Tag / flash fiction

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.”

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM #5: A Short Story (told in YA romance novel titles)

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. Unlike the other stories I’ve written this month, this one is told in zine format.

This is a real zine! I made it on physical paper with tiny cut-outs of book covers. I plan on uploading the PDF on my itch.io at some point so you can download and print to your heart’s content. I spent a lot of time on this one and I’m really pleased with it, but also really happy it’s over.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 4: Keys to Immortality

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.

“If you’d told me that we’d lose all the music in the world tonight, I would’ve pushed you under a car.” Andre waved his fingers, indicating for the panda to give him another cigarette. Xue never had a shortage of them. Andre didn’t know where she kept them. She wore no clothes, and didn’t have a pouch to hide them in.

Xue handed him a cigarette and lit another one for herself with surprisingly dexterous paws. “I tried to warn you, that this would make you blue. But you needed those pictures, you stupid mister. All because you said Green Lantern wouldn’t work.”

Andre’s eye twitched. “They were vintage Spider-Man comics. And you were a vintage lamp. You sure there’s no way I can revert you back to that?”

Xue breathed out a long puff of smoke. “No way, Andre. The spellbook’s broke, and that’s your fault. I hated being stuck in clay. Then you messed with the occult. You just had to hear that piano make noise.”

“You were the one who told me about the piano in the first place.” Andre took a drag, and crossed his arms. “‘Right over there, next to the haunted Playboys and sanctified Hummels. Can’t miss it,’ you said. “‘Immortality,’ you said. ‘All you need to do is play the right song.'”

Xue shrugged a shoulder. “Only you could master it. You knew the song in a tick. You have a musician’s heart and hands, you’re the best pianist in the land! But I did fucking warn you, bro.”

“You said I’d lose something I loved. I thought you meant my comic collection. Seemed like a small price to pay for immortality.” The cigarette had burned down to Andre’s fingertips. He let it. What use were his long fingers and perfect hands now?

Xue ground her own cigarette under a calloused paw and lit a new one. “Immortality costs the world. When you played, everything curled. You lost music for every boy and every girl. You’ve thrown your whole livelihood away, so what is left for you, for all of us?”

“Music is gone,” Andre said to himself. “Forever.”

“Don’t have a panic attack, it can come back. It won’t be easy, it won’t be short. And it will probably hurt. All you have to do is die.”

Andre stared at Xue. She blinked slowly.

Rain hissed on the road as cars drove past them. No songs on the radio. No one singing along. “So if I threw myself in front of one of these cars, would it…?”

Xue blew out another cloud of blue smoke, and didn’t say a word.

Today’s challenge was a three-parter, leading to a bizarre tale.

Element 1: Go look through our generators either via the Prompt Generators page or our itch.io profile (and please excuse the lack of cover images; we have yet to decide on a design for them). If you come across any issues, please let us know here or on the page of the troubled generator.

Element 2: Pick at minimum three (3) generators other than the yearly prompt generators (2009-2025 and 2026), David Bowie Song Randomiser or 2675 Things Mr. Welch Can No Longer Do During An RPG Generator. Grab one (1) prompt from each of your chosen generators. Bonus points if you pick the first prompt you generate from them.

Element 3: Use each prompt you got in today’s story. You may combine them with prompts from excluded generators if you wish to use them as well. Make sure to tell which generators you got which prompts from!

I did not do this properly and chose sections of prompts from various generators.

From the adventure generator:

MacGuffin: Mystical piano that’s said to grant whoever can play the right song immortality. Nobody has succeeded.
– by bookcrusher

Character mashup generator:

Character 1: A chain-smoking panda who speaks only in limericks but doesn’t know how rhymes work.

Character 2: An internationally acclaimed concert pianist who wants pictures! Pictures of Spiderman!

– by DamonWakes

And a generator which shall not be named because I can’t remember which one it was:

Opening line: If you’d told me that we’d lose all the music in the world tonight, I would’ve pushed you under a car.

– by WindySilver

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 3: Once, there were…

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.

Once, there were unicorns.

Well, I say “once,” but that implies that unicorns are no longer around. But that’s not entirely accurate. They didn’t get hunted to extinction or go to another plane of existence. They’re still here. They’ve just gotten smaller. You might see them sometimes, in dew drops and in the dust that floats in sunbeams. But that’s just the way these kinds of stories begin.

Once, there were full-sized unicorns of every variety you could imagine. Unicorns that were shy, unicorns that were bold, unicorns that brought sunlight wherever they stepped and unicorns with fiery manes and even fierier tempers.

That’s why they became small, you know. Each came into being with their own talents, their own way to shape the world. They couldn’t help who they were. They didn’t want to change. But more and more, humans demanded that they change. Not out loud, of course. No, everyone loved the unicorns. No one wanted them to disappear.

One of the humans when there were full-sized unicorns was an inventor. She loved to work with copper and brass.

I know what you’re thinking. The unicorns must have hated her. Fae creatures hate metal. But that wasn’t true, either. There were unicorns of copper and brass who loved her dearly, and helped her with her work. She loved them back.

Her copper and brass friends let her ride on their backs and took her to the foundaries of the earth, where molten rock and iron glowed. With their protection, the inventor scooped the golden mantle into her bare hands, and they rode back up to the surface.

I know you’re looking up the melting points of copper and brass now. Probably Google’s crappy AI is telling you that copper and brass would melt even in the upper mantle. Stop using AI. I can give you misinformation, and I’m beautiful.

Back on the surface, the inventor did not use that golden bit of mantle to create. Instead, she kept it in a lantern, to forever warm and light the way.

Incidentally, did you know that if you type “-ai” after your Google search, you’re less likely to see AI results? Not always, though, because Google is a beast that devours the world.

And in the time of unicorns, there was another beast that threatened to devour the world.

Wait. The time of unicorns is technically still now. But you know what I’m getting at.

This is why the inventor and her friends made the lantern. The beast could not withstand the light from the pulsing heart of the Earth. They rode forward, pushing back the dark, chasing the beast back to its holes. But the unicorns were getting smaller.

Not as small as they are now, mind. And it wasn’t just brass and copper, it was all of them. But this isn’t a story about the unicorns getting smaller. It was just something that was happening at the same time.

Where was I? Yes. The inventor was chasing the beast. She held her lantern aloft. But she had to navigate through a changing world, one that was changing away from what the unicorns needed.

Okay, I know I’m rambling. You’ve known me all your life, you know I go on tangents. This is just the way I tell stories. And if I’m telling a story about something as ancient as unicorns, there’s going to be a few tangents. Don’t you give me that look. You asked about the lantern, now you’re getting the answer.

Yes, I know, you’re on an epic quest. Yes, I know you have a time limit. But if you don’t have the patience to hear the whole story, then you’re not getting the whole story. So you don’t get to know how our family got the lantern. Nope. I’m outtie. See ya.

When I’m feeling stuck as a writer, it helps to go back to my writing roots. However, when I’m feeling stuck and sleep-deprived, the narrator just quits. I think I want to tell the “real” version of this story later this month, but for now, this is what you get.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 2: English Hates Cats

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 (and translations) at the end of the story

Two heads were worse than one, because only one head could look at the idiom dictionary at a time.

Alexei (the American “Alex” had yet to stick) flipped to the index and searched for “C.” “You told Derek we got Judith concert tickets for her birthday, and you wanted to tell him not to give away the secret.”

Alexei’s partner, Kolya, nodded. “Right. I told him, ‘don’t skin the cat out of the bag.’ And he just tried not to laugh.”

“Hm…” Alexei ran his finger down the index. “Kot…kot…”

The idiom dictionary had been one of the best gifts Kolya had given Alexei. Whenever Alexei thumbed through its pages, he looked like a man solving a mystery. His eyes were bright, and there was a small, satisfied smile on his lips when he finally cracked it open.

Kolya liked seeing him like this. Alexei’s first love had been words. Like most children, Alexei and Nikolai had grown up reading fairytales and Soviet propaganda. But soon, they were sharing samizdat works—illegal poetry, dissident pamphlets, the entirety of The Gulag Archipelago painstakingly typed on onionskin paper.

The trouble with Alexei was that he could never bring himself to burn the novels once he was done with them. He hid them in a hollow behind his bathroom mirror, but the secret police had found them anyway. Alexei had been arrested on the spot; Nikolai was already in questioning.

A chill ran over Kolya as the memories came back to him. The beatings, the imprisonment, however temporary…but he tightened his jaw and turned his focus back to Alexei.

“It’s ‘let the cat out of the bag’ and ‘skin the cat.’ ‘Let the cat out of the bag’ is to tell a secret. And ‘skin the cat’ is…zhdat’…”

“Why is this language so mean to cats?” Kolya asked.

Alexei chuckled. “English is a beast. Vot gde sabaka zaryta.”

“I izhu panyatna,” Nikolai replied with a nod.

“P’erviy bl’in vsigda komam.” Alexei shrugged and went back to the book.

What had happened to Kolya was nothing compared with what Alexei had been through. When they were finally reunited after two long, bitter years apart, the man Kolya had fallen in love with had nearly disappeared. He was broken in mind and body, half-dead when they finally, finally escaped to America.

Healing took time. Alexei was not fully himself again. Kolya knew he probably never would be. But on their first anniversary of coming to the United States, Alexei had started writing again. Nothing important at first, just lists of words to help him practice English.

But he kept writing, and kept writing. English was a labyrinth that Alexei explored with fascination. But there were no minotaurs at its center, only truth. Only words.

“Ah! ‘Skin the cat’ is to take off clothes, or ‘there’s more than one way to skin a cat’ means there’s many ways to do something.” Alexei snapped the dictionary shut, a satisfied smile on his face.

“English is cruel.”

“In many ways, yes. But remember Gogol’s overcoat? Lined with cat.”

Of course Alexei would remember such a small detail from the famous story. Seeing his partner smiling, talking about literature, Kolya saw the person he’d fallen in love with, the one who remained beyond the pain, beyond the nightmares, beyond all the bad days he’d survived.

“You came out from under Gogol’s overcoat,” Nikolai remarked, and reached for Alexei’s hand.

Alexei pressed a kiss to Kolya’s forehead. “Only because I had you to help pull me out.”

Let’s gooooo! First FFM Challenge: Malaphor Madness.

Use at least one malaphor (a combination of two idioms; also known as an idiom blend) in your story!

Mine is “don’t skin the cat out of the bag.”

A little background on these two: I started writing about Alexei and Nikolai/Kolya a couple years ago, when my PTSD symptoms were really bad. At first it was just a lot of painful stories, but as things got better, I started seeing that there might be something in that glut of writing that might be worth working on and even sharing. I didn’t plan on using these characters for FFM, since they come from such a tender place in me (with both meanings of the word), but I thought two English language learners were perfect for this challenge. And then I threw in some Russian idioms just for fun. I don’t know enough about the language to to a malaphor with them, but even a hedgehog understands that’s where the dog is buried.

Alexei references the famous short story, “The Overcoat” by Nikolai Gogol. Kolya references the quote attributed to Fyodor Dostoevsky, “We all came out of Gogol’s ‘Overcoat.” which speaks to how Gogol’s work influenced some of Russia’s most famous writers.

Kot – cat
Samizdat – literally “self-publishing,” the practice of making and distributing censored literature in the U.S.S.R.
Zhdat’ – wait
Vot gde sabaka zaryta. – literally “that’s where the dog is buried”; to get to the root of a problem
I izhu panyatna – literally “even a hedgehog understands”; something is easy to understand
P’erviy bl’in vsigda komam – literally “The first pancake [blini] is always a blob”; practice makes perfect

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 1: The Mist

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.

The mist rolls in over the hills. It would be so serene if you didn’t know what it brings. 

You wanted serenity, peace. Calm, after the whirlwind that has consumed your life. Yes, I know it hurts now, you told yourself. But it will all be for the best. You’ll see.

You try to believe yourself.

But when the empty house became too much to bear, you took yourself here: to the hills that you used to love. As you follow the curved road upward, all the memories of your time spent here come flooding back to you.

You stand at the lookout point and remember: watching the sunset with your parents. Kissing boys where your parents couldn’t find you. Watching the birds circle, rising on invisible air currents, indifferent to the small, wingless beings below.

You think that maybe you can let this go. Maybe you will always carry these hills in your heart, even if you never set foot on them again.

Then, the mist.

Those coming changes – so painful, so needed – had filled every corner of your mind and heart. You’d forgotten about the mist.

Somewhere in the distance, the Hydra emerges from its slumber.

The Hydra does not care if you are exhausted, sad, or prepared. Soon, you will hear its many maws snapping, with a blood-chilling “Viva!”

Flash Fiction Month is upon us.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. Today’s prompt comes from Teresa “Amehana” Garcia – The mist rolls in over the hills. It would be so serene if you didn’t know what it brings.

I’m very tired. I don’t know how I’m going to manage this month.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 31: Defiance

Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. This story is a companion piece to FFM 5: Guardian of the Gate. More notes at the end of the story.

This is also the last day of FFM! All my stories will be up through the month of August, after which some of them will be taken down. I also won’t have any posts in August, as I’ll be hibernating. Thank you for reading!

Rage. My rage is so loud it drowns out my sorrow. Screams and sobs become one noise, the sound of pure grief, spilling out of my tortured throat. I would tear down the world, wrestle Thanatos to the ground, spit in Hades’s face. I would defy the gods and return my family to my side. Grief is a weapon more powerful than death, and I am a sharpened blade. 

I cannot defy the gods. Every man has faced grief, and no man has brought the dead back to walk in the sun again. Even attempting to bring my wife and child back to the world of the living is unnatural. We are born, we live, we die. Should I try to break this most unbreakable law, what I have left of my life will be mired in torment. 

What I have left is a hut along the river that took my family from me. I have nothing. Nothing that matters without them. Food has no taste. Nothing brings me joy. My bed is empty; my life is empty. If I defy Hades, I cannot win. I know this. But without my family, I have no reason to continue living. For their sakes, I will defy death itself.

WE’RE DOOOOOOOOONE.

This was the final challenge of FFM. I didn’t follow it to the letter (please don’t eat me mighty Hydra), but it was to write an inversion of your last story. Instead of doing that, I wrote an inversion of my Cerberus story, this time from the point of view of the guy trapped under Cerberus’s foot. I wasn’t happy with my 369er, since every paragraph should be a story in itself, and that wasn’t the case of the Cerberus story. So I tried it here, while still trying to do the id-superego-ego combo.

And now I’m going to sleep for a month. Wake me up when September starts.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 30: Keyboard Gremlins and Drunk Snails

“Annnnd done!” I posted my final story for the month, copy-pasted links on the appropriate pages, and let out a happy sigh. I started to close my laptop, but a keyboard gremlin crawled out from between the keys. 

“Wait, wait! You can’t be done yet!” He tapped his clawed foot and crossed his spindly arms, annoyed. 

“But I am done. Thirty-one days, thirty-one stories, and now I need a nap and a cookie. Lots of cookies,” I told him. 

“But you haven’t bared your soul through fiction!” He protested. He reached down into the crevasse between H and J and pulled out a chart. “July 2022: first year of Flash Fiction, started because your cat died and you were having a hard time writing anything.” 

“Hey…why’d you have to bring that up?” I frowned. 

“July 2023,” the gremlin continued. “Flash fiction month became an important distraction as you learned to deal with a recently diagnosed medical condition.” 

“Dude…” I hid my face in my hands. “I’m fine now.”

“And finally, July 2024, with some newly minted PT–“

“Don’t say it,” I snapped. 

“Learning how to write again after the world exploded. You really put a lot on the page there. So, what’s going on for this year?” He flipped to the next page on the chart. “Two young, healthy cats, your own health is pretty good, and your mental health is way, way, way better than it was this time last year.” 

I stared at him, utterly confused. “So what’s the problem?” 

He flicked his tail in annoyance. “The problem is that you haven’t bled nearly enough onto the page. Your stories are normal and aren’t about meltdowns or your most personal fears. Where’s the edge?” 

“Did it ever occur to you that since I’m doing well right now…that this is just for fun?” 

The gremlin’s mouth dropped open. 

I put my finger on his head, between his curly horns, and pushed him back into the keyboard. 

A snail sitting on my shoulder hiccuped. “Why’d you keep that guy around?”

“He eats the crumbs that get between the keys,” I told her. “Want to do margs and karaoke, Progress?” 

A slow smile came across her slimy face. “Always.”

This one’s a bit personal. At the end of FFM, I like to write a little reflection about how the month has gone for me. And since I’ve started doing FFM, it’s always seemed to come with some big life problem. But this year has been just…normal. I’m a million times better than I was at this time last year. Progress isn’t measurable in the way that a lot of things are. But comparing this FFM to last year’s, I can see how far I’ve come. It’s a good feeling.

I’m not 100% fixed. I may never be. But I’m doing really well. As some of you may remember from last year: Progress is a drunk snail. It moves slowly, and never in a straight line.

It’s okay to not be okay.

But you know what?

It’s okay to be okay too. 💜

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 29: The Shadow and the Shield

Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. This is the direct sequel to FFM 27: Sleepless in Tír na nÓg. More notes at the end of the story.

Gráinne ran at her trainer, thrusting forward with her rapier. He easily parried the blow. “You’re being too obvious, Your Highness.”

She glowered and took a step back. “Fair.”

Scurry, her trainer was a svelte man with a busy red tail and fingers with an extra knuckle, lowered his sword. “You can’t let your emotions rule you on the battlefield, Ma’am.”

“I know.” She shook out her arm and resumed her stance. “Again.” 

He tipped his head one way, then the other. “No, I don’t think this will help you today. I think you need to hit something.” 

“I am hitting something,” Gráinne said through gritted teeth. 

Scurry’s tail waved playfully. “You haven’t managed to land a single hit on me yet. You’re a pixie in a tankard of ale.”

The comparison was not a flattering one. She was flailing with no real purpose, and couldn’t manage to get herself out of what she’d fallen into. But, unlike a pixie, Gráinne actually wanted to get out. 

“Again,” she demanded. 

“Very well,” Scurry said with a sigh. 

They sparred for two minutes more, until Scurry disarmed Gráinne and knocked her on her arse. He chittered, disappointed, then offered the princess a hand. “Let’s take a break. Then we’ll work on something new.”

“Fine.” Gráinne sheathed her sword and went to the wooden benches that ringed the practice yard. Unsurprisingly, Alex was sitting next to her gear “What are you doing here?” She snapped. 

“Waiting for you,” he told her. 

“And you couldn’t wait in the castle?” Gráinne took several gulps from her waterskin. “Find something to do with Uncle Lex.” 

Alex shook his head. “He had to help in the medical wing.” 

That explained it. Alex had never liked the medical wing, a dislike that had turned to dread since the war began. Uncle Lex, who’d been trained in both magical and mundane healing, was often called there on his visits to the castle. With their parents gone at the moment, Alex had few options for someone to tail. 

“Will you please stop following me?” Gráinne turned her back to him. 

“But Gráina…” He tugged on the hem of her tunic. 

She spun around and slapped him. “I said go away! How hard is it for you to just go away?”

This time, Alex listened. He ran back to the castle, holding his stinging cheek while tears ran down his face. 

Uncle Lex was called in for negotiations. The agreed upon course of action was bed with no supper for Gráinne, and a talk with Alex about “alone time,” for both Gráinne and himself. 

“We all need to be by ourselves sometimes,” Uncle Lex told the prince, while silently giving thanks that he didn’t have children. “I know you like to be with people, and I know that things are scary right now. It’s okay to be scared. But when your sister tells you she needs some space, you need to listen. Do you think you can do that for me?”

Alex looked down at his feet. “Okay.”

“Good.” Uncle Lex smiled at his nephew, and namesake. “I need to visit the library. Do you want to go with me, or go to your room for a little bit?” 

It was a hard decision: a room with nothing but books, or being left alone? After a minute, Puck said, “Can you find me another book about electricity?” 

“Can do.” 

“And read Caps for Sale and do funny voices?” 

Uncle Lex smiled. “Of course.” 

Later, when Alex was totally absorbed in a book about circuits, Uncle Lex went to check on his niece. She had flung herself on her bed and was crying. 

“Gráinne, I brought you supper.” Uncle Lex sat at the foot of her bed with a plate of battered fish and mashed potatoes. 

Gráinne sat up slowly. She wiped her cheeks and sniffed. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to have supper.” 

“You’re a growing girl. But no dessert.” 

Gráinne accepted the plate and silverware from her uncle. “Thanks.” She didn’t eat right away, but stared sullenly at her food. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.” 

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Uncle Lex put his hand on top of her head. “But it happened. Do you know why?” 

Tears swam in Gráinne’s eyes again. “Why can’t he learn to fight? Why do I have to?” 

“You don’t have to. You like to. Your brother doesn’t like it, and he’s not very good at it, so he doesn’t have to,” Uncle Lex said. 

“But if he could fight then maybe–” she hiccuped. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to protect him and…” 

Realization dawned over Uncle Lex. “And maybe he wouldn’t have fallen?” 

Gráinne nodded, tears falling from her chin. “I couldn’t protect him, and…and…”

Uncle Lex put his arm around his niece’s shoulders. “You did the best you could.” 

“But it wasn’t enough and we were only at the ruins ‘cause I wanted to go and…” She threw herself down on the bed, hiding her face in her pillow.

“Shh…shhh. It’s okay.” Uncle Lex rubbed her back. “You saved him, and you’re both safe. That’s the most important thing.” He gave Gráinne another minute to cry. When she finally raised her head and caught her breath, he said, “He feels safe with you. That’s why he follows you around so much.” 

Gráinne tipped her head to get a better look at her uncle. “You think so?”

“I know so.” 

Night fell, and with it came Alex’s nightmares. 

But when he woke up gasping, Gráinne was there, with a wooden sword in hand. She didn’t have the right words like her parents always seemed to, but she held up her sword so he could see it in the pale crystal light. “Go back to sleep,” she said. “I’ll keep all your nightmares away.”

Another challenge day!

CHALLENGE: IDIOMATIC

Element 1: Your story must contain an idiom or idiomatic expression; by which we mean an expression that is used non-literally. Confused? You’ll probably recognize some examples here.

Element 2: Your expression must be entirely made up.

A pixie in a tankard of ale = flailing, but not trying to hard to get out of the current situation. Fantasy lends itself very well to new idioms.

Other FFM stories from this universe:

FFM 3: Love is a Battlefield
FFM 8: Queen of Nothing
FFM 15: It’s Not Rocket Science
FFM 18: The Goddess in the River
FFM 24: Summer Blues