Tag Archives: Flash Fiction

Liminal Space – A Books of Binding Flash Fiction

Etienne paused within the cold-flame-wreathed rift, within this liminal place between realms. Before him lay the Mortal Realm, and behind him, Faerie. He had spent weeks seeking a rift to pass through. He had wandered alone, his body aching with the agony of knife and fire that still wracked each step. His mind aching with the sting of humiliation, desperation, and betrayal. He had endured it all, looking for this passage—this escape. But now, he paused.

There was nothing for him among the mortals. Not anymore. Not since his beloved Bess had died. Not since the plague that had robbed him of her sweetness, of her kisses.

Of their children.

But behind him he was a hunted man, scarred by his enemies. By his sidhe step-father. Scarred by his allies for his own protection, because a sidhe magician had carved spell glyphs into his flesh—glyphs of compulsion and control—and the only remedy was to brand dwarven runes over each and every one.

And still his step-father hunted him. Still he could not rest.

That was the thought that propelled him forward, even as pain knifed through his chest. He had not set foot in the Mortal Realm since losing her. Losing them. Losing everything. But Bess would not want him to die at his step-father’s hands. She would want him to live, even as hollow as his existence had become.

He would persist for her.

With that, he shouldered the pack over his raw shoulders and threw his lot in with the mortals.

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Filed under Fantasy, Flash Fiction, Urban Fantasy and Other Trifles

Uh-huh – A Books of Binding Flash Fiction

Elspeth plunked down the last square tile with enthusiasm. “I’m out.”

Alerich eyed the pieces, trying to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching into a smile. He waved at the board. “You’re cheating.”

Indignation gave her voice an edge. “Am not.”

“Elspeth, ‘spong’ is not a word.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s really not.”

“Yes, it really is.” She picked at a speck of lint on her blouse. “It’s a potions word.”

“Uh-huh.” Alerich settled back in his chair and took a sip of his bourbon, then motioned at her with the glass. “Define it.”

“A spong is a … It’s kind of a … It’s like … “

Alerich was losing the battle with the corners of his mouth. “Uh-huh.”

“Will you shut up, I’m trying to figure out how to describe it to you. It’s kind of a specialty item. You have to know a lot about potions to have even heard of it.”

The corners won and he had to hide the smile in another sip of the bourbon. She was so much fun to wind up. “Uh-huh.”

“Look, I don’t care if you believe me. It’s a word. You can ask grandmother if you want.”

“Uh-huh.”

“God, you’re such a baby! Fine! I’ll just take it off the board. Here, ‘song,’ unless you don’t think that one’s a word either, Mister Never-cracks-a-spellbook-but-thinks-he-knows-every-word-ever-said. It’s a perfectly good word, but no. You have to be such a bad loser. So, fine! I’ll take it off the stupid board. There. Are you happy, Mister Game-police?”

“Uh-huh. ‘S.’ ‘Songs.’ I’m out.”

Elspeth glared at him for a moment, then produced a sound somewhere between a growl and a scream. She pushed away from the table and stomped off through the dim of the library.

Alerich watched her go. She was fun to wind up, but he would be paying for this one for a while. ‘Spong.’ Why does that sound familiar? He took another liberal sip and stood, carrying the heavy glass with him to the ancient dictionary on its stand. He turned the onionskin pages delicately. The smile came back, this time more rueful than wry. “‘Spong. Noun. A projection of land; an irregular, narrow, projecting part of a field.’” He glanced at where his sister had stormed off. She would most likely be in the greenhouse. He took another sip of the bourbon. She might throw a pot at him, and spong was definitely not a potions word. He settled into an armchair by the fire and picked up his book. He might tell her eventually.

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Seashells – A Books of Binding Flash Fiction

The boy was crying under a picnic table, but Winter didn’t know why. He was a lot older than her, six, maybe even seven. She crawled beneath and sat down next to him, not caring that her red and white sundress would get mussed. She’d lost her sandals somewhere but she’d managed to hold on to her red hat. Grandma Bridget said it was important so she didn’t burn in the summer sun.

The boy looked up at her, his expression wary, and wiped his face on his coat sleeve. It was peculiar, wearing a suit jacket to a family picnic. But this boy was a guest and Winter smiled at him, wanting to make him feel better.

The boy did not smile back.

Okay, she had to try harder. She reached out and took his hand, and his black brows rose at her touch.  Her smile widened and she gently pulled him out from under the table and away from the party. They walked in silence through the gardens, pixies flying from flower to flower overhead, until they came out the other side through the garden gates and their feet sunk into the sand of the beach. The black-haired boy looked around, his dark blue eyes devouring the sight of sand and sky and water. So much water.  This was the ‘Cific Ocean, and it was beautiful.

Winter led the boy to the other side of the big dune where it was cool and quiet and where the water brought the scent of salt and fish to pool at their feet. She sat down and took off his shoes and socks, smiling, because she knew it hurt to have sand in her shoes, and shook the sand she found in his out of them, setting them beside him. The boy watched her as if trying to figure her out, and she simply continued to smile.

Winter saw a seashell half-buried next to the boy’s shoes and picked it up, brushing off the sand.  It was a clam shell the size of her hand, pretty and pearly on the inside. She handed it to the boy whose brows rose again, but this time a tiny smile played at the corners of his mouth. Winter bounced up to her feet with a grin. So he liked shells? She could find shells better than anyone!

“Where are you off to?” the boy asked, but she was already back with a spirally shell with a broken tip to offer him. And then she moved a little further away, looking for more shells.

The afternoon passed and the shell pile grew and the boy’s smile widened. Winter brought him squishy seaweed and dune grasses and succulent ice plant flowers and he collected them all, touching and smelling each offering with fascination.

Over the top of the dune appeared Winter’s Uncle Adrien, her Aunt Gwen’s new husband, with a camera in hand. He snapped a picture and smiled down at them in his sad, gentle way. “There you are. Your father is looking for you. It’s time to go.”

The boy looked disappointed but he quickly put his shoes and socks back on and stood, slipping his jacket on and buttoning it, pocketing a shell as he did so. “Ta.” He inclined his head to her and turned to follow Uncle Adrien back to the house.

Winter smiled and waved at him as he walked away, sorry to see her new friend go but determined to show him a happy face as he left.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Urban Fantasy and Other Trifles