by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 15: Unclean Break



Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. To be clear: this is not directed at anyone, it’s just something I’ve been reflecting on lately.

I just got tired.

The smallest thing inside me turned, and I couldn’t do it anymore. I wanted out.

If we were dating, it would be easier. I know the rules of a break-up. Someone leaves. You awkwardly return each other’s stuff. Maybe someone moves out. You avoid talking to each other. Maybe you’ll see each other again, years later, and exchange cordial but awkward words.

I wish it was that simple.

There’s no such thing as a clean break from a friendship.

I just reply to texts less, and then one day I realize either you’ve stopped texting, or I haven’t replied at all. We stop hanging out, just the two of us. Soon I only see you at “group hangs,” and then not at all.

I’m okay with this.

And it hurts that I’m okay with this.

I’ll never get the sweater I left at your house back. Or taste your mom’s extra-cheesy macaroni again. We won’t exchange books ever again, or stay up all night talking about everything and anything.

I have the good memories of you and I together, even though they hurt to look at now.

It’s not enough. They can’t replace you.

But someday, maybe we will see each other on the street and exchange our cordial but awkward words.

Maybe then we’ll fall back in sync, they way we used to be.

Until then, keep the sweater. It looked better on you anyway.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 14: The Queen and The Seal Lord, Pt. 2



Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. This part 2 for The Queen and the Seal Lord. I really thought that part 2 would be the end of it, but this is at 999 words already, and I want to give this story a proper conclusion. Which means that there will be a part 3 at some point. Whoops.

Gráinne felt it only a moment after Raghnall heard it. Intruders on a navy ship. She was on her feet at once, cutting through the peace ties on her sword with a letter-opener from her desk. “Raghnall, see to your crew. And for fuck’s sake, get some trousers on.”

Raghnall had checked his weapons with his Réalta, his first mate, as was protocol. He dashed toward the cabin door, Gráinne just footsteps behind. The selkie froze mid-stride and let out a noise somewhere between a yelp and a gasp. He staggered where he stood, then gripped the wall for support. “Someone has my coat.”

Not just someone. A selkie and his seal coat parted at great risk. There were few he would have given it to willingly. Raghnall’s sudden weakness — his stooped posture, knees trembling — came from someone with ill-intent handling his coat.

“Stay here,” Gráinne demanded and shouldered past him. Just past the door to the captain’s quarters, Gráinne saw Réalta dead. The deep puncture wound at the base of her skull told Gráinne that the seal maiden had no chance to fight back. Whoever had done this had chosen stealth, not brute force.

Gráinne spun at the sound of uneven steps behind her, but it was only Raghnall, who by now had availed himself of a spare cloak, which was tied around his waist. His already ashen skin was growing lighter and lighter. “Is Réalta…”

“I’m sorry.” And Gráinne was. For all her differences with Raghnall, she had always liked his first mate.

“They’re taking the coat inland,” Raghnall said. His voice did not hold the rich timbre that Gráinne liked, one of waves lapping at the shore. He collected his weapons from Réalta, a trident and net, and short club that he normally wore on a belt. “If they bury it—”

“I know.” Disgust filled Gráinne. It was one of the unspoken laws of Fae war. Stealing a selkie’s coat was an unforgivable act. If it were to be buried under a black oak tree overnight, Raghnall would die. “Stay here,” she said again.

Raghnall bared his teeth. “It’s my coat.”

“And you’re in no shape to go after it,” Gráinne snapped back. “Stay in the water. It’ll help. I’ll be back before nightfall.” Before Raghnall could object, she threw herself overboard. Docked in the harbor, the ship wasn’t in deep water. Gráinne moved through it was ease, as though she were walking on dry land. When she reached the shore, she placed her bare palms on the ground, closed her eyes, and felt.

The land was part of her, and she was part of it. It couldn’t tell her who had stolen Raghnall’s coat, but she could feel the wrongness of someone, speeding away from the harbor. She sensed the person’s direction, and the vile tang of retribution they carried with them. This creature was moving at full speed, but not fast enough to avoid being overtaken by Gráinne.

She whistled for her horse, a silver dappled courser, who trotted out to the queen. Gráinne mounted easily, not bothering to saddle the mare. They understood each other, in the same way that the sea offered her only passing resistance and the land told her the direction of her quarry. They raced across the sand, following the thief.

The tracks told Gráinne the thief was traveling on a wild boar. Fierce, nasty creatures that rarely tolerated riders. That narrowed the possibilities of her quarry down some: Fir Bolg, true Orc, or Fomorian. Gráinne’s parents had established an uneasy truce with the Fir Bolg some decades before, and Orcs had no use for stealth. Fomorians were sea raiders, and had never entered into a treaty with the crown.

Finally, Gráinne spotted the boar and its rider. Fomorian, just as she had feared. Gráinne spurred her mare forward. She wouldn’t cut off the Fomorian’s path if she had another option. Her mount had been trained for combat, but she didn’t want it going against the boar’s deadly tusks. Instead, she took the sling that she carried on her belt and loaded a stone into it. The first shot missed her target completely. The second bashed the Fomorian in the back of the head.

The Fomorian lurched forward with shock, then wheeled their boar around to face Gráinne. It was a misshapen humanoid, muscles bulging in strange places and limbs with extra joints. It held a pike in gray-green fingers. Thin, yellow hair covered not just its head, but its entire face. It wore a fur coat spotted with gray and brown; Gráinne instantly recognized it as seal skin. Not selkie, but the selkies considered the animals their cousins. Raghnall would’ve had the Fomorian’s head for that.

Under its arm was Raghnall’s coat.

No Fomorian could resist a challenge by the Tuatha Dé Danann, even a half-human one. It dug its spiked heels into the boar’s side, and charged.

Gráinne found herself wishing for her glaive. She shifted to dismount, but as soon as she did, her courser ran at the boar. Gráinne called out for the horse to retreat, but the mare refused. Instead, she kicked up her powerful back legs, knocking the Fomorian out of its rope saddle. Without its rider, the boar abruptly changed course. It was distracted for now, and Gráinne hoped it would give in to its fatigue soon.

She sprang from her mount, sword in hand, and ran at the unseated Fomorian. It jabbed at her with its pike. Gráinne ducked replied with a kick to its stomach, throwing it off balance. She whirled and smashed the hilt of her sword on the side of its head, stunning the foul thing. Then, she took its head. It was a kinder death than Raghnall had given it.

She took his seal coat and tied it around her waist for safe keeping. Her mare was still standing alert, watching the boar trot away. Gráinne mounted her horse, and turned seaward. “Hold on, Raghnall. I’m coming.”

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 13: Tasting Notes for a Bottle of Gin


Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes at the end of the story.

Tasting notes for a bottle of gin: juniper berries roll over the tongue, wash your mouth with a foundation that tastes of Christmas trees and better times. Citrus splash, the yellows and greens of summers left behind. Cinnamon dust, scraping around the edges of your teeth, grit on the tops of your molars, the small sins of the past you can never truly swallow.

Another challenge story!

Element 1: The form for today’s story must be Prosetry.

Element 2: Your story must mention at least THREE herbs or other botanical elements (i.e. chamomile blossoms, death caps, salt, sage, tobacco, pine, etc).

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 12: Pact-Sworn

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes at the end of the story.

Leif had tranced badly for two nights straight. His trance state was rarely pleasant, walking through memories that he’d rather forget. Sometimes he was fortunate enough to have what he suspected his non-elven companions referred to as “dreams” — peaceful moments that showed strange but beautiful things. Sometimes they even showed himself as he wished to be, not as he was.

For the past two nights, his trances had brought him back to Doerin Oloth, the Autumnal Equinox. The nightmare of Lolth invading his mind, leaving Her venom in his soul. A great honor. A blessing.

A curse.

When Leif had awoken with a gasp in the cellar of Trollskull Manner, far from the drow city Menzoberranzan, spiders were gathered around them. His wrists, his throat, clustered together on the spider brand on his neck. He didn’t dare brush them away.

On the third night, after another trance full of spiders and old rituals, the bundle appeared. It sat on the end of Leif’s cot, wrapped in a pouch of spider silk, an oversized egg sac.

The moment he touched it, the strands dissolved into darkness. Inside was a thin book, its cover woven with black silk.

Leif opened it. It was a list of spells that he had never used before, some he had never heard of. The instructions for each were precise.

They were all written in his own script.

“Nau,” Leif hissed in the drow language. He let the book drop from his hands. “Nau, nau, nau.“

She had seen him.

Lolth had so many clerics, warlocks, worshippers. Leif had thought that was enough to keep the Spider Queen’s many eyes away from him. If he lived a small life in Waterdeep, if he didn’t displease Her, if he stayed far away from anything resembling life in the Underdark…that should have been enough to make Her forget him.

But Lolth did not forget.

Leif hurled the book far from himself, trying not to retch or scream or crawl out from his skin. He wanted to do all three.

But it wouldn’t remove the filth already in his soul.

It wasn’t unusual for Leif to be up earlier than the rest of the party. He needed half as much rest as they did, and sometimes refused to trance at all. What was unusual was that he’d ventured upstairs to the first floor of the pub they owned together. Leif tried to avoid the summer light as much as he could. The kettle was boiled, museli heating on the stove, and Leif was scrubbing his hands. For the sixth time.

It made no difference.

Yahg, always an early riser, was the first in the kitchen. The half-orc’s face was always hidden behind an iron mask, the mark of his order. Leif sometimes thought he should do the same, but thought it might draw more attention to him.

“You’re up early,” Yahg remarked.

“Yes.” Leif dried his hands on a dish towel. His fingertips had gone wrinkly.

“And dressed for winter.”

It was true. Leif had given into the summer heat and neglected his usual layers of clothing, at least in the tavern. Now he was back in the cloak, gloves, and scarf that he normally wore in public. “So I am.”

“Is something wrong?”

No one had ever sincerely asked him that question until two years ago, when Leif had first left the Underdark. He still didn’t know how to answer.

But he knew that Yahg would actually care about the answer, and try to fix it. Or offer him compassion and wisdom. And, worse, he would look at Leif through the narrow slots in his mask and actually see him.

“No,” Leif said after a too-long pause.

Yahg accepted the answer, and ladled out two bowls of museli. One for himself, and one for Leif. “Eat,” the monk instructed. “Everything’s a little easier on a full stomach.”

It’s DnD night, what do you want from me? Leif is my drow warlock PC, who really did not want to be a warlock. In-game, he got Pact of the Tome when he hit level 3, which he would’ve been incredibly freaked out about. But his party members are learning that Leif is kind of like a stray cat. Try to approach him and he’ll run; it’s best to let him come to you. I had originally planned a more hopeful ending, but it didn’t flow well, so you’re stuck with drow angst.

I have two other Leif stories! One from last year’s FFM, and one from this year’s.

FFM 1: Spider Whelp
FFM 6: “You’re the druid?”
by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 11: B-A-N-A-N-A-S

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes at the end of the story.

“I think I need a bananaquit.” Randy closed eBird with a sigh.

“Bananaquits are not why we’re here,” Ethel reminded him, and shut her laptop down for the night. They hadn’t come to Guatemala for bird watching, but it traveling with Randy had been more fun than Ethel imagined. She was the veteran reporter; he was the novice who’d gotten lucky when Ethel’s usual photographer had a nasty bout of food poisoning. At first, Randy reminded Ethel of a dog, following too close at her heels and looking for scraps. His hidden talent, though, was knowing every bird that flew by them. Ethel was initially annoyed at how he pointed out every grackle, oriole, and pigeon, but she’d come to like it. He saw things that Ethel had never paid attention to before.

She just couldn’t let him be distracted by them.

“I know. It’s all about the bananas, isn’t it?”

“Not all about the bananas. There’s a human interest story, too.” She yawned.

“Yes, but bananas are the most important part.” He rose from the bed where he had been sitting. “Who are we meeting with at the banana farm tomorrow?”

“Balam Tun. Review your notes on her before you go to sleep. Originally from Los Platanos, university in the United States, mad as all hell at Chiquita,” Ethel told him matter-of-factly.

Randy frowned. “Banana bastards.”

Tun’s farm was more than a two hour drive outside Puerto Barrios. The only reprieve from the heat, humidity, and mosquitoes had been Randy’s sharp eyes. They were too far out from civilization for eBird to work, but he wrote down the names of every bird he saw and heard on the way. Ethel was relieved when the bumpy ride was over, but Randy only said, “no quetzals, no bananaquits.”

Tun was a tall, broad-shouldered woman who greeted them warily, hands propped on her hips. They sat in her kitchen. Tun poured herself a glass of ice water, but didn’t offer any to the reporters. “So, you Americans got bored of your Cavendishes and wanted to see a real tul?”

At the look of confusion on Randy’s face, she said, “Banana. It’s the Q’eqchi’ word for banana.”

“We are interested in bananas, of course,” Ethel said, maintaining her well-honed professional composure. “But we also want to hear about your experience about starting your own farm, and how your hybrid bananas are helping fight against exploitation of Guatemalan people and resources.”

Tun huffed, got up from the table, and grabbed something from the counter. What she brought back was a rosy pink cylinder, fleshy and slightly curved. Randy blinked several times. Tun finally cracked a smile. “Why do you look so surprised? It’s just a banana.”

“I’ve never seen a banana that was pink,” Randy replied.

“Or not banana-shaped,” Ethel added. The fruit was long and thin, with a fat ball at its stem.

“It’s not as sweet as a Cavendish, but it’s resistant to Panama disease. And it’s a banana that only I have a patent on.” Though Tun tried to hid it, the pride was evident in her tone. “And no way in hell are those banana barons every getting their grubby little claws on it.”

Ethel and Randy sampled the fruit, finding it pleasantly firm and sweet, with a faint aftertaste of vanilla. “Would you mind if we toured the farm and took a few pictures? Our readers would love to see how everything works around here.”

Tun’s expression became stony. Ethel had seen this before. Tun was obviously protective of her work, and wasn’t going to let any Americans look at it too closely. Ethel would need to find a way to soften her if they were going to get anything of real substance.

While Ethel tried to find the right thing to say, a bird chirped outside the window.

“A bananaquit!” Randy announced. “Right outside!”

A slow smile tugged at the corner of Tun’s lips. “You like bananaquits? They’re all over the groves this time of day.”

“Omigosh, Ethel, did you hear that? Bananaquits! Here!”

Ethel wanted to remind him that he was a professional, not an excitable child, and they were supposed to be doing an interview. But Tun laughed. “Nice to see a fellow bananaquit lover. Sure, let’s go take a look.”

Ethel followed behind them, bewildered. Randy told her about all the birds he’d seen so far, while Tun gave him tips for spotting quetzals.

It wasn’t all about the bananas after all.

No, I have not lost my mind.

Thanks to fellow FFM author Damon Wakes, bananas have become an important part of FFM every year. But this year everyone was invited to join in. Today was a challenge day!

Element 1: Oh dear, we seem to have picked up too many flashback prompts for today’s challenge. Your story must include TWO of them. (They do not necessarily have to be word-for-word. Please just be sure Hydra can perceive their delightful presence.)

OR

Element 1: Every sentence of dialogue must include the word “banana”. If you choose this option, you must include a good amount of dialogue. Don’t be un-delightful.

OPTIONAL ELEMENT: Can you do both? You need to ask? The answer, of course, is: delightful! Doing both options is also a valid, if entirely optional, option.

I did both. 😱 I think it should count if I use “banana” in another language! The prompts I used were:

  • I think I need a bananaquit. – by WindySilver 
  • bananas are the most important part – by FlashFicMonth
  • “Why do you look so surprised? It’s just a banana.” – by bookcrusher

This challenge would have been a lot harder, except I’ve been reading Waste Wars by Alexander Clapper. I’m not far into it yet, but the first chapter is all about the United Fruit Company (which later became Chiquita) and Guatemala. Combined with Eating to Extinction by Dan Saladino (easily in my top 10 favorite nonfiction books), we had a story. Also: birbs.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 10: Leaving Home

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes at the end of the story.

I left my home many years ago, leaving my clan behind. It broke my heart to turn my back on the mountains that I rambled along, the rocky lake shores that I slept upon. Still, I had no choice.

The badges of honor I had sweat and bled for could not sustain me. I had worn them with such pride when they were awarded to me, but a cape cannot feed me. A helm cannot chase poverty away. I had no choice but to leave. Not to seek my fortune, but my own survival.

I’ve since settled in a new land. I have friends that welcome me at their tables, and a profession that sustains me. I find joy in my new surroundings, difficult as the change might have been. But no matter how far I travel or how long I stay away from my birthplace, the homeland has left an indelible mark on me. I carry it with me, like carrying a lucky stone in my pocket.

I will always have a 165 area code.

Still catching up after missing a few days. 165 isn’t a real area code, but I still have the same phone number for…at least 10 years now, probably more. Still with my hometown’s area code.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 9: Speaking Ill of the Dead

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. This is more of a companion piece to the mess that was FFM Day 3: Once There Were, but you don’t need to read it to understand it. In fact, I insist that you don’t. Hoping to get the second part of Gráinne and Raghnall’s story up tomorrow.

Samasita failed. You are allowed to be angry at her for that.

But do not forget how she tried.

She befriended Copper and Brass when unicorns were beginning to shy away from humans. We did not know it then, but they felt the magic that sustained them fading away. They were right to mistrust us. We didn’t hunt unicorns, we never meant to harm them. But we kept shaping the world to what we wanted, and couldn’t see how these primal beings could be hurt by that.

All the magic that was draining away fed the great beast. It was a creature of absence, sustaining itself from magic leaking in the gaps in the world.

Samasita saw what the rest of us did not. She saw a world-devourer, and she saw Copper and Brass suffering. Copper and Brass took her deep below the crust of the earth, and allowed her to reach into the mantle, and bring the world’s glow back to the surface. Only this could banish the great beast. She placed it in her lantern, then she and Copper and Brass rode towards the great beast.

But Copper and Brass were getting smaller. The closer they got to the great beast, the more they shrank. Samasita asked them to turn around. She pleaded. She begged. Each time, they refused.

By the time Samasita reached the maw of the great beast, Copper and Brass were only to her knees. But Samasita did not cower, nor did her friends. Lantern-keeper and unicorns ran into the beast’s maw.

The great beast did not melt away. It did not disperse back to the cracks and gaps of the world. It devoured Samasita, Copper, and Brass.

But it did not devour the lantern, and the golden treasure kept within.

The great beast stopped growing after that, and we have the lantern still to hold it at bay.

I am sorry, too, that unicorns are now found only in dew drops and motes floating in sunbeams. I am angry, too, how we still live in fear of darkness.

But Samasita was the only one among us who was brave enough to face the great beast, and we are still here because of her.

Mourn. Rage. Curse her name all that you need to.

Then, be grateful for all she has spared for you.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 8: The Queen and the Seal Lord

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. I had to miss a few days due to real-life stuff, but I’m hoping to catch up! Gráinne and Raghnall are both characters in the novel I’m writing. She’s made a few appearances in last year’s FFM. I had intended for this story to be a bit more action-focused, but I enjoyed exploring more of the world and the politics of it. So it’s a two-parter now.

I was inspired to write about my selkie character after reading AmehanaRainStarDrago’s story about her selkie character on deviantArt! Read it here: Interrupted Sleep

When Gráinne had been at sea, Marcaíocht Conán was the only pirate ship she couldn’t capture. After becoming queen, she had done the only thing she could to neutralize the ship and its selkie captain. In a blow to both her pride and her obstinacny, Captain Raghnall and his crew became privateers. Politically, it was a wise move. While the selkies fell under the purview of Gráinne’s crown, they had always held their own shores and culture apart from the rest of Tír na nÓg. The selkies were a nation within a nation, with Raghnall now serving as seal lord.

Personally, Gráinne thought that Raghnall had made it his life’s mission to vex her. And it was working.

It was difficult enough to find a neutral meeting ground for them. The castle put Gráinne at an advantage, and Raghnall refused to meet her there. The sea was Raghnall’s domain, and Gráinne refused to meet him there. Their compromise was a naval ship docked in one of the permanent harbors.

Raghnall, as usual, came to the meeting naked. He left his seal skin with his first mate, and refused to don humanoid clothing. Gráinne knew that he was hoping to prey on the prudishness of her human side. That tactic had never worked, and she was, frankly, tired of it.

Her brother’s suggestion that she go to the meeting naked to turn the tables on Raghnall had been soundly ignored.

The queen and seal lord sat in the captain’s quarters. “You’re not chilly?” Gráinne asked after the proper greetings had been exchanged.

“No.”

“There’s evidence to suggest otherwise.”

Raghnall remained nonplussed. “The bipedal body is hardly perfect. I’m sure you understand that well. To what do I owe the honor of this meeting?”

“I need to speak first to Captain Raghnall, then the seal lord.” Gráinne unrolled the most recent sea charts the navy had provided her. “The vortices in the northeast. You’ve gotten closer to them than any other ship has dared.”

“Better,” Raghnall said with a cocky tilt of his head. “I’ve swum among them.”

Despite his often infuriating nature, it was moments like this that assured Gráinne she had made the correct choice in making Raghnall a privateer. Any sailor with his audacity was a valuable asset, especially now. “And?”

He nodded once, saying the words that so many others were afraid to speak. “Hy-Brasil is returning. Not immediately, we both know that these things take time. But we have years. Maybe a decade; I doubt two.”

Gráinne realized she was clenching her fists. She forced herself to uncurl her fingers. Even among Fae, Hy-Brasil was legendary. It appeared and disappeared with seemingly no rhyme or reason, but it was well known that the island’s reappearance signaled great change, often for both the magical and mortal realms. “We have years to prepare, but prepare for what?” She said under her breath.

“If you figure it out, let me know,” Raghnall said. “Anything else for the captain?”

“What supplies do you need? Other than trousers.”

Raghnall’s thin mustache twitched with a smile. She wasn’t asking just about restocking food or repairing weapons. After news like this, the queen was letting Raghnall name his reward.

“There’s a very lovely figurehead on this ship. I believe it allows the ship to camouflage?” When Gráinne confirmed this, Raghnall nodded. “Something like that. It doesn’t need to be an octopus, though.”

“Octopus, squid, or cuttlefish are your choices,” Gráinne said, marking his request down. “It will take a few months to make.”

Raghnall considered his options for a moment. “Fine, cuttlefish.”

“And now, the seal lord.”

Raghnall bowed at the shoulders. “At your service, my queen.”

Gráinne rolled up her sea charts and crossed her arms, frowning. “Explain why there were four sightings of selkies in the Irish Sea last month.”

Raghnall rolled shoulders easily. “You know pups. Sometimes they cross the barrier unknowingly.”

“Pups do, yes, and I’ve always granted them leniency. I’m talking about adult selkies, fully in control of themselves and aware of the law.” Gráinne pressed her lips together tightly.

“Drink?” Raghnall suggested mildly. “We enjoy shore leave, same as you.”

“Shore leave that fuels the black market? Whenever selkies are spotted in the mortal realm, suddenly human goods are readily available.” Gráinne narrowed her eyes. “You know how much damage that kind of smuggling has brought here. End it.”

Raghnall’s nose twitched — a hint of irritation. “Are you responsible for the actions of all your people?”

“I am responsible for keeping them safe.” She jabbed her finger down hard on the table. “End it.”

Raghnall leaned forward, lips curling upward to reveal inhumanly sharp teeth. “The selkies are not subject to your barrier laws, gestalt.”

She struck him with the back of her hand. The word was not an insult, only a reminder of Gráinne’s mixed heritage. She would not have it used against her. “The selkies are subject to Tír na nÓg, and I speak for Tír na nÓg. You may not like it, but you know it’s true. End it.”

A low growl rose in Raghnall’s throat. He held a slightly webbed hand to his cheek where he had been struck. “As my queen—” he stopped mid-sentence, liquid dark eyes growing wider. “Someone’s on board. Someone who’s not supposed to be.”

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 7: Turning of the Year

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes at the end of sthe story.

Olive leaned back in the divan, fanning herself. “I hate this time of year.”

Her consort, Septimus, wiped his glistening face with a cloth and glanced over to his axehandle hound that was panting in the shade. “So does Tort.” At the sound of his name, the dog whined and wagged its stubby tail. “It helps to think of summer as a time of plenty.”

Olive shaded her eyes with a hand and glared at the sun for a second, just long enough for it to blind her. “It doesn’t look any closer than it does in winter. Why is it so beastly hot?”

“It’s not the sun, my light. Scholars no longer believe that the sun moves across the sky, but is, in fact, fixed in place.” Septimus had no fear of reprisal from Olive for correcting her. One of the benefits of being her consort was that she paid his consortia fees. Women were not allowed to attend consortia, and she eagerly drank up any knowledge that he had to share. The arrangement worked for both of them.

“Truly?” Olive’s thin eyebrows met in a point. “But we see it move every day.”

“Yes, but it does not go nearer or farther. It keeps a steady distance.”

“Not far enough,” Olive replied, and resumed fanning herself. “If the sun does not move closer to us, then why are summer and winter so terrible?”

“The current theory is phoenixes,” Septimus informed her.

“Phoenixes,” Olive repeated.

“Yes, hatching in spring, at their full power in summer, wilting in autumn and becoming ash in winter. The heat given off by a mature, healthy phoenix is incredible.”

Olive frowned. “Phoenixes don’t have such short lifespans. And they often shelter their eggs in deep caves, where the elements cannot disturb them. Their hatching cycle wouldn’t have anything to do with spring.”

“Actually, my sweet, it’s been found that most phoenixes prefer to lay their eggs at the roots of trees,” Septimus told her. “That they lay their eggs in caves is a common myth-conception.”

Another challenge day! Element 1: Write “Challenge me!” in the comments.

Element 2: Challenge other people by replying to their comment with a misconception they must feature in their story. This misconception can be fictional or a real-life misconception (if you challenge with a real-life one, including a source for why it’s a misconception would be appreciated).

Element 3: Choose one or more of the misconceptions you got and write a story using them.

I used Damon L. Wake’s misconception: Seasons are caused by Earth moving closer to and farther from the Sun.

I was a little disappointed to learn that magpies don’t steal shiny things, though. 😦

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 6: “You’re the druid?”


Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. Leif is another DnD character of mine, though this is more like a potential epilogue to his story than anything in our game right now. There’s a strong possibility of more Leif stories this month.

Four heavy steps on the tavern floor above him told Leif it was time to emerge from the cellar. Tabbie, the brusque human cleric, couldn’t be bothered to go down the stairs to get him. This was how she let him know someone was here to see the druid.

Leif put down his pruning shears with a sigh. It was a bright, sunny afternoon — too early in the day for him to be bothered. Five years in Waterdeep made the drow change his trance schedule, but he still disliked the sun. The plants in the narrow window were the same way. They preferred low light, and the window let in only a scant amount of sunlight for a few hours a day.

A small clink came from behind him, the sound of a short sword shifting in its sheath. Leif recognized it as an inquisitive sound. “Not yet, Bloodless,” he said, and went upstairs.

Tabbie was behind the bar, counting out the previous night’s profit. “There he is.”

The half-elf sitting at the bar rose from her stool, looked over to Leif, opened her mouth to introduce herself…but what came out was, “you’re the druid?” She shifted back a half-step, then glanced over to Tabbie.

Tabbie nodded once, and went back to the coins.

Leif had stopped bothering to try to hide what he was some time ago. No hoods or floppy hats, just a pact-scarred man who had found another path. “If you’re looking for help with something fungal, better to wait until my friend Verdi gets back tomorrow. I’m best with plants and flying creatures. I don’t do anything with spiders.” He kept his voice flat and even.

“Do you know the rainbow wood tree in the North Ward? Its bark is losing color and flaking off,” the half-elf said.

“Root mites, likely,” Leif replied with a huff of annoyance. “I think one of the caravans brought them in accidentally. We’ll be fighting the infestation for years. Show me.”

The half-elf’s shoulders visibly relaxed at Leif’s speedy diagnosis. He really was the druid.

It always happened the same way. No matter the urgency — a horse with a broken leg, blight spreading through crops, a stampede of poisonous frogs — there was always the pause, then the question.

“You’re the druid?”

The answer was usually, “not if it’s spiders,” followed by “show me.”

Leif did what he was asked. Not out of fear or obedience, as he always had done to survive in the Underdark. Because he chose to. Because he cared for Waterdeep and its strange inhabitants. Because he loved plants.

For so many reasons, he became the druid.

Then one day, as the sun was setting and Leif was scolding a pair of rats for fighting, a halfling child ran up to him in the courtyard. His pudgy face lit up. “You’re the druid!”

Leif gave the rats a stern warning glance, then nodded at the child.

“Our nanny goat’s sick and—”

“Show me.”