-three—didn’t want to be disturbed ’til now. See to ’em,” he said gruffly. “And be careful,” he added.

Josmund glanced at the back end of the room, a place people went to for privacy. Bringing a pitcher with him, he stood outside the curtains, thick layers of sheer that allowed guests to see out without allowing for onlookers to see in. The inhabitant pulled back the curtain, a signal for him to enter.

A single candle lit the room, so all Josmund could make out was a lone figure leaning on the table. As his eyes adjusted, he sucked in a sharp breath. Before him sat the rumored captain of The Midnight Marauder.True to the tales, she was a half-breed with scars on her face and a snakelike tattoo twisting from her chin to her throat. Wrapped around her dreadlocks and across her face, an ornate strip of cloth hid her left eye.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she smirked, her voice low and melodic. “All the tales are true. Well…except the one about the mutiny—”

Pausing, she set her gaze on Josmund, candlelight glinting in her eye, “There were four men.”

I absolutely LOVE Veronia's story. What do you think? Please do, share your thoughts!

Finally, I have something for you from 14-year old Reyna Myvett. Once again, I was blown away by the creativity of this young writer! Take it away, Reyna!

The Last Renegade
by Reyna Myvett
Copyright Reyna Myvett 2018

I reached for the last pouch of gold, trying not to make a sound. The smells of sweat and excessive cheap cologne filled the murky air in Beliel’s bedroom where he laid, deep in slumber. His raucous, gargled snores were deafening compared to my quiet steps, but he is a light sleeper, so any stumble onto a weathered floorboard could rouse him.

I slipped the pouch into my bag, adding it to the abundant pile of expensive trinkets and riches I had collected. I knew that when Beliel awakened he would be quite bewildered, but that he would soon realize that the “attendant” he hired had stolen everything of value that he owned.

Feeling no remorse, I snuck out the window, ready to run off to the docks. I thought I was safe until I heard its ear-piercing shriek as I closed it. I looked through it long enough to realize that Beliel had arisen, and that he knew exactly what I had done.

He roared thunderously behind me as I ran, slipping through alleyways and dark streets. I didn’t stop running even when I saw my ship, The Crimson Cutlass, in front of me.

The ship started pulling away from the dock as I grew closer. My feet pounding against the hard ground, I leapt from the end of the wooden platform and reached for a rope hanging from the ship. As soon as my hands gripped it, I started climbing.

I hauled myself to a standing position onto the ship where the rest of my crew waited. There, as I stood tall, I tipped my bag of riches over. Its contents slid down the steps. The sound of gold clinking blended in with loud footsteps as my shipmates rushed to collect a small part of the treasure.

“Welcome back, Captain.” my second in command, Ileas, said, bowing to me. Then, as he led me towards my room for a debriefing, a deafening shout sounded out.

“Wren, you’re back!”

A small girl tackled me to the ground. I laughed as her arms wrapped my waist.

“Oh, Ottie, I missed you! The past week hasn’t been the same without your constant nagging!” I tickled her and her melodious laugh filled the air. I pulled Ottie up with me, and then dusted myself off. Ottie was like family to me. In truth, she and the crew were the only family I knew. I had rescued her when she was little, just as Ileas’ father had rescued me.

“Oh, Wren, please tell me all about your trip! Where did you stay? How much did you steal? Are they coming after you? Did you get to fight anyone?” Ottie fired rapid questions at me.
I crouched down to meet her, face-to-face. “Ottie, how about I tell you all about it over dinner, alright?” I asked.

“Yes! Just make sure you don’t leave anything out!” She ran off before I could say any more.

Laughing to myself as I stood back up and then walked up the wooden steps to my room. There, Ileas waited for me. I threw my doublet and empty bag on the bed, then slumped into a chair tired from a good day's work.

“I’ve just got word on a proposition,” Ileas said.

“Oh, come on, I just got back. Can’t you give me at least a few da—”

“I think you’ll be very interested in this one, Captain.” Ileas had an intriguing look about him.

“Alright.”

“It’s in the Kingdom of Imidian, your birthplace, Captain. The current ruler, King Baron, is a tyrant. He takes all the money from his people, leaving them with nothing. He even makes slaves of their children. But you can’t just steal from him. You need to kill him—and also, his only heir—if you will truly free the people. They need someone to save them and, Captain, I think that someone, is you.”

“Don’t you think assassination is a little . . . well, excessive? I’m a renegade, a captain. I may be a thief, but I’m no murderer.” I felt extremely unsure about Ileas’ suggestion. I had never killed anyone before. The mere thought made me sick to my stomach. I shook my head in disagreement.

“Oh come on, Wren!” Ileas slammed his fists on the table.

I looked at him in shock. His sudden outburst disturbed me. Then his fists loosened and he dropped them back to his sides.

“I— I’m sorry, Captain, but think of the crew. This could be our way to show the people who we truly are. We could show them that we aren’t just thieves and criminals. We can save them! Wren, we’ve been best mates ever since my father found you. Do you really think I would lead you astray?”

Contemplating Ileas’ words, I paced the room. I tried to find a flaw, but could not. Something felt amiss in the way he tried to persuade me, but his words seemed truthful. Finally, I came to a conclusion.

“When do I leave?”

↞•↠

Breaking into the Imidian Palace was easy. Remaining unnoticed, however, was proving quite difficult. I slipped in and out of dark hallways as voices neared me. I looked around, then quickly hid in a narrow space between two cabinets.

Gazing out into the dark hallway, I made out two figures in conversation. Their words grew louder. Finally, I could understand what they said.

“I don’t understand why Father won’t let me outside of the palace!”

“Princess Rose, you know your father already lost your sister. He doesn’t want to lose you as well,” the guard answered.

“But Maxwell, the pirates haven’t attacked in years! Who knows if they’re even alive any more? Lila was taken twenty-four years ago. I’m sure those buccaneers are long gone by now! Please let me go, even if it’s just for a little while. I deserve to see my people.”

“I’m sorry Princess, but I cannot do that. After your sister was taken, the King forbade me from letting you out of the Palace.”

At that moment, the two stepped into a spot of light. When I saw the face of the girl who I presumed was the Princess, my heart stopped.

We were identical. Not only in the way her dark brown eyes deepened when she talked about a passion of hers, just like my lone one did, or the way her full lips broke into a deep scowl whenever anyone disagreed with her, which mirrored my own, but by virtue of the deciding factor—the Mark. The Princess bore a mark that stretched from her chin, down her neck, and then continued onto her shoulder. From there, the deep red satin gown that she wore hid the remainder. It was the same mark that I had. It was the same mark that only the heirs of the same bloodline bore. It was the same mark that Ileas’ father said was completely unique to me.

As she walked on by, her sweet vanilla fragrance filling the hallway, my heart pounded in my chest.

When the Princess and her guard continued on their way, my knees buckled. I fell to the floor. I had surmised that something was wrong when Ileas had told me about the mission, but when I saw her face, I knew for certain. Suddenly everything connected. A realization struck me. Ileas had lied to me. I knew that his father had an ongoing rivalry with the Imidians, but I could never have imagined he had gone this far.

I jumped up, then chased the fading voices of the Princess and her guard. I didn’t realize how far they had gone until I reached what looked like a throne room. Four golden pillars held up its high ceiling. Its satin curtains, of crimson, mimicked the color of blood. Although the room was impressive, the mood within it was more overpowering than any adornment could mask. This was a room of suffering.

At the front stood a man I knew to be King Baron. He bowed in response to his daughter’s curtsy.

Without warning, I felt a force push me into the middle of the room.

“Your Majesty, we’ve been tailing this one,” the guard behind me announced. “She followed the princess here.”

I kept my head down as footsteps approached me. Then a soft hand gripped my chin and lifted it up. The moment my eyes met the King’s, he staggered back. Tears fell down his weathered face, which showed signs of worry and exhaustion in its deep wrinkles.

“Father, who is she?” The princess looked at the King in confusion, but his eyes never left my own.

My heart stopped when finally, he spoke.

“Lila, is it really you?”

Reyna delivered an amazing story, don't you agree? Let me know your thoughts!

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A Drift of Quills for July 2018

7/6/2018

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July is upon us. Happy 4th everyone! I hope that you had a wonderful holiday. Now I invite you to continue the celebration with we Quills, by taking a look at our latest flash fiction tales.

This time, Parker selected the pic we are using. Here is is:

This and more work by the artist Zhiyong Li, may be found here.

It seems Parker wanted to give us a lot to work with, as this piece is very busy. For my part, I've been challenging myself to keep my flash fiction tales as short as possible, in an effort to try to give the most for the least. Last time, my flash fiction story, title and all, ran exactly 1000 words. The time before that, my piece ran just over 400 words. This time I've found myself in-between, having used, title and all, a mere 800 words. So . . . here goes!

Signs, Signs, Everywhere There Are Signs!
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2018

Having arrived at the port in Corsair, the largest city in Metzphlat, Kira and her mother stepped off the ship’s deck and onto the wharf, then shuffled through the bustling crowd. Signs all around, in assorted sizes, shapes, and colors, directed folks, informed them—and no doubt warned them—of numerous matters.

Suddenly, came a jostling from behind. Kira’s grip loosened and a second later, she found herself quite alone.

Quickly she looked ahead, but could not catch sight of her mother in the still growing crowd. Unsure whether the gangs hurrying both directions had swept her beloved parent back the way from whence they’d come, or had caught her up and whisked her forward, Kira choked back a cry.

Mother had warned her not to appear weak—to do so would make her a ready target of the pirates and criminal riff-raff that bandied about. Taking that advice to heart, Kira stepped to the side, away from the center of activity. Catching the eye of a nearby pickpocket as he masterfully performed his unique version of prestidigitation, lightening the financial wherewithal of his latest victim, she squared her shoulders, gritted her teeth, and tipped her chin up into an “I-double-dare-you-to-try-to-mess-with-me” expression.

That’s when movement from above caught her attention. Her jaw dropped at the marvel of the sight. Flying machines! First came one in the shape of a fish. Behind it prowled another looking very much like a cat. It gained speed quickly, as though it meant to gobble up the first—as felines are wont to do with seafood. Kira had never seen such machines before, but she’d heard of them, and she knew that magic powered them. Word of their existence had made it to her provincial little town shortly before she and her mother had set out on their venture.

She thought back to the night that Jack-the-peddler had stopped in Pauperton. Whenever he made his way through, the townsfolk gathered to see his wares. But this time things differed. This time instead of trying to outbid one another for the most unusual and therefore coveted of the peddler’s fare, the townsfolk spent the evening discussing the loss some months back, of their resident magician. Without a person of magic to tend to the weather, they’d soon also experienced the inevitable failure of their annual crop. The town’s stored goods wouldn’t last much longer. Indeed, hunger had already set in.

Jack had suggested that someone set out for the grand city of Corsair. There, “ships the size of mountains come to port,” he’d claimed, and “flying machines that deliver people and equipment from place to place, fill the air!” Magicians ran those machines, so surely, one could be found one in the city, Jack had reasoned. Moreover, Corsair boasted its own training grounds for young witches and wizards.

And so, without further ado, Kira and her mother—whom the Pauperton residents valued as one of their wisest—set out.

Kira leaned against a wood pillar around which hung ropes that held the ship close, while water slapped its sides. Fear visited her as hunger pangs gripped her.

She had to think. Perhaps mother went straight to the school of magic, intending to meet back up with Kira there. Yes, that made sense. So, she should set out to do the same.

Something caught her eye. A steel bar held at the end of some rope from a hook was being hoisted up into the air, although by whom, or for what purpose, Kira could not tell. Still, she ran to it. If she could get a good look at the city, she might get her bearings. Then, perhaps she’d find what she sought.

Quickly, before it was too late, she jumped. Teetering on the edge of the bar, she steadied herself as it rose jerkily into the air. Cautious, fearing she might lose her balance, Kira didn’t even consider reaching for the orange drink she found at her side. Better she just concentrate, she reasoned.

Slowly, the bar rose, higher and higher. Then, quite suddenly, it ceased its ascent, although it did wobble a bit from side to side for a minute or so. Kira held on tightly. Then, shortly, the bar went still.

She looked out at the glorious city before her, and that’s when she noticed—really noticed for the first time—all the signs. There were signs everywhere! And that’s also when Kira came to grips with the immensity of her difficulties. For the signs provided all the information she could possibly need—information that could point her in the direction she sought. There was just one problem. Unfortunately for Kira, it was a big one. A really, very, monstrously, outrageously, big problem.

Kira couldn’t read Metzphlatish.

Some of you might remember that I mentioned Metzphlat in a recent post when we Quills discussed whether we create our own languages for our fantasy tales. It was fun to work the concept back into this little tale . . .

Well, let's see what P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, has for us this time around.

Parker? Paaaaarkerrrr! You're uuuuup!

Oh, there you are! (Be sure to follow the link for the rest of Parker's story.)

Twelve-year-old Zee Anderson liked straight lines and right angles. Unfortunately for her, the city of Morrowsky had very few straight lines and no right angles. Instead it had sails and balloons, walkways and cupolas, turrets and towers—all built on top of each other with little reason or rhyme—except to reach higher into the sky.

What fun! Thank you for sharing. Every time I read one of these, I find myself wanting more. I'm sure that will be the case with the next flash fiction tale from Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies.

Take it away, Robin! (Again, follow the link for more.)

When Toady says they’re to paint the Widow Grayling’s house, Akasha stares along with everyone else.

“Orange.” Uneven teeth make his smile particularly fiendish. The gang erupts into hoots and shouts of laughter at that. The widow’s a quiet woman of modest means. Her house used to be brown, but most of the color’s chipped off now. It would no more willingly wear orange than would the widow.

“She needs some brightening.” Zekan always backs up Toady. If their illustrious leader decided they should all become acolytes at the local temple, Zekan would hand out the cassocks and thump anyone who questioned the choice. Same if Toady resolved to filch grub down in the Bellows—Royal Ghost territory, where Toady’s Azure Fang Gang would swiftly find their end. Hopefully not a permanent one… Did the Ghosts kill children?

Thanks for visiting with us all. We Quills so enjoy sharing the joint post we do together on the first Friday of each month. Do leave your comments, and stop in again.

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A Drift of Quills for April 2018

4/6/2018

4 Comments

This past October of 2017, we Quills thought it would be fun to delve into the world of flash fiction. We selected a single picture and then each told our own story for it. We had so much fun with our flash fiction that we decided we'd do it again.

As noted in my October post, there are many types of flash fiction. Operating on the "up to 1000 word" standard, I can attest that my story today, including its title, fits in the category. I do hope you enjoy it.

First, here's a look at our inspirational picture and my fellow Quills' stories . . . This piece, by JuYoung Ha, can be found here, at the link.

Please drop a comment to let me know what you think!

So, P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, what have you for us this time around?

Our city was rotting, from the inside out. Any city has a bit of corruption. It's the nature of our world. Everything is fallen. Except the naiads, if you believed the legends borne in the shadow of their sacred mountain, towering above us. But in Trichor we did not believe in myth and legend. Only gold and silver.

(Follow the link for more!)

Thank you, Parker!

Robin! Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies! Oh, there you are! It's your turn now!

She'd lived for so long in the monster’s dreams that his reality felt false. Too bright on her eyes. Too sharp against her skin. Too pungent in her nostrils. The flames, though, they were the same. They licked at her as they always had. Insatiable. In the dreams they did her no harm. In reality they would consume her.

(Follow the link for more!)

What fun! And now, for my offering . . .

They call me stealth. No, not that kind of stealth. Let’s see . . . How can I make this easy to understand?

Oh, I know!

Imagine the largest man you’ve ever seen. You know the one. He has legs the size of a cathedral’s pillars, and biceps like boulders. His neck is reminiscent of a bull’s. He might be a bit—yes, all right, quite a bit—overweight. His middle hangs over his beltline . . . And don’t even start me on what happens when he bends over. Honestly, that is a sight I do not want to think about.

There. Can you picture him? That’s right. He’s the guy the others call, “Tiny.” So . . . that should give you an idea of what I mean when I say they call me “Stealth.” In short, I earned the nickname because I’m anything but.

I stood in the open window frame and looked out. Thanks to the noise I’d made earlier, the guards on duty had quickly lit all the torches and then run off to what they thought was the source of the trouble. Meanwhile, the rest of the gang and I all spread out, each to find his own way out of this fix. In any case, the place is lit up brightly now. So what should have been a quick nighttime entry and snatching of the goods, followed by an equally hasty departure, might as well have been planned for midday.

I looked below and caught sight, off to the castle’s far west end, of a horse and rider galloping off. I recognized them instantly as Rusty and his trusted steed, Vellum.

Thank goodness our fearless leader got away!

Finding myself up too high, unable to jump to the ground safely, I shielded my eyes from the direct light of the torch’s flames, and then surveyed the grounds below.

Seconds later, I shook my head in frustration, unable to conceive of an escape route.

I pulled back into the recess of the window, took in a deep breath, and then peeked out again past the edge.

This time, I noted to my right, a tree reaching toward the castle. If I could balance myself and walk along the ledge to the next window, I might be able to jump into its branches. From there I’d be just a few long strides, a somersault, and a jump away from escaping into the night.

From nearby came the sounds of another horse and rider as they took off. I couldn’t tell if it was one of our own.

Until now, the leaders have been willing to give me a little space. They seem to like my youthful enthusiasm and know I have much to learn. But tonight I might have fixed all that. You see, tonight, I wore my new leathers for the first time—and likely, tonight was the last mission they’ll ever allow me to join.

Honestly, I’m not sure what I’d been thinking. I knew I needed dark clothing to remain largely unseen at night. After all, that’s when we of the Resistance do most of our work. But what I hadn’t figured on was the sound that leather makes. You know what I mean, right? That crunchy, squeaky sound that comes when you turn in your saddle? Or in my case a short while ago, the sound it made when potential danger entered the room and I pulled back my bow . . .

Yes, that sound.

So now, on account of my vanity—in wanting not just any dark suit, but rather, a smart new outfit to wear—my comrades and I are in deep trouble. Or to be more blunt, if caught, we’ll face the gallows.

“Blast!” I muttered.

Assuming I make it back safely, I expect Rusty will relegate me to some duties at our hideout. As it is, I’d had to beg him to allow me to go along tonight—which he was not wont to do given the catastrophe that followed me the last time . . .

I can see it now. Rusty will have me divvying up the spoils when the gang returns. The very prospect makes my head spin. I’m really not that good with numbers and of course, it’s not like everyone gets an equal share. Oh, no no no! Nothing so easy as that! No . . . shares are determined by a member’s age, rank, experience—and most important of all, on the level of threat each individual assumes on any given mission.

Uuugggh.

Of course, if Rusty doesn’t have me doing that, he’s sure to find some other dreadfully unpleasant duties to assign to me, like . . . running errands, cleaning up behind the gang, doing the laundry, or better yet, emptying the spittoons and keeping the privies in respectable order. You get the picture.

I glanced down as a wagon pulled up almost directly below me.

“That’s it!” I whispered to myself.

That wagon was my salvation—and lucky for me it was a filled with . . .

Oh no. Say it isn’t so.

Manure?

No . . . it can’t be. Surely, that’s just food. Maybe rotting food . . .

I took in a long, deep breath.

No, I was right the first time. Papa says that’s the smell of money because where there’s manure, there are animals, and where there are animals, there are well-fed folk. But if that’s the smell of money, then I think I might prefer to live destitute.

The operative word here, of course, is the word, “live.”

Recognizing I needed to move if I intended to do that going forward, I prepared to take a leap of faith.

“Steady, Stealth,” I cautioned myself, as I stepped to the ledge. With my toes hanging over, I crouched, swung my arms back and then forward as I followed through with the rest of me . . .

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A Drift of Quills for March 2018

3/2/2018

2 Comments

It’s March, and as the temperatures in my neck of the woods are holding steady at just above freezing, we Quills are posting our latest.

Some months ago, we tried our hands at flash fiction. This time around we’re offering some of the flashiest—by which I mean shortest—flash fiction going. That is, spine poetry.

In truth, the real poet in my family is my middle child. But I’ll give it a whirl! Take a look first, at what my fellow-Quills have come up with.

I'm inviting Robin Lythgoe, author of As the Crow Flies, to be the first to take the stage.

Have at it, Robin!

My taste in poetry is questionable.

I gravitate toward freeform (usually only my own—how arrogant!), the unusual (sample below), or limericks and “revised” song lyrics (for which I blame my husband).

In my teens I went through an angsty period where I wrote reams of freeform poetry, 98% of which were terrible. Wrist to forehead dramatically, I determined I would make my living as a moody poet. Until I discovered…

Thank you, Robin! What fun!

Now P.S. Broaddus, author of A Hero's Curse, will regale us with his musings.

Poetry pushes us to the limit of our understanding – to the edge of ourselves. That’s why it can be so chaotic and disorienting, but it can also be where we learn something new. Something that we couldn’t have known before, had we not been challenged.

But the challenge of poetry is a soft one. A gentle breeze that carries us beyond, to a new place, and then brings us back, changed. Because when you learn something, you change. You become something new. The old has died...

That is great stuff, Parker. Thank you.

Finally, my thoughts . . .

These days, as I’m wrapping up my latest work, I’m realizing how much of what I write is intended for—is directed specifically at and to—young women. While I’m certainly old enough, I have no grandchildren of my own. I’m finding, however, that the grandmother in me is coming out anyway. She comes via my life as an author, and my granddaughters include any young women who’ll listen. So, I guess you might say that I’m doing a bit of “spiritual grandmothering.” I think this is reflected in my spine poetry today.

Here goes:

If I had to add punctuation to this, I guess it would look something like this:

The Signature of God

Beyond glory, the hiding place,
Spiritual mothering.
Our sacred honor
Under God.

What do you think?

Now it's your turn to share your spine poetry!

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A Drift of Quills for February 2020

Welcome to Sky
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2020

Learning to Fly
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2020

Huckleberry's Whimsey Day
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2020

A Drift of Quills for November 2019

Calico Dew and
the Boots of Ominous Delight
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

Starry-Eyed
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2019

FOOL'S FEET
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2019

A Drift of Quills for August 2019

The Standing Stone
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2019

The Judgment Stone
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2019

Left Ahead
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

A Drift of Quills for May 2019

Spring Flash Fiction Fun

A Minor Magician
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

A Drift of Quills for February 2019

Breaking Spells
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

The Sword of Seysan
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2019

The Trickster Guardian
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2019

Flash Fiction Fun

Throwback Awakening
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2018

Midnight Marauder
by Veronica Clay
Copyright Veronica Clay 2018

The Last Renegade
by Reyna Myvett
Copyright Reyna Myvett 2018

A Drift of Quills for July 2018

Signs, Signs, Everywhere There Are Signs!
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2018

Morrowsky, the First Flying City
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2018

Opposite Tricks
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2018

A Drift of Quills for April 2018

The Myths We Didn't Tell
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2018

Trapped
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2018

The Resistance
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2018

A Drift of Quills for March 2018

Author

Archives

Categories

Welcome to Skyby P.S. BroaddusCopyright P.S. Broaddus 2020

Learning to Flyby Robin LythgoeCopyright Robin Lythgoe 2020

Huckleberry's Whimsey Dayby Patricia Reding​Copyright Patricia Reding 2020

Calico Dew andthe Boots of Ominous Delightby Patricia RedingCopyright Patricia Reding 2019

Starry-Eyedby Robin LythgoeCopyright Robin Lythgoe 2019

FOOL'S FEETby P.S. BroaddusCopyright P.S. Broaddus 2019

The Standing Stoneby P.S. BroaddusCopyright P.S. Broaddus 2019

The Judgment Stoneby Robin LythgoeCopyright Robin Lythgoe 2019

Left Aheadby Patricia RedingCopyright Patricia Reding 2019

A Minor Magicianby Patricia RedingCopyright Patricia Reding 2019

Breaking Spellsby Patricia RedingCopyright Patricia Reding 2019

The Sword of Seysanby Robin LythgoeCopyright Robin Lythgoe 2019

The Trickster Guardianby P.S. BroaddusCopyright P.S. Broaddus 2019

​Throwback Awakeningby Patricia RedingCopyright Patricia Reding 2018

Midnight Marauder​by Veronica Clay​Copyright Veronica Clay 2018

The Last Renegade​by Reyna MyvettCopyright Reyna Myvett 2018

Signs, Signs, Everywhere There Are Signs!by Patricia Reding​Copyright Patricia Reding 2018

​Morrowsky, the First Flying Cityby P.S. Broaddus​Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2018

Opposite Tricksby Robin LythgoeCopyright Robin Lythgoe 2018

The Myths We Didn't Tellby P.S. BroaddusCopyright P.S. Broaddus 2018

Trappedby Robin LythgoeCopyright Robin Lythgoe 2018

The Resistanceby Patricia Reding​Copyright Patricia Reding 2018

Author

Archives

Categories

Welcome to Sky
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2020

Learning to Fly
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2020

Huckleberry's Whimsey Day
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2020

Calico Dew and
the Boots of Ominous Delight
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

Starry-Eyed
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2019

FOOL'S FEET
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2019

The Standing Stone
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2019

The Judgment Stone
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2019

Left Ahead
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

A Minor Magician
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

Breaking Spells
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2019

The Sword of Seysan
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2019

The Trickster Guardian
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2019

Throwback Awakening
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2018

Midnight Marauder
by Veronica Clay
Copyright Veronica Clay 2018

The Last Renegade
by Reyna Myvett
Copyright Reyna Myvett 2018

Signs, Signs, Everywhere There Are Signs!
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2018

Morrowsky, the First Flying City
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2018

Opposite Tricks
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2018

The Myths We Didn't Tell
by P.S. Broaddus
Copyright P.S. Broaddus 2018

Trapped
by Robin Lythgoe
Copyright Robin Lythgoe 2018

The Resistance
by Patricia Reding
Copyright Patricia Reding 2018