Author: AngelaEnglisch

My contribution to the deadlinesforwriters short story challenge February 2024. The prompt was “Levels” and the required word count was 2500. Cover photo by Klub Boks on Pexels.

Lillian appreciated the fresh air outside her cottage. It was still morning, but noticeably warmer than in the weeks before. She shut the heavy oaken door behind her and ran a hand across the honey coloured stones around it, as if saying goodbye to a friendly pet.

Instead of walking off into the forest at once, she closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. She could still hear her housemate’s voice ringing in her ears. Not for the first time she wondered if she had made a wise choice by inviting her into her home.

Lillian turned to look back through the round window. Ada was napping. A month ago, the old healer had died. Lillian was not sure if it had been a last-minute deathbed inspiration or planned long beforehand, but Ada had chosen to stay a little bit longer. Since then, the former teacher had been haunting an antique mirror, which had ended up in Lillian’s cottage. Most of the time, they both got along fine or at least close to some semblance of fine. Today was not one of those peaceful days.

Eventually, Lillian straightened up, brushed her long black hair out of her face, and took off towards the narrow but well-trodden path through the trees behind her cottage. As soon as Lillian had disappeared from view, Ada opened her eyes, stretched, and grinned.

Lillian loved all the seasons for all their respective peculiarities: summer for all the fruit and sunlight, autumn for its colours and the feasting, and winter for the resting and silence. Still, on this spring morning, her soul soaked up the delicate green, the enthusiastic chirping of the birds, and the abundance of blossoms bursting from the mossy ground.

This was no leisure walk, however. Her herb storage was running low, and the time was ideal for collecting fresh yarrow shoots. Also, Lillian was going to check on her favourite bend in the Crickle, the brook that meandered through her forest. Last time she had seen it in the winter, the snow had been a greyish colour. It had been dark and cold, and the snow had piled up so high that she had decided to postpone a closer examination until after the thaw.

While walking, her thoughts kept spinning around in her head. Why could people not be more like the forest? Generous and eternally regenerating instead of making problems out of nothing? Life had so much potential to be simpler and happier than it usually was. When it wasn’t, it was often due to people’s own choices.

Eventually, after the first half-hour among the trees, Lillian felt the muscles in her shoulders soften. She thought about how lately she had not come to the forest nearly often enough. This was where she could just be one with her surroundings. When she died, she was not going to spend her afterlife sandwiched between glass and silver. She was going to melt into the forest floor, resonate with the rotting leaves, and sleep in the bedrock underneath.

Soon, her basket was filled with juicy herbs and other bits and pieces. She could almost sense a low, rumbling purr underneath her feet, as if the forest had just been waiting for her. As if it were happy to see her, so it could present her with all these gifts. They would be useful in treating her patients over the next few months at least.

Her mood changed as soon as she approached the Crickle bend. An unnatural smell filled the air, and at the same time, there was an absence of any sound. Where last summer she had sat in the soft grass, the ground was bare except for a few dead fish close to the edge of the water. At the bottom of the stream, there were dark grey lumps, while on the surface Lillian saw a shimmer of colours. This oily film seemed to be the source of the smell, like a mixture of rubbish and metal and fire. And altogether wrong.

This was worse than she had expected, and it would require more work to remedy. For now, Lillian sat down on the ground, touching it with her fingertips. Usually the forest told her what was wrong and what she could do when she sat in quiet contact like this. Today and in this location, she found it hard to sense anything. She felt the dead fish struggling to decompose, but other than that no animals, no worms in the ground, no ants around her. The bushes that still stood here did not hold any leaves ready to burst forth—no sap, no energy.

Lillian struggled to concentrate, and it took her a while to realise why. In the background of the disturbing silence, there was a faint but rythmic clinking sound. Lillian decided she was going to refer to her books and ask the other healers for advice as well. But before she went home, she would investigate the clinking. It was not yet noon, and the day kept coming up with new and entertaining nuisances.

She soon found that there were voices as well, sounding neither trollish nor little folkish. Lillian was surprised to come across other humans in this part of the forest, so close to the black mountain. She slowed her pace again when she approached a clearing. This turned out to be where the noises came from.

There was a horse tied to a cart, as well as two men. One of them she recognised as Dunstan, the midwife’s son from the village. He wore a simple ochre tunic over dark brown trousers. Currently, he was busy hacking away at the rocky ground with a metal tool. The other man leaned against a tree and studied a parchment roll he held up. Lillian had never seen anyone wearing this much blue coloured clothing outside of an illustration in Ada’s books. Underneath the man’s heavy cloak she also noticed an intricately embroidered waistcoat made from dark red velvet.

Lillian watched Dunstan work his axe into the gritstone, following the stranger’s directions. Quite soon she could not hold back anymore. If she had learned one thing from Ada, it was how to project herself to make an entrance. She cleared her throat and stepped out into the clearing.

“What is going on here?”

Dunstan’s axe just about missed the tip of his left boot and got stuck in the ground. Lillian made an effort not showing how much she enjoyed seeing the colour drain from his face.

The cloaked man turned his face towards her and boomed:

“What’s it to you? Who are you anyway to traipse around in His Majesty’s woods? Poaching maybe? See that you get out of here right this instant, before I will have to arrest you myself!”

Dunstan’s head swivelled around to stare at the stranger. He flapped both his hands.

“My Lord, I wouldn’t speak to a healer like tha-”

“Nonsense! We are here at the king’s command! We will not be questioned by a peasant woman! Keep chopping, lad! I have a feeling we are getting close this time!”

Dunstan shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back a few times. At last, he decided to wrench the axe from where it had been lodged in the dark stone. However, even after successfully liberating it, he just gripped its handle so hard that his hands shook. Dunstan did not keep chopping.

“I still don’t think this is the best idea, Lord Butterworth. Offending a healer can lead to tragic results. Or painful ones. Or both.”

Lillian harrumphed again, louder this time.

“Dunstan, will you tell me what you are doing here? I can’t believe you would be reckless enough to hack around at the mountain. Have you not listened to your elders’ stories? What on Earth could be important enough to disturb the gritstone?”

Dunstan threw a quick glance towards the nobleman and concluded that even a king’s command was not worth neither tragedy nor pain.

“His Majesty heard there was some valuable ore in here. He sent His Lordship, who came to the village and ordered me to come along so we could look for it. So here we are and… Erm.”

Lillian frowned.

“Since when do we have a king around here?”

Dunstan shrugged.

“Apparently we’ve had a king since forever. It’s just that we haven’t been interesting enough to him before.”

“But Dunstan, we don’t disturb the mountain! We never have! It’s been known since… well since forever too. Since even before kings and lords!”

“Balderdash!” Lord Butterworth shouted. “Go back and dig, boy! Or, you know, maybe it is time to wet the rock again. And while you’re at it, you can get rid of that waste over there. We are not going to take it all the way back with us. It doesn’t look like the alchemists are going to find anything interesting in there. They were quite emphatic about not bringing any more sludge.”

At this point, it occurred to Lillian to look around at all the equipment the two men had brought. When she saw a couple of buckets on the cart filled with greyish material, her face went white. She closed the distance between her and Dunstan and shook him.

“Does this have to do with what happened to the Crickle? For how long have you been searching? Have you ever searched for ore anywhere near its spring or emptied your buckets into the water?”

Dunstan did not have to say anything, because his face did all the talking Lillian needed. He nodded at her, wriggled out of her grip, dropped the axe, and hurried off.

“Now look at what you did! You made my worker leave with your superstitious nonsense…”

Lillian covered her eyes with her hands, trying to ignore His Lordship’s droning voice. One argument in one day was bad enough. Unfortunately, Lillian had had her share of fighting before she had entered the forest.

The morning had started with Lillian burning her toast and dropping her mug of tea.

“Didn’t get enough sleep last night? No surprise there, the time you came home. And then tossed and turned for ages.”

“Mr. Thatcher had trouble with his stomach again.”

Ada had cackled.

“Well deserved, if you ask me.”

Lillian had not asked her. Still, Ada had been happy to comment.

“When I was alive, I had a patient like him. His poor wife nearly went out of her mind because he never learned. The third time she called me late in the evening, I sent her back with my regards and a handful of hyssop leaves.”

Lillian had folded her arms.

“He could have died!”

“If some of the villagers don’t want to listen, they will have to learn the hard way.”

“Why do you have to talk about them like that? As if we were any different!”

“We are, Lillian. And as soon as you accept that, you will finally be able to make peace with them and with yourself. And not to put too fine a point on it, you will be much more agreeable to live with.”

Lillian had balled her fists at that.

“I did not ask you to haunt my home.”

Ada had winked back.

“You did exactly that when you decided to rescue my mirror from my old cottage before it reverted. When you hung it up this wall.”

“So maybe I shouldn’t have listened to you. I shouldn’t have worried about you crumbling away just like the walls around you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have.”

Lillian had walked back and forth in her living room, throwing up her hands.

“That still doesn’t mean I have to be mean to others just because they aren’t healers! I don’t have to be hard and mean because I know how to-”

Ada had rolled her eyes.

“Of course not. You aren’t listening. Knowing when not to is part of knowing how to. Then again, sometimes so is knowing when to be who you are and to do what you know how to do.”

Lillian had pointed her finger at the mirror.

“Ada, you are not better than. And neither am I. I mean it. Having this kind of power and this kind of knowledge has to come with being extra careful and respectful.”

“Ha! I know that you don’t mind how the villagers treat you. Like they worry you might do something to them if they misbehave.”

“If they worry, it’s not because of what I ever did to anyone. Other healers did their best to work on our reputation.”

“And you benefit either way. Seems to me like you feel better than about not feeling better than. Very convenient that. And on top of that, you still waste your nights on people like Mr. Thatcher. How many decent mugs have you left to break?”

Lillian had looked at the clock next to Ada’s mirror.

“You know what? I think it’s time for me to go out and pick some yarrow. Get some fresh air.”

She had not listened to any response Ada had come up with. It had probably not been worth her attention anyway.

“Have you not been listening, woman? When His Majesty hears about this, you will realise the gravity of your mistake! Finding this ore is not just some fancy! It will be invaluable in improving our defenses! It will be a source of energy multiple times better than firewood! The way the alchemists see it, there is almost no limit to its uses! And you decided to scare away Mr. Duncan! I can’t be expected to do the exploration myself, can I?”

Lillian felt her blood bubble and boil underneath her skin. This man might not know better. He might just be at his king’s command. He might be under the impression that this fabulous ore would solve enough problems to warrant a few dead fish and a lifeless forest stream.

And yet.

“People like you are what is wrong with the world today!”

Those were the last words Lillian heard from Lord Butterworth.

When she returned home, Mrs. Thatcher was waiting at the door, wringing her hands.

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t have let him eat pork for breakfast, what with his stomach. But could you come anyway?”

Lillian went inside. Throwing a look at the mirror, she said:

“Not a word, Ada; I am not in the mood!”

Her herb storage was nearly empty, but there was still some dried hyssop left. Lillian returned to Mrs. Thatcher, handed her the jar and said,

“Send my best regards to your husband. I hope he is going to be alright and think about his life choices.”

At the bank of the Crickle, a small frog blinked in the midday sun. The other frogs had never seen one of their kind this shade of bright blue, yet they welcomed it into their midst as an equal.

My contribution to the deadlinesforwriters short story challenge February 2024. The prompt was “Murmur” and the required word count was 1250. Cover photo by Harald Arlander on Unsplash.

This was just typical: On the one day Lillian was going to do absolutely nothing, Etta had decided to die.

It had not been necessary for the other healers to inform Lillian, the entire forest buzzing with the news. Still, Ruby had almost managed to knock on the cottage door, if it had not been for Lillian opening the door first, fully dressed in all black.

Together they went on their way for the send off. An outside observer would not have guessed that they were the same age and had finished their apprenticeships together. Ruby was uncharacteristically pale and quiet. Lillian strode forth almost too fast for her friend to keep up.

At last curiosity getting the better of her, Ruby spoke up.

“What do you think she is going to say?”

Lillian’s brows furrowed but she did not slow down.

“No point in speculating. You know her, she enjoys surprising us.”

Ruby nodded, jogging for a bit.

“I for one don’t want to take over her cottage. It give me the creeps the way all her things seem to be alive.”

“Someone will have to, otherwise it’s going to revert. Then again, maybe that would be best for all concerned.”

“You have been her favourite since even before our exam, Lillian. She might just choose you. You know, as her heir.”

“I am not keen on taking over either. Also, if I had had any choice, you bet I would’ve preferred to not attract so much of her attention.”

“Yeah, I know. Not like I ever wanted to be in your shoes, really.”

After a shared glance, they walked the rest of the way in silence.

Etta’s home was covered in moss and lichen. The thatched roof was not far from disintegration as it was but the steel-grey stones looked as if they had another couple of millenia in them. The trees surrounding it were even more gnarly than the ones Lillian had arranged around and trained for her own cottage.

The oaken door was ajar and in the main room all of the other healers were already assembled. Etta’s bed had been moved into the center with the younger women lined up around her. Most of them tried to lean against the whitewashed wall as unconspicuously as possible.

Etta wore her best outfit underneath the colourful granny square cover Ruby had crocheted for her shortly before exam day last year.

“How good of you two to come,” Etta quipped. “That means we are complete.”

She looked neither old nor in any way close to death. However, if there was one thing Lillian had learned form her teacher, it was how to project whatever impression you wanted to leave on others.

“Someone should put some more wood on the fire,” Etta said to nobody in particular, in spite of everyone around her having to wipe sweat from their faces.

For a long while, the only sound in the room was the less than comforting ticking of the clock. Eventually Ruby went outside. The rest of the women focussed on keeping their facial expressions neutral, yet some could not help rolling their eyes at Ruby’s grumbling outside, followed by wood chopping noises. Only two persons looked genuinely unfazed, one of them Etta.

She chirped “Right, who wants to read?”

Lillian shook her head at the general lack of enthusiam and said: “I’ll do it.”

She walked deeper inside the room toward the hearth and took the old leatherbound book from the rickety shelf on the wall. She sat down at the foot of Etta’s bed, opened the book and started chanting the ancient words that would accompany her teacher on her journey to the other side. The other women joined in, humming in harmony.

The solemnity was only interrupted when Ruby came back, her arms full of impeccable logs, her eyes wide. For a second the women stopped singing and Etta chuckled. Lillian took a deep breath before she went back to chanting. Even Ruby found her spot in the ritual in the end so that finally Etta sank back into her pillows and closed her eyes. At first, she only seemed to have fallen asleep. But soon her chest stopped moving and the face she had been presenting relaxed into that of a human woman showing her age.

The humming softened and their voices came together in one last pure note. It took them a minute to realise what was missing: The pendulum underneath the old clock next to the incongruously ornate mirror. It had stopped moving..

This was what they had been trained for: Watching over a recently abandoned body. Still, today was different. Etta had been there on most of their first days on earth. From today on, things would be different.

There were only a few half-hearted complaints as Ruby placed her logs on the fire. The crackling was a welcome addition to the silence that fell over the hours that followed.

When the first light of morning touched the windows, the first of the group excused themselves. Not unexpectedly, there were a lot of patients to look after and many pantries in urgent need of restocking.

At last, only Ruby and Lillian were left.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I really have to-”

“It’s alright Ruby. I can tidy up. But don’t believe I am going to take over this place. None of the others wanted it. She did not say anything. I am fine with this cottage reverting.”

“Right. Yeah. So, if you don’t need me . . .?”

“Go ahead. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lillian stood up and replaced the book on the shelf. She took a last look into Etta’s pantry. It was empty and had been swiped clean. Lillian shook her head grinning.

As she swiped non-existant dust from the window, a quiet voice behind her asked:

“You didn’t think you would get rid of me so easily, did you? Can you believe how busy everybody was? What a pity. What with me at the ready to pass on my heritage and no volunteers!”

Lillian stared at the body. If anything, it looked even wrinklier and smaller now than last night. But something moved in the corner of her eye.

There she was, in the mirror, a familiar face. Maybe even more vibrant than before.

“Now I regret throwing out my herbal supplies, come to think of it. You I could always count on to know your way around them and appreciate them. Hopefully my books will make up for it. I bet we are going to get along famously, you and I.”

“No Etta, I am not going to move in here. I love my own cottage and my own life far too much to-”

“To what? Turn into me? Trust me: The chances are slim.”

“Goodbye, Etta.”

The face in the mirror turned white for a split second.

“Wait! I am not ready to truly crumble! You could stay for a week, see how you like it?”

“Goodbye Etta. And thank you.”

Lilian locked the door from the outside and hid the key under the doormat. The way home turned out to be a fantastic opportunity to practice projecting.

Late at night, Etta’s cottage door opened again. A dark figure went inside, plucked the mirror from the already decomposing wall and rushed home with it.

Lillian adjusted the mirror next to her own clock, wiped the smooth surface clean and whispered:

“Don’t make me regret this.”

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Like this story? You can find more on my blog in the “stories” category!

My contribution to the deadlinesforwriters short story challenge January 2024. The prompt was “exchange” and the required word count was 1200. Cover photo by Matt Benson on Unsplash.

The contents of the cauldron bubbled fiercely. In the candlelit room of the cottage, she stood at the hearth, humming under her breath.

In the far corner, a small cage hung from a sturdy black hook. It held a little goblin, a young male with his arms crossed in front of his chest. He was out of breath and sweaty, but otherwise quiet. With fiery red eyes he watched her observing the boiling potion, until she went back into her pantry. He could not see her in there, only hear the clanking of her pots and jars.

“What? My bluebell petals are gone, too? I could have sworn I still had handfuls of them in here! Ha! At least there is still some of the woodruff left! Couldn’t have finished this spell without it!”

When she returned, she walked directly over to him and tapped the cage bars with her left hand. In her right she held a bouqet of herbs from which she picked some stalks. She tilted her head a bit and looked at him. The she poked him a couple of times with the herbs.

“Were you surprised when I caught you? I know you pride yourselves on being almost invisible. But not to me you aren’t!”

Chuckling, she went back to the fire. She crumbled the bunch of herbs into the mixture, stirred the pot with a wooden ladle and smiled at the puff of green vapour that rose up and sparkled. She wiped her hands on her black skirt and made a big show of reading the open page of the ancient book that lay open on the table in the middle of the room. She even followed the recipe down the page with her long and elegant fingers for good measure.

“Hmmmm, just one more ingredient to add. And you know which one I am talking about, don’t you?”

“You humans are just horrible! Just you wait! My clan will hear about this and then you will be so very sorry!”

“Oh, ho, ho! He speaks at last! So, what do you suppose is going to be the finishing touch my potion needs?”

“Let me go!”

“No. No, I won’t. And you don’t really have to tell me. I know that you know what will have to go into that cauldron.”

“You evil witch!”

The grin she threw him showed an unnerving number of pearly white teeth and he drew back into the furthest corner of his prison, still huffing and puffing, but only half heartedly.

“It has to be soon, too.”

Both of them looked towards the door at the same time. There had been a sound like a tiny boot against heavy wood. The witch opened the cottage door to find another goblin standing outside in the light of the full moon. This one was a grown-up and female, her face red underneath the mop of tousled white hair. Her moss green cape looked liked she had thrown it on in a hurry.

“Give me back my son!”

“No. I won’t. At least not for free. But by the way, I am happy to notice that news still travels fast in this forest.”

She did not turn around towards the cage when she commanded: “Tell her! Tell her, what the price is for getting you back!”

The goblin boy drew a deep breath. The next moment he started wailing at his mother in their own tongue. Between the sniffles, the hiccups and all the guttural sounds and growls, the words “blood” and “eaten” slipped through.

His mother listened to him with increasingly big eyes, her eyebrows rising. When he was finished, she silently stared at both the human and her son. This only caused him to return to his lamentations with increased volume. Finally, she shrugged, then nodded.

“All right. I have to say, whenever I think I understand how you big folk work … This may take a while.”

“Don’t take too long. You would’t want me to have to look for alternatives so my potion doesn’t spoil, would you?”

“I’ll be back.”

With this the goblin mother hurried off into the night. The boy collapsed into a sad, snotty little heap, wiping his eyes. Any remaining energy he had had for posturing was thoroughly gone.

The witch closed the door again and went back to her cauldron.

“Are you certain, she really will be back and bring me what I asked for? She seemed quite determined to rescue you, didn’t she? Let’s you and I both hope for the best.”

She twirled her black hair around her fingers while she hummed.

“Oh, this is so sad, would you look at the colour it has turned? If your mother doesn’t turn up in the next few minutes, we will have to discuss options to save my potion.”

The boy whimpered.

At last the boot hit the door again. The witch opened and saw the goblin mother had returned, dragging a large green sack behind her.

“You came alone.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I am not afraid of you. Here’s what you asked for, now set him free!”

“No. First, this has to work. Then I will set him free. Keep your fingers crossed.”

She peered into the bag, then shook it and sniffed the contents.

“They seem to be of good quality. Well done!”

Both of the goblins shot her dirty looks.

She emptied the bag into her hand, then closed it into a fist. Winking at mother and son, she squeezed the fist hard above the cauldron. Red liquid oozed through her fingers. As soon as the first drops of it hit the bubbling surface, the mixture went calm and clear.

She took a cloth from a table and slowly scrubbed the remaining pulp from her hand. This did nothing to remove the red stain but she did not seem to care. She used the ladle to take a small sample sip from the pot, rolling it around in her mouth for a few tense seconds.

“This is perfect. Thank you very much for your cooperation!”

With a few strides she was at the cage which she waved her crimson hand in front of. This caused the lock to spring open and she picked the young creature out with her clean hand. She knelt down and gently released him.

All thoughts of pretend bravery forgotten he ran into his mother’s arms. However, he did not bury his hands in the folds of her cape quickly enough.

“What is this?” his mother demanded and pulled his hands out, palms up.

The tiny hands were dark red too. Upon further inspection, so were his lips and cheeks. The goblin mother looked up at the human with a solemn face.

“I am sorry, this is not going to happen again.”

“I don’t expect it to. At least not anytime soon.”

Both women nodded at each other. Meanwhile, the boy hung his head. He knew what was coming, when his mother grabbed him by his pointy ear and dragged him outside. He heard the big one calling after them:

“And don’t let me catch you eating my potion ingredients again, especially not the blood berries!”

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Like this story? You can find more on my blog in the “stories” category!

The Flash Fiction Challenge

For April 23 I am taking part in a flash fiction challenge with deadlinesforwriters. Previously I had only written ‘normal’ length short stories with them, and ‘only’ one per month. This has been a lot of fun and the challenge sounded like I could learn a lot from it.

My Conclusions

So what am I going to take away, now that the challenge is over?

• I am positively surprised that I actually submitted a flash fiction story every day, even a little proud of myself. Okay, a lot.
• I am also surprised I did not let my worry of not being good enough keep me from submitting. The act of clicking the send button was satisfying enough.
• Another surprise was how easily I can decide what has to go and then actually delete it. If I can transfger this ability into other parts of my life, that will be massively helpful.
• It was so inspiring so read everybody else’s stories. Some people are fantastic in finding the creepy in every prompt, some write episodic sagas about the same characters every time and some jump around among the genres like me.
• For me, funny and dark stories flow much more easily than romantic ones.
• Writing is really educational: Prompst, that did not immediately inspire me, made me go into research mode for more meanings and idioms.

I am definitely going to keep writing every day, just not all stories. I follow a few instagram accounts that posts prompts for short stories, flash fiction and/or six words stories. How much meaning you can squeeze into so few words is fascninating and magical.

The Stories

Keep It together

(Prompt 21 – Transform, 50 words )

Times are complicated. So are people.

Family Affair

(Prompt 22 – Berry, 300 words )

Rose is really looking forward to tasting her grandma’s cake. Why do grown-ups have to complicate things?

Surprise Upon Arrival

(Prompt 23 – Print, 75 words )

Speed of travel does not always outweigh the risks of new technologies.

Crash

(Prompt 24 – Bleed, 150 words )

A few seconds can be enough to turn your life upside down. Literally.

In the Shadows

(Prompt 25 – Lurk, 250 words )

Life in the shadows is mostly waiting for those exquisite hours you are set free.

Good Friends

(Prompt 26 – Sour, 120 words )

It’s such a relief to have a friend that you can rely on to not complicate things.

End of Decade Surprise

(Prompt 27 – 80’s, 6 words )

I for one had never expected the 80’s to end like this.

With Old Age Comes Equanimity

(Prompt 28 – Domino, 50 words )

Next time he might even forego the jump suit.

Herbal Remedy for Estranged Souls

(Prompt 29 – Pot, 300 words )

June has to sort through her late grandmother’s possessions. Her sister being there doesn’t make it any easier.

Disclaimer: Be careful wqhen taking drugs 😉

The Gift

(Prompt 30 – Unknown, 150 words )

Would you like to know what’s coming?

Thank you for reading! Have you taken part in a challenge like this one or have you published flash fiction stories online? Let me know so I can read them too.

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Would you like to read more of my stories? You can find them here!

The Flash Fiction Challenge

For April 23 I am taking part in a flash fiction challenge with deadlinesforwriters. Previously I had only written ‘normal’ length short stories with them, and ‘only’ one per month. This has been a lot of fun and the challenge sounded like I could learn a lot from it.

What I have learned so far

• I don’t have to like all my stories the same. The point is to write and submit them in time.
• I don’t have to be inspired by all prompts the same. Some of them spark something instantaneously, some of them I struggle with. There is no actual pattern to this.
• Or maybe there is? ‘Simple’ and ‘Lovely’ were hard for me, while ‘Flash’ and ‘Flame’ inspired me. As did ‘Birth’, oddly enough.
• I don’t have to have a certain process. Sometimes sitting down for a ‘date with my muse’ works. Sometimes the prompt has to stew in the back of my brain until the evening.
• Having no idea what to write is just as tricky as having too many ideas. These past 20 days have given me a lot of opportunity to practice making decisions. And going with them.
• There are online tools that help you capitalise your titles. Very handy.
• The process of trimming a story down to the specified word count is fantastic for practising letting go and prioritising. I learned a lot about deciding what is important and what isn’t.
• I can enjoy the experience of not always coming up with something deep and beautiful.
• I really can stick to the schedule and write a story every day.
• Writing stories everyday means that I have less time to blog. This isn’t good or bad, it just is. I make a decision on what I want to prioritise and then accept that I did not choose the other option.
• Some people are wonderful in the way they give feedback.

The Stories

Three Hours till Bismarck

(Prompt 11 – Sixteen, 250 words )

Away missions are always educational. For example, you learn not to drink Pikor Ale, to study the shuttle’s manual well in advance, and to make every team member feel included.

Employee of the Month

(Prompt 12 – Gone , 250 words)

When he took on the gig , Frank had no idea this would be the last magic show of his career.

Tight

(Prompt 13 – Bind, 100 words)

Alex and Charlie are good friends. Until their relationship is tested.

Mother And Son

(Prompt 1 4 – Birth , 250 words)

This time she is determined not to let anyone take her child away.

Spark of Humanity

(Prompt 15 – Flash, 300 words)

A legacy of blood and fire passed on through centuries.

Still Not Enlightened

(Prompt 16 – Simple, 50 words)

Peace of mind is hard to learn and possibly even harder to teach.

Belle of the Ball

(Prompt 17 – Lovely, 120 words)

The perfect dress. A dream in black and royal blue.

Daughter of Fire

(Prompt 18 – Flame, 100 words)

They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Caitlin would disagree. Maybe in part because she knows what is to come.

The Substitute

(Prompt 19 – Sleep, 250 words)

There is a reason Priscilla is still wide awake at 3am, but none of her friends are going to believe her.

So This Is Goodbye

(Prompt 20 – Tissue, 120 words)

Laura may need to get a bigger box of tissues.

Thank you for reading! Have you taken part in a challenge like this one or have you published short stories online? Let me know so I can read them too.

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Would you like to read more of my stories? You can find them here!

Schwarzsauer and Schlager

Part 4 of my “12 Short Stories” for 2023

Based on a prompt by Mia from deadlinesforwriters.com

I remember when I was about twelve and couldn’t go on holiday with my parents and my sister because I had broken my foot. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

I was supposed to stay at home, sit on the couch and mend. It didn’t hurt any more, it had turned into a permanent itch.

Jamie kept calling me to ask if he could come over. Mostly, I ignored the ringing, at least when she wasn’t in the room. Sometimes she rushed in, wheezing.

‘Who vas sat? I vas in the keller. Why didn’t you take up se telephone?’

‘No one, Grandma. Wrong number.’

‘How can you know? Maybe it vas your parents?’

I gritted my teeth. How could someone have been living in a country for so long and still not be able to speak the language properly?

‘It wasn’t. Just ignore it.’

‘Vood you like some food? I can make Labskaus again.’

My stomach chose this particular moment to growl.

‘No thank you, I am not hungry.’

She had made me eat Labskaus before and it had been an education. Think mashed potatoes, mixed with corned beef, chopped fermented herring, pickled gherkins and onions.

‘I can make somesing osser? Vat do you vant?’

What I wanted was to be able to have visitors. Without having to explain this woman being around the house and generally smelling of moth balls. If they had ever met her, I would have been so mortified.

‘Your faser alvays loved Schwarzsauer ven he vas little. He became homesickness and it helped.’

I didn’t have the energy to correct her. I wished for my parents to return. I wished my grandparents had never left their home country. Nobody else in my class had to deal with any of this. I just wanted to be normal.

She went to the stereo cabinet and flicked through my father’s record collection. I knew what was going to happen. The ‘Schlager’ record they had given him as a wedding present. The one he never listened to when they weren’t around.

‘It is nice, or? You know, sis is a part of you too!’

She sang along in a language I didn’t understand and swayed in a rhythm that didn’t quite match the music. Something inside me snapped.

‘Just shut up! I have had it with your ‘vat’ and your ‘somesing’! Why can’t you be like Jamie’s Grandma? Why can’t you learn to make normal food and talk like a normal person?’

She looked at me, her eyes wide. Then her face crumpled. When the corners of her lips dropped, it hit me: I had seen that face before. It had appeared in the mirror after those particularly bad days at school. Like when Tom had pushed me from the climbing scaffold and laughed at the ugly sound my foot made hitting the ground.

I wiped my hands across my face and took a breath.

‘I am sorry. I really am. Grandma, can you teach me German?’

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Would you like to read more of my stories? You can find them here!

The Flash Fiction Challenge

For April 23 I am taking part in a flash fiction challenge with deadlinesforwriters. Previously I had only written ‘normal’ length short stories with them, and ‘only’ one per month. This has been a lot of fun and the challenge sounded like I could learn a lot from it.

So here I am and here are the first ten stories. We are given a daily prompt and a word count at midnight and then have time to submit our stories within a 24 hour window from 8am until 8am the next day.

I did learn a lot, not least about punctuation of dialogue and capitalisation of titles. But also about my process of getting inspired. Or how to handle being totally uninspired. And I get to read some amazing work by the others in the group and receive some very valuable feedback.

The Stories

Casual Monday

(Prompt 1 – Bust, 150 words)

If only the job interview had taken place in winter.

Old habits

(Prompt 2 – Tea, 35 words)

35 years together and neither Lydia nor Henry have so far skipped their tea time tradition.

Like Riding a Rike, Only Completely Different

(Prompt 3 – Coach, 250 words)

Meta is bothered by how her career choices seem to make her muse flaky.

Perfect Shadow

(Prompt 4 – Minutes, 120 words)

It is not recommended to do photosensitive spells in a hurry. But sometimes circumstances converge to force your hand.

Anosmia

(Prompt 5 – Scent, 50 words)

Losing your sense of smell is bad enough. But what if this new disability was the least of her problems?

What Goes Around

(Prompt 6 – Blame, 120 words)

They say the moral arc of the universe is long. Mercs are looking to bend it.

The Perks of Being Royalty

(Prompt 7 – No, 99 words)

Sometimes you have to be brave and just ask for something.

You might even get the answer you want.

Gardening at Night

(Prompt 8 – Lawn, 300 words)

The mayor and his secretrary are faced with yet another case of vandalism.

Paradigm Shift

(Prompt 9 – Leather, 100 words)

Fighting at the breakfast table, about shoes of all things, is not the best recipe for intergenerational peace.

Reincarnation Gone Wrong

(Prompt 10 – Blocks, 75 words)

What if we come back fully aware, only to learn that some babies are just mean?

Thank you for reading! Have you taken part in a challenge like this one or have you published short stories online? Let me know so I can read them too.

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Would you like to read more of my stories? You can find them here!

Stainless steel and triple glazing

Part 3 of my “12 Short Stories” for 2023

Based on a prompt by Mia from deadlinesforwriters.com, picture by Armin Forster on Pixabay

Warning: Mentions death, but not too scary

From up here, you can see most of the Flatworth House estate: the rolling, luxuriant landscape with the lake, the trees, and the flower beds. The first couple of willow catkins have appeared lately, and I love how much softness they add to the scenery. From outside, the window is wet from last night’s rain. Good. The trees and flowers have not seen too much water this last winter, so every little bit is welcome. But even without those fresh green leaves, I could stand here at the window and let my gaze drift over the grounds outside forever.

Last night, I stayed up here in the attic again. At some point, it was fully decorated and furnished, so it’s very cosy and also peaceful. The cushioned ledge inside the eastward window is probably my favourite place to spend the early hours. The single glazing and the drafty frames may not be great for insulation, but this way the windows let through the happy birdsong from outside even when they are closed.

The wiring on this floor is completely shot. Then again, I don’t actually need a light to be comfortable or to find my way around the attic. Downstairs, some of the sockets still work. At least I think they do. One of these days I may find the energy to worry about this development, but having electricity is not that high on my list of priorities.

I have always loved this house and the gardens around it. This has been my home and my refuge for such a long time now. All the more annoying when these disturbances keep happening, seemingly from out of nowhere. What is worse, they turn up with increasing frequency. They make the weirdest of noises, apparently trying to spook me into leaving. I am determined to not let them succeed.

From the great hall downstairs, I can hear him, the latest in a long line of nuisances and the most persistent so far. I wish I knew what to do about him. As it is, for the moment I decide to remain calm and quiet. And resist the pull that is bound to make itself felt soon.

I was given a choice a long time ago — to either move on or stay here. As if I would ever have considered leaving this place. My first chance to escape that poor and loveless family, to be someone people respected, if only in a way. It may not have been a perfect life, but to me it was all I could have hoped for, considering all the other options.

Oh yes, there it is: the rhythmic banging downstairs. It is hypnotic and difficult to ignore. Why can‘t they just leave me be?

I turn my attention back to the gorgeous colours of the sky, with the sun rising higher above the hills behind the golf course. Someone should really look after it. Not that I am going to take up golfing soon, but still: The clumps of grass and weeds running rampant somehow spoil the otherwise perfect appearance of the Flatworth premises.

The pull is getting stronger now. I wish they didn’t have that much power over me. Not wanting to be dragged downstairs without any dignity, I decide to move through the door of my own accord. The staircase will never fail to take my breath away with its dark and smooth oak panelling, the colourful tapestries, and the deep purple carpet. I notice a few spiderwebs here and there and wonder what I should or even can do about them.

In this part of the building, the windows have been fitted with triple glazing and plastic frames, and the air is much warmer than upstairs under the roof. Someone must have assumed they would be able to sell the place for a better price if they made an attempt to meet modern insulation standards. At least they took great care to match the original look.

With less draft, the smell in here is much more representative of the centuries these walls have seen. The hall smells of dust and leather, of polished wood beams with just a tiny bit of decaying wool. It smells of home and safety.

I notice that the chandelier has also turned a tad dusty. Not too much to keep me from marvelling at the hundreds and hundreds of immaculately carved crystal pieces. They catch the morning sun’s rays and reflect them in a symphony of rainbow sparkles. Some time ago, the Flatworth family had a recurrent debate about it. Some thought it was just too glittery to fit in with the overall character of the elegant manor. As for me, I still don’t mind the glitter and have spent a large portion of my existence just basking for hours in the light’s dance through the crystals.

Another highlight of this big open space is the grand mirror with its richly carved frame. The wood has turned dark from how long it has been hanging here. When I move past it, I catch my own reflection and linger for a bit. I didn’t use to be so very pale back then, when I was much younger. When I joined this household, I was even initially teased about my tan, which had been the result of so much work in the fields. Now, my skin is as softly translucent as are my garments. There is a reason for the nickname people use for me when they think I am out of hearing range. I don‘t mind what they call me. What I do mind is not being left in peace.

I glide down the stairs. Noiselessly and also gracefully, if I may say so myself. Decades of practice have not gone to waste. You wouldn’t even hear a sound without the lush carpet. What a pity that I used to be clumsier in my youth; maybe otherwise things might have turned out differently.

I peek over the banister and see him downstairs. He has his grandfather’s face, but his body posture does not speak of nobility or family pride. His clothes have seen better days, too. His hair looks like it has not been cut for a month too many. It’s also started going grey.

Every time he appears, he tries out some new tricks to get rid of me. Today, he sits cross-legged in a circle of some whitish, powdery material. He is fanning a glowing piece of charcoal on a burner, a good distance away from his usual collection of shiny devices. The small, rectangular one seems to be the one producing the noises.

Can‘t even be asked to do the drumming himself. There is still hope at least, that today he will forego the chanting. It doesn’t achieve anything anyway, and he is not the best at holding a tune, so everyone benefits from him skipping it altogether.

‘You again!’ I shout, mainly to make him aware of my presence.

He looks up at me with an unreadable look on his face. If I were in his place, I would have mixed feelings too. Still, he could do himself an enormous favour and stop these constant visitations at last, which are just wasting his time and mine.

Finally, he answers. ‘Yes, it’s me again. Don’t think I have given up! There are still a lot of things I haven’t tried; a lot has changed since back in your days. See this here?’

He stands up in his circle and picks up a machine. It consists mainly of a metal cylinder the size of a hat box with a handle. It has a grey hose attached that ends in a nozzle. The hose wobbles as he shakes the device at me.

I laugh. ‘I hope you didn’t spend a lot of money on it. You have watched too many of those moving pictures. What do you expect to accomplish with that thing? Well, you could clean the carpet while you are here.’

‘Laugh all you want!’ he shouts back. ‘You’ll see.’

He goes back to fiddling with his charcoal, emptying a small bag onto it. The aroma of incense hits me. There is something in it that makes it harder for me to stay here on the upper level in front of the mirror. I feel my feet being forced deep into the carpet, almost touching the oak beam underneath.

‘New recipe’, he grins. ‘For stubLillian spent three years training as a healer. Now the day of her last exam is here.born cases. I ordered this resin from a witch in Sweden, famous for her success. And before you ask, I am willing to invest a lot of money at this stage. It’s really personal now, and I want you gone. And it’ll all be worth it once I sell this ghastly old place. They can tear it down and turn it into a golf resort for all I care! As long as I get my money at last!’

My choices are to either give in and move downstairs by myself or to be dragged through the wood of the steps. It would not actually be painful, just really unpleasant. He doesn’t need to know. Neither does he have to be aware of the fact that metal, on the other hand, really will effectively hold me.

He obviously hopes that it will. It increasingly seems like this confrontation might turn out more tricky than usual. I begin to worry a bit, careful not to let it show in my face while I walk down the steps.

‘Let’s see your little vacuum cleaner then,’ I say to him and wink, probably more for my benefit than his, because he still stands there with his head held high, grinning.

‘A fitting end to the White Lady! Ha! I found out the truth about you, by the way. A servant! My family took you in out of pity because your father was such a drunk. Your family was going to be kicked out of the little hut you lot may have called a house! Just imagine, people actually do believe there has to be some noble backstory behind you still hanging around!’

He leans out of his circle to plug his contraption in. This time, he is the one who winks as he flicks the switch. Then he directs the nozzle at me. It makes my stomach vibrate unpleasantly. I wish my feet weren’t glued to the spot. He lunges forward, but I bend to the side, so he misses and almost stumbles out of the circle.

I dodge his second attempt, but then he begins just sweeping the nozzle back and forth sideways. And then it catches. The hem of my dress is sucked in first, and for a silly moment, I wonder if the skirt will rip, leaving me exposed.

Oh God, it’s happening! I am stretched and squeezed all at the same time, rushing through this narrow tunnel of rubber! No! No, I can’t be trapped in this tiny box;! it is unbearable! The noise, the darkness! Is he laughing? I need air! I need space! This can’t be happening; why is there nobody here to help me?

I hear him shout over the fan’s whirring: ‘Ha! This is what you deserve! And this is where you will stay forever!’

The switch clicks and the noise stops at last, but that only gives my other senses more opportunity to realise the horror I am in. In my rising panic, I try to push at the sides of my prison. I should not have teased him that much, I see that now, but please, I can’t spend forever in here, compressed like this.

‘You are making a lot of noise for a lady!’ he chuckles.

‘I wonder what I should do with you. To be honest, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. How do you feel about being buried next to the golf course? Or I could just throw you into the lake. This is supposed to be stainless steel, so it’s not going to rust anytime soon.’ He sounds excited.

‘The good thing? I don’t have to decide now. Let me just pack my things and go home first.’

My prison tilts to the side, an extra unpleasant jolt to my stomach. Like he is leaning over. What does he need to reach for? A loud pop and another jerking motion, I guess he has just pulled the plug. But what is this crackling, like lightning? Am I falling? Has he dropped the metal box? Why?

Sparks! All around me there are sparks, blinding me! The metal casing screeches and rips apart: I am free again! The relief! Out of the corner of my eye, I see him sitting on the floor, the white circle scattered, but I am not going to wait around here any longer.

I zoom through the open door at the side of the hall, in the direction of the kitchens, and onwards along the narrow corridor. At its end, there is another staircase, not lavish or polished but grey and bare. I remember running up and down these stairs. Even in my boring grey uniform and the white headdress, I was young and happy then, enjoying the rush of speed, skipping and jumping. Now look at me running again, only this time not for fun!

At the foot of the stairs, I stop and try to find my composure again. It’s not as if I have to recover my breath, just my thoughts. The wall catches me as I lean back, making me wonder if the socket blowing was really just a coincidence. What are the odds, even with the state of the wiring being what it is? The idea of Flatworth House having my back is a great, if unexpected, comfort.

I hear steps coming closer. He is running, too, and catching up. There are three levels to climb until the landing at the top. I know I am faster than him, but there is nowhere to go up there. No wood to pass through to escape outdoors, just stone and glass. Damn the triple glazing and plastic frames! I rush upstairs anyway.

Up on the top level, I hear him wheezing behind me, but what really makes me shiver is the memory rushing back. This is where it happened. There is still a big chunk of the banister missing, and this piece of floorboard is still sticking out. Nobody thought of repairing any of this afterwards. Nobody ever comes up here, not since the young girl stumbled and fell.

There he is, out of breath, and I want to warn him. I hold out my arm, which does nothing to stop him, of course. He careens through the gap, tilting over, turning around in the air one last time, reaching out to me. His mouth is open, and his eyes are wide with surprise.

I wonder if he will be offered the same choice down there as I was. And if he will also choose to stay.

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Would you like to read more of my stories? You can find them here!

Today is a good day to fail

Part 2 of my “12 Short Stories” for 2023

Based on the prompt “blossom” by Mia from deadlinesforwriters.com

Lillian stomped along the forest path, the snow crunching under her heavy boots. It was still early morning, and from the fast pace, her breath made clouds in the air. Her long brown cloak billowed behind her, and to the left and right of the path, small animals appeared to stare after her.

She had expected the last task to be difficult, but this? Even after spending three years in the apprenticeship, she had still been surprised when she had broken the seal on the letter and read Etta’s instructions. They were not supposed to talk about it among each other, but the assignments the other two had received had been nothing like Lillian’s.

She wiped a stray strand of wavy brown hair out of her face and reminded herself to slow down so she would not arrive overly dishevelled and sweaty. When she came to the clearing where their community hall stood, she paused for another minute to take deep breaths until her heart beat slowed down to normal. She also wanted to observe for a bit.

Most of the older healers were already there, huddled under the thatched roof. Some smiled and waved at her, some just looked, their faces unreadable. The two other students paced back and forth a short distance away from the wooden building. Ruby had her nose in a book, while Wilma was quietly talking to herself.

Then something in the air changed. The cold breeze stopped for a few seconds and birds stopped chirping as a slim figure entered the clearing. She was clad in faded black, her silver-grey hair pinned in a tight bun. From afar, Etta looked taller than she really was. Not for the first time, Lillian wished she knew the trick behind it.

Etta took a big key out of her skirt pocket and opened the door to the hall. Everybody rushed in behind her, greedy for the warmth of the fire burning in the hearth but still making sure to keep a polite distance from their superior.

“Let’s see this year’s harvest then!” Etta turned on the spot and motioned for the students to sit on three chairs separate from the rest.

Ruby went first, and Lillian was not in the mood to pay too much attention. When she heard applause, she remembered to smile at her friend. After that, it was Wilma’s turn. Again, Lillian listened just closely enough so she knew when to grin and show her two thumbs up.

“Apprentice Lillian, please come forward and present your potion!”

This was it. She rose from her seat, straightened up, and took a long breath. She strode towards the centre, took a flask from inside her cloak, and put it onto the table with a very quiet click.

“It‘s purple,“ said Etta.

“That’s correct.”

“One would expect a potion containing blossoms of sapphire quill to be light blue. If it had been prepared properly, that is.”

“Yes, one would, wouldn’t one?” Lillian conceded. “I did not use sapphire quill for this potion, though. Anyone with any herbal expertise would know that they only bloom during summer. I replaced them with morla berries and dried quill leaves from my pantry. Not only are they available now, the result will be much more potent in healing damplung. It will also be lower in possible side effects.”

Etta’s mouth was now a thin line. When she spoke next, her voice was deep and quiet: “Did it say anywhere in your letter that you were allowed to stray from your instructions? Did you pay any attention to Wilma’s exam just now? She followed her task to the letter. So did Ruby. Did you notice?”

“I noticed. They both prepared very tricky potions and passed. I am very happy for them.”

Etta folded her arms in front of her. In reality, she was shorter than Lillian, so at least with both of them standing, she could not look down her long, thin nose at her student. Etta made an effort nonetheless.

“I had high hopes for you, Lillian. We all had. You could always be counted on to fulfill your duties, carry out your assignments, read all the books. All of your charms were spot on, and you have an efficient touch with people and animals alike. That is why we chose this particular challenge for you.”

Her and Lillian stared at each other silently, until Etta went on: “There has even been a betting pool going on.” Her gaze shifted to a red-haired woman in the audience who did not even have the grace to look guilty. Instead, she grinned and winked. Etta shook her head and rolled her eyes, then looked at Lillian again.

For a while, Lillian had almost forgotten about the other healers in the room with her. So they treated her as a source of fun and entertainment on top of everything else? She was baffled. They had always seemed to get along well, and this was disappointing. She had assumed that they liked her.

“So you decided to give me an impossible task because I made an effort to be a good student?”

“I didn’t say that. And your task was not impossible. I am surprised that you would think us so mean.”

Lillian wanted to shout but used all the training she had had to keep her face relaxed and her voice neutral: “Nobody would have been able to find sapphire quill in February. I know it. You know it. And you know what else? I don’t care that you are going to fail me.”

Etta raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why is that?”

“Because over the last three years you taught me well and you taught me a lot. So did the forest. And so did my patients. I am going to go back to my cottage and my village. And I am going to be a healer with or without your approval.”

In the silence that ensued, you could have heard a mouse scratch its nose. If it had been reckless enough to move right in that moment. The red-haired healer no longer grinned but leaned forward in her seat, her eyes wide and her mouth open. Ruby’s face was as white as the chalk on the walls.

“Hm,” said Etta. “Is this supposed to be a challenge? Do you really want to antagonise me? Your teacher?”

“No. This is not a challenge, and it has very little to do with you. This is about me. Today, I refuse to be defined by this assignment. Or by anyone betting money on my failure. I am grateful for your training, for sharing your knowledge and wisdom. At the same time, today I make my own destiny.”

For a short moment, Lillian felt like she finally had a grasp on the trick of looking taller than you were. Then she saw Etta’s folded arms and her knitted eyebrows and wilted again, even if only a tiny fraction.

“Your last word? You are willing to leave this hall, this community? You believe you can go healing without passing your exam?”

“My last word.”

The corners of Etta’s mouth rose higher than Lillian had ever seen them do. It was not clear however, if this was a grin of malice. Finally, the old healer winked and spoke:

“Thank you very much for helping me win a tidy sum of money. I knew that today would be the day for you to shine. Well done, and congratulations, healer Lillian!”