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 take a few days off FFM. It’s been difficult to write this year, but with a little encouragement from the FFM Discord, I found enough inspiration to write two very different Les Mis fanfictions. The first is just a fan theory of mine, and the second is…well, you’ll see. Remixes of the latter story are highly encouraged.
Painless
Jean Valjean does not feel pain. Not in Toulon, where he slept in chains. Not down in the mud of Montreuil-sur-Mer, lifting a wagon with his back. Not even when he branded himself with a red hot poker.
His strength is that of an oridnary man’s. He simply cannot feel the pain of his deeds.
Until Cosette cries. She is his light, and everything he has done since she came into his life was all for her.
That is a pain that he cannot bear.
And if he must go to the barricades to soothe that pain, so be it.
Jean Valjean Beats Up Everyone
2
“Your time is up and your parole’s begun. You know what that means.” Inspector Javert snarled down at the convict.
Jean Valjean socked him in the mouth with a cross jab.
4
“Let’s not haggle for darling Cosette,” crooned Thénardier.
Valjean swung a mean right hook into Thénaedier’s kidneys.
6
Eponine’s scream rang out. Valjean raced outside and uppercut the nearest would-be-thief.
0
Valjean would have hidden Cosette away from all the ugliness of the world if he could. But now her happiness hung with Marius’s survival. Valjean would see that Marius lived, no matter the cost.
1
For decades Javert and Valjean circled each other, knives drawn. Javert had always known that Valjean was a monster. Valjean had tried for most of his life to believe that he was not. Now, the man who had dogged him his entire life was tied up and fully at Valjean’s mercy.
Valjean was living proof that a man could change. He could rise above the sins of the past. He could do the one thing that Javert could never do.
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.
It’s just gotten really hard to write lately. Too many life changes, too much stress, not enough self-care. It’s like the well’s gone empty.
Metaphorically. Because of the heads. I don’t take them out of the well.
I know it sounds gruesome, but hear me out. First of all, the heads are well-preserved and don’t harm the water quality at all. Second, some of them predict the future. Four of them, actually. One speaks in riddles, one forecasts the weather, one is actually helpful, and one is still mentally stuck in the 700s and can only make predictions up to the year 1500. But it’s the future for him.
The other three provide me with wisdom. Except for the one who only speaks in thought-terminating clichés. But whenever I bring that up she just says, “let people enjoy things.”
I guess there are a couple heads in there that I don’t need, but those are the heads of my enemies. They’ve earned an eternity of humiliation.
Actually, they’ve taught me a few creative swears. So they can stay, too.
Point is, one of the wisdom heads says that I need to take care of myself and not put too much pressure to write a story every day in July. Things are tough right now and it’s okay to relax take breaks when I can.
The thought-terminating cliché head says that “happiness is a choice.” Maybe I should get rid of that one.
My other future head says that horseshoes are going to be a big hit, so look forward to that.
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. Today’s story is a 369er, 3 separate but related stories, each using only 69 words.
Solar Ivybell’s phone pinged with the news that she’d been waiting to receive for 33 years: Eris’s Comet to Make Earth Fly-By September 8. Solar had been 16 when it last came to Earth, carrying Eridians that had fed on Earthlings’ memories and implanted false ones. Thankfully, Solar had discovered the magical power to hurl them back into space, as long as she had her beloved, equally magical friends.
Angel Moonwater and Lotus Fallenbloom hadn’t talked to Solar in years. Not since Solar had made a drunken maid of honor speech at their wedding, made the day all about her, and used her sacred magic to literally shine on the dance floor. “Do we really need to team up with her?” Lotus groaned. “Eridians are bad, but she’s a sparkly disaster. I’d almost prefer the Eridians invade instead.”
Angel and Lotus found an Eridian scout before the main force arrived. Angel interrupted its declaration of revenge. “We’re not going to hurt you. Instead, we have a request.” The Eridian snapped its pincers, curious. “Can you eat the memories from our wedding and implant a new one? Something happy.” The Eridian obliged. When Solar texted them about the impeding invasion, they happily reunited to kick some alien butt.
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.
“We’ll never find it.” Janine and I had been in the corn maze for hours. The sun was getting low and the sky was already turning pink. We’d already found the exit, but had doubled back to the center of the maze when Janine realized she’d left her phone in the center of the maze. “And the place is gonna close soon. Can we please just let someone know and head home? I’m sure someone’ll find it and call you in the morning.”
“On what phone, Hillary?” Janine snapped. Even though her earbuds weren’t connected to anything, Janine still had them in. She’d been listening to music the whole time we were in the maze.
“Give them your mom’s number. Or mine. But it’s getting seriously creepy here.” The corny Halloween decorations—plastic skeletons and scarecrows with pumpkin heads—strewn throughout the maze hadn’t bothered me in the full daylight. But in the setting sun they cast long shadows that kept making me do double-takes. The beautiful October afternoon had turned chilly and windy. I shivered. “Let’s just go.”
“My whole life is on that phone. I’m not leaving without it.”
I knew how she felt. Janine had years of photos saved on it, a ton of apps, not to mention the phone number of everyone who mattered (and a few people who didn’t). She hated to be apart from it. Even in class, when she was forced to put it away, she would put her hand in her pocket every few minutes like she was making sure it was still there.
A gust of wind blew through the stalks. Dry leaves rustled against one another. It sounded like the field whispering.
“Please.” I shivered. “Let’s go. You know this place closes at sunset.” I glanced up at the bruise-colored sky. “Which is about ten minutes from now. We need to find the exit.”
As if on cue, the PA system that had been playing “Monster Mash” shut off. All I could hear was the wind, crickets, and Janine’s angry, “No!” She stomped deeper into the maze.
“Janine, please!” I grabbed the sleeve of her sweater. “We’ve gotta go!”
The sun disappeared below the horizon. A crackly voice on the PA system announced that Barley Farms would be closing in five minutes. That wasn’t enough time to get out.
Somewhere behind a row of corn I heard footsteps. Probably staff.
Maybe staff.
I hoped staff.
“Let go!” Janine tugged her arm out of my grip. She squinted in the dying light. “Where’s your phone? We need a flashlight.”
“I didn’t bring it.”
“You what?” Her voice rose into a squeak.
“Because I wanted to spend time with you for a change! Not you and your stupid phone!”
Janine opened her mouth to yell when a low howling sound floated over the maze. It sounded like a wolf, then turned into a mournful moan. “The hell is that?” Janine grabbed on to my arm.
A distorted man’s voice rolled over us:
And in the death As the last few corpses lay rotting on the slimy thoroughfare The shutters lifted an inch in temperance building, high on Poacher’s Hill
Janine’s breath caught. “What is that?”
“I told you we had to leave before dark!” I tugged arm back towards where I thought the exit lay. “Weird shit happens here!”
And red mutant eyes gazed down on Hunger City No more big wheels Fleas the size of rats sucked on rats the size of cats
This time Janine didn’t fight me. We jogged down the paths while the man kept speaking.
And ten thousand peoploids split into small tribes Coveting the highest of the sterile skyscrapers Like packs of dogs assaulting the glass fronts of Love-Me Avenue
In the dark, we didn’t see the roots sticking out of the ground. Roots that I would swear hadn’t been there when we walked in the maze hours before. Janine face-planted, jaw smashing against the hard ground.
“Are you okay?” I asked. She started to get up, blood falling down her chin.
She screamed. “Oh my God something just touched my ankle! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God—”
We ran. I didn’t know where we were going. I could barely see anything but the stalks in front of me.
“I can hear music!” Janine said with panting breaths. “It’s just a song!”
“‘This ain’t rock and roll!'” The man called out. “‘This is genocide!'”
We both screamed.
I don’t know how we found our way out of the maze. By the time we did, we were breathless and clinging to each other. We finally got back to Janine’s car. She locked the door as soon as we got in.
“God.” I ran a shaky hand through my bangs. “The haunted corn maze was actually haunted.”
“M-maybe.” She looked at the holder connected to her air vent where her phone normally sat. “It’s okay. I know how to get home from here.”
I noticed then that she didn’t have her air pods. They must have fallen out during our mad dash for the exit. “Damn. And you lost your earbuds too.”
That was not the reaction Janine would have had a few hours ago. “You don’t want to go back and look tomorrow?”
She shook her head furiously. “Never again.”
“It’s all junk anyway,” I said.
“Yeah.” Janine started the car. “It’s all junk.”
It’s my favorite challenge: David Bowie Day! Celebrating the 40th anniversary of the movie Labyrinth, which was my introduction to David Bowie.
ELEMENT 1: Your story must take place in a labyrinth. Easy, right? Too easy? Well, since you were all begging for more Bowie…
OPTIONAL ADD-ON ELEMENTS:
♫ UNDERGROUND: Include a reference to the movie Labyrinth in some way, shape or form. I really wanted to have a reference to the worm, but “it’s all junk!” worked better.
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 the final part of “The Queen and the Seal Lord” which was really only supposed to be one story but I got carried away. I also know that the description of Raghnall should have come sooner in the story, but between the first story and this one I decided that selkies have dad bod and I needed to include it.
Raghnall ducked his head under the waves. He was still trapped in human for, his knees weak, stomach roiling. He trembled, but that had nothing to do with the ocean’s chill. His seal coat was moving further inland, carried by someone with intent to do him harm. And he was forced to rely on Queen Gráinne — the same queen that just slapped him for insubordination — to return it.
A small pod of Raghnall’s trusted companions encircled him. Two were in seal form, swimming around him. The third stood on two legs, holding a net and trident and standing alert.
Réalta should have been among them. Her death was too recent to inspire grief in the selkie pod, only anger. If Raghnall survived this, he would see Réalta’s killers flayed.
Raghnall poked his head out from the water and breathed out a sigh. The shaking in his slightly webbed fingers stopped. Gráinne had his seal coat, and she was bringing it to him.
As soon as the queen arrived on the shore, her mount dark with sweat, she ran towards the sea. The selkies let her pass. Wordlessly, Gráinne held the seal coat out to Raghnall.
He donned it quickly, human feet becoming fins once more. He barked once, then dove into the ocean. The pod followed him.
A week later, Gráinne received a request for an audience. “He’s here now, my queen,” the courier said, almost apologetically. Few would be so bold to just assume the queen had the time or inclination to meet with them.
“Is he dressed?” Gráinne asked.
The courier’s pale cheeks turned pink. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Send him in.”
As a seal, Raghnall was svelte and strong; as a man, the extra blubber from his seal form settled on his limbs and torso. His whiskers had become a Van Dyke mustache and beard, which Gráinne felt rather suited him. He wore black trousers that had been patched multiple times, an open-breasted red shirt that popped against his gray skin, and a long, dark coat. At the collar was a with an embossed elk antler, marking him as a privateer.
“Hardly a suitable wardrobe to meet the queen in, but at least you have one this time,” Gráinne remarked. She stood up from her writing desk to greet him.
Raghnall bowed at the waist. “Was that a joke, Your Majesty?”
“They’ve been known to happen,” Gráinne replied once he’d straightened.
“I’m afraid at our last meeting I wasn’t thinking clearly. But I bring you thanks from Réalta’s family for returning her coat to them.” Raghnall reached into his pocket and produced two pink studs, shined to a polish: coral earrings. “They asked me to give you these.”
“Thank you.” Gráinne gingerly took the earrings from his hand. Most selkies owned few things, but loved what they had fiercely. “Please tell her family I will treasure them.” She replaced her carved bone earrings with the coral. “From what I knew of her, Réalta was clever and strong.”
“I couldn’t have asked for a better first mate.” Raghnall cleared his throat to keep tears from his voice. “I’d like to apologize to you as well, Ma’am.”
The notion of Raghnall apologizing for anything was so unexpected, Gráinne had to clap her hand over her mouth to stifle a burst of laughter. “Raghnall. You’ve sunk my ships. Raided my shores. I nearly hanged you once.”
Raghnall rubbed at his throat. “‘Nearly’ is the operative word.”
“And never once did you apologize for piracy. So what did you do that was so egregious to warrant one now?”
Raghnall looked away from her, and Gráinne realized that he was trying to hide his embarrassment. Until now, she wasn’t sure he’d even been capable of that particular emotion. “You retrieved my coat without hesitation, even after I blatantly disrespected you. Once I had it back, I did not even thank you.”
Gráinne shrugged a shoulder. “You’ve disrespected me for years. I wasn’t going to let you die out of spite.”
“Except for all the times you actually did try to kill me.”
“That’s different.” Gráinne actually smiled. Her royal duties kept her on land now, but Gráinne remembered her days fostered at sea as some of the best of her life. “The one time I did manage to arrest you—”
“And nearly hang me,” Raghnall added, unhelpfully.
“I decided to keep you instead.”
The seal lord blinked his inky eyes several times. “What am I supposed make of that?”
Gráinne thought a moment. “That our discussion about Hy-Brasil and your kin crossing the barrier is not finished, I suppose. And that at our next meeting, I expect you clothed.”
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It started with a composition notebook, black and white splotches on the cover. Gradually, the lined pages filled up with words. Every time the writer closed its cover, it was hidden away: under the bed, in the pillow case, between the mattress and the box spring. The writer knew those words were fragile.
No, not the words. She was fragile, and those words were pieces of her. Their secrets being seen by anyone would be exposing herself to the world.
Time passed. More composition books were filled up. Stories, songs, poems. They remained hidden.
When it was time to leave home, the writer (though she feared anyone discovering that she was a writer), took them with her. First to a dorm room, then an apartment, then a house. Then another house, where a plastic crate of composition books were put in the attic.
More time passsed. The writer died. Soon, her son and granddaughter were cleaning out the house. The granddaughter found the crate.
“Grandma wrote all these?” The granddaughter’s dark eyes went wide.
“Wow,” the son said. “She told me that she wrote her first novel when she was sixteen. She never let me read it. Said it was terrible.”
The granddaughter put her hand on one of the dusty covers. “Grandma started when she was my age.”
“Mm-hmm.” He considered the crate, his daughter, and his mother. “Do you want to keep them?”
“Yeah!” The granddaughter smiled with tears in her eyes. She found the oldest notebook, its spine broken. Her grandmother’s writing filled the pages, and the granddaughter’s mind.
The son let his daughter alone with the books. They were not for him.
They were for his daughter, holding on to a piece of her grandmother that only she got to see.
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’m in the process of selling my home. Since I’m running out of time for a story today and don’t want to fall further behind, here’s a rant. Stick around after the story to read the poem I wrote on the same topic.
An Easy 11-Step Guide to Selling Your Home
Get your house ready for showing. Purge every scrap of personality your home has. There can be no art on the walls. There can be no plushies on the bed. They don’t matter. Only your granite counter tops matter.
Find a realtor you like. You may wish to meet with a few of them before you decide who to go with. The deciding factor should not be if your realtor has a cool accent or likes your cats. But if he has a cool accent and likes your cats, that’s a big plus.
If your house is fit for a sexless robot to live in, it’s time to schedule showings and open houses. You must hide all evidence that a human lives in this house. Remove all trash cans. Make sure all the books on the shelf are non-controversial and for display purposes only. Hide all cat furniture. You have to pretend that the cats don’t live here, even though they will follow prospective buyers around for the whole showing and take naps on your realtor.
Get kicked out of your house repeatedly so strangers can look at it and then tell you they hate your bathroom decor.
Look on Zillow and secretly judge your neighbor’s houses that are on the market.
It’s been two months, and this sucks. Consider buying a Saint Joseph statue to bury in your yard.
Change your mind about buying the statue. If your mom found out she would think that you’re becoming Catholic again and would get too excited.
Besides, you tried to throw out a broken Virgin Mary statue during the initial purge, but the bag it was in ripped and paint splashed everywhere on the newly power-washed patio. Decide it’s best not to mess around with more statues of holy figures.
Explain to your non-Catholic friends why it’s not idolatry, not really, and that even ex-Catholics love a good religious statue.
Just accept that this is a deeply weird and frustrating experience, but at least you got a poem out of it.
But also if you don’t get any offers soon, you’re getting the damn statue.
Selling Your Home is a Deeply Weird Experience
We begged and fought to spend hundreds and thousands of dollars on 1,700 square feet. We signed the papers. We laid a stake. This is ours. No one can take it from us. This is our home.
My territory is 1,700 square feet with high ceilings and beige walls, nubby carpets, a creepy door.
My territory is new granite countertops, a rebuilt fence years of love and work and every picture hung on the wall.
And now– anyone can come into my territory. I must smile and welcome them. Hope that one of them will want to beg and fight for 1,700 square feet.
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.
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.”
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).
Overlooked Books 