Today, for your reading pleasure, a pair of flash fiction pieces lately written by yours truly. Enjoy!
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Sometimes 15, sometimes 16. As early as 12 years old, as late as 20. Every body develops in its own time. But whenever the time comes, the process is the same.
They build their cocoons – of wood or of words, of cotton or of clay, of music, of color, of big, bright ideas – and they slumber.
When they awake, when they emerge, they are transformed, no two just alike.
Some are grown bigger, some grown smaller. Some are a rainbow, others clear as a bubble. Some grow scales or other armor, some soften and warm.
The lucky ones grow wings.
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“Hold still, Daddy! I’m making you pretty!”
“Making me pretty?” A puff of indignation. “Am I not pretty to begin with?”
An apologetic shake of the head. “No. Maybe a little handsome, but not very pretty at all.”
“Hmmph. That’s hardly fair, when you’re entirely pretty even without getting all painted up.”
A little hand pats a large one before returning to its work. “It’s okay, Daddy. You’re important things other than pretty.”
A pout. “That so?”
“Oh, yes. You’re strong, and a hard worker, and you always give me half of your molasses pies at lunch.”
A thoughtful nod. “That’s true.”
“There, then. Pretty isn’t everything – though you will be, once I’m done with you!”
(Enjoyed what I wrote? There’s loads more where that came from! Browse the DEShipley catalogue, why dontcha.Also, I’m still looking for folks interested in an early read ‘n’ review of Outlaws of Avalon 2, “The Marriage of Allyn-a-Dale”! Hit me up if you want in. ^_^)
Well enough, thanks very much. Sold a few books (maybe even one or two more than last year? ^^), including a couple copies of My Baby, Volume 1 – i.e., “The Ballad of Allyn-a-Dale”. Also got to geek out with one visitor about the Renaissance Faire that inspired aforementioned baby. *waves to Bristol* So yeah, I’ll definitely be back for the 3rd annual event next year – by which time people will be able to purchase the completed Outlaws of Avalon trilogy!
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How Goes the New Year’s Resolution?
Those who frequent my authorial Facebook page may have seen my pledge to keep my writerly muscles warm by writing a piece of flash fiction every day.
I have thus far remained on the wagon, with results like this, this, and the following to show for it:
He loves to make clothes. And he loves people. And the clothes he makes loves people, too.
His coats wrap their arms around you in a hug. The scarf hangs ‘round your neck with a weight like a friend just come up from behind, pulling you close for a kiss and “how are you today?”
The skirt of your dress swings and frolics about your legs, puppy-like, delighted by your nearness. The stiffer the breeze, the tighter your hat holds your head. “I’ve got you,” it says, in his voice.
The clothes and their tailor – cut from the same cloth.
Brownie points to anyone who can name the inspiration behind that little drabble. ;D And if I stay the course, there will be plenty more flash fics to come – any number of which will likely make their way onto the blog in time.
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How are ARC Requests Coming Along?
I’ve had more than zero, but would love to give out more. So if you’d like to read and review an advance PDF of Outlaws of Avalon 2, “The Marriage of Allyn-a-Dale”, get in touch! (Contact page) Got book blogger friends? Give ‘em the heads up! I can only spread the word so far on my own; any added reach would be much appreciated.
Thanks for reading, and now inquiring minds want to know: How are YOU?
Today, for your reading pleasure, a piece of flash fiction inspired by a piece discovered via deviartART. Enjoy!
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“But why aren’t you happy?” they asked him. “Who could ask for a more beautiful beach?”
That, Deer thought, was just the trouble. He wasn’t asking for a beach at all.
He supposed it was a pretty place, objectively. White-golden sand with sun-sparkled water. Very… bright. Open. Terrifying.
How could he feel safe with nowhere to hide? Where it seemed like the whole of the sea and the sky could watch him, not to mention all the eyes of the others. He wished for sheltering shadows. He longed for a piece of aloneness.
He asked – without knowing how to ask – for home.
And then, one day, he smelled it, brought over the sea on the wind. Earthier than sand and driftwood. A cleaner wet than the ocean. Green… a greener scent than he had ever known.
Deer followed his nose to the shoreline, looked up through the clouds laid low on the horizon, and there it was: A dream of trees. A fancy of a forest. The wish of his soul, but how could he reach it, this woodland in the air?
“Help me,” he whispered – to the woods, to anyone.
The sound was lost in the sudden rush of a storm, blasting through the smooth, pale sky in a swell of sickly purple and black. Thunder boomed, and to Deer’s horror, a lash of lightning struck one of the far-off forest’s trees. With a gut-turning crack, the tree began its groaning fall, and Deer fell to his knees in the sand, heartsick with fright.
If even his dream was no safe haven, what hope was left to him?
WHUMP.
Deer jumped up to his hooves with a cry. Not two leaps away, the top of the stricken tree lay in the sand. How tall it must have stood, for its fall to have stretched so far – from the beach, all the long way back to…
The forest.
High above, the storm was gone as fast as it had come. No more lightning-lit thunderclaps. No wind but the breeze caught in the fallen tangle of branches. The fluttering green of the leaves beckoned. What are you waiting for?
Deer looked up with amazement into the overhead blue. To think the sky from which he’d itched to hide would grant him such a kindness.
“Thank you,” he said. “For understanding.”
Joy in his bones, home in his eyes, he leapt onto the tree-bridge and ran.
(Enjoyed what I wrote? There’s loads more where that came from! Browse the DEShipley catalogue, why dontcha.Or if you wish, leave a tip on my GoFundMe page; I’m covered for Outlaws of Avalon 2, praise God, but there’s always Book 3 and beyond… ;D )
I don’t know how that got started. The same way any fashion gets started, I suppose. Somebody shows up wearing such-and-such a thing, and it’s probably seven shades of ridiculous, but they wear it with such confidence that everyone assumes it’s the clothes that did it.
The clothes make the man, right? Or the woman. Or the up-and-coming fashionista child. I guess the clothes really do help to make that last one; can’t have a fashionista without fashion; that’s just ista, isn’t it? Generally, though, how you clothe yourself has no bearing on the person you are. You don what you do because you’re you, and your attire’s just an outer reflection of that.
Say you’re someone important. Is it because you’re wearing a coat with big brass buttons and a hat up to there? No, that’s what you wear to show you’re important – or someone who wishes he were, and is hoping to fool the rest of us. You ask me, the only fool’s the one in that mile-high hat. But nobody did ask me. They ought to have. I may not understand the why of fashion, but I always know the what. So when I say that spots are the new black, you can take that to the bank.
“The new black”… I’d certainly like to know how that expression got started. I mean, I can see why a color would aspire to be black. It’s chic, slimming, goes with all the colors… because of course it is all the colors, mixed all together. Black, the everycolor! But then, so’s white. Why not call a thing “the new white”? Don’t tell me it was after Labor Day. No one buys that rubbish rule anymore. If anything, wearing white after Labor Day is the new black.
Spots and white, then. Oh dear, I’ve just caused a spike in the abduction rate of Dalmatian puppies, haven’t I? Never mind the white. If the spots are black, they’ll go with anything; say… black-spotted gold. That could be big, I think; if it can last. There’s only so much that can be done with it. You can’t go out every night in a little black-spotted gold dress. It’s too much of a statement piece, and when you start making the same statement too often, people stop listening. Black-spotted-gold pumps might get their fair share of use. Or a black-spotted gold purse. And you know, I don’t mean to scare the puppies, but furs are coming back. A black-spotted gold fur coat would scream expense – a must, in fashion. Not as loudly as, say, a black-spotted gold cheetah… Or would those screams be mostly coming from passersby? Screams of jealousy, no doubt. Alarm, yes, but largely jealousy. Anyone who can afford to accessorize with wildcats has gone well beyond the cutting edge. Cheetahs as the new handbag Chihuahua. Now that’s confidence!
The story’s inspiration.
Don’t think you can pull it off? Fine, have it your way. But no one ever made it in fashion by playing it safe. Or playing it sane. Trust me: Madness has ever been the black.
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(Enjoyed what I wrote? There’s loads more where that came from! Browse the DEShipley catalogue, why dontcha.Or if you wish, leave a tip on my GoFundMe page; I’m covered for Outlaws of Avalon 2, praise God, but there’s always Book 3 and beyond… ;D )
He’d started with vessels tied up at the docks, then scaled it down from there.
Ships in bottles. Ships in paintings. The ship on his great-auntie’s brooch.
He’d heard it said – no, read it on a poster – that a ship is safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are for. And he first of all agreed, and second of all freed the glossy ship from its motivational prison.
Things with sails were meant for sailing, and his fingers were meant for magic. If his liberations made him a pirate, he didn’t much care. The sea’s far horizon was calling.
(Enjoyed what I wrote? There’s loads more where that came from! Browse the DEShipley catalogue, why dontcha.Or if you wish, leave a tip on my GoFundMe page; I’m covered for Outlaws of Avalon 2, praise God, but there’s always Book 3 and beyond… ;D )
(Enjoyed what I wrote? There’s loads more where that came from! Browse the DEShipley catalogue, why dontcha.Or if you wish, leave a tip on my GoFundMe page; I’m covered for Outlaws of Avalon 2, praise God, but there’s always Book 3 and beyond… ;D )
Today, for your reading pleasure: A pair of drabbles (stories exactly 100 words in length) inspired by pieces discovered via deviartART. Enjoy!
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In his dream, he faced the Darkness. But this time, the fire was his to wield.
Cold blue flame shivered down the length of the blade in his hand, a match for the ice burning in his gaze. In waking, he’d borne no such weapon. In truth, Darkness had overcome.
But what were dreams if not a hope for something more?
He stood as the prince he once was – as the king he might have been, had the world spun differently. Memories of fear and loss, he cut adrift to vanish on the wind.
(Enjoyed what I wrote? There’s loads more where that came from! Browse the DEShipley catalogue, why dontcha. Or if you wish, leave a tip on my GoFundMe page; I’m covered for Outlaws of Avalon 2, praise God, but there’s always Book 3 and beyond… ;D)
The following drabble (a flash fiction piece of exactly 100 words) was inspired by the picture at story’s end. Happy reading!
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“I’m magic,” he told her. “I’ll show you.” And pulled out a violin.
“Violins aren’t magic,” she said.
“Not even from the air?”
“Seen it.”
“How jaded you are. But have you seen this?”
He touched bow to strings, and where they met, drew out a spark, the line of light like cracking dawn.
Starry smoke curled from the flame-like glow, spreading toward the sky. Colors tinged the haze – green, red, and violet. An aurora borealis born of a stardust song.
Hey, yo. Mostly just trying to keep myself together as I prep for the “Ballad of Allyn-a-Dale” summer release and my upcoming return to Germany. Meanwhile, though, I felt like gifting the dear ol’ blog with a bit of attention. So here – have one of those out-of-the-blue bits o’ fiction that sometimes spill out of my brain. I call it: “Altered”.
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“Dragon Mountain” by eddie-mendoza on deviantART
Today, the dragon comes.
They’ve chained you to the altar stone and left you – this winter’s sacrifice. I can’t know if your shaking’s from dread or from cold.
Your eyes are wide and darting, searching for me. I told you I’d be here for you. I told you I’d see you freed. I am, and I will. I hope you can trust me, even if you can’t work out my hiding place.
My gaze moves between you and the sky. The sun’s dipping lower, the Cursed Mountain’s shadow stretching closer. As near as anyone can figure, the dragon’s roars never sound ‘til the shadow’s crossed the altar’s runes. We have minutes left.
I flex my grip on my sword, bought with every coin I had, plus a few more I saw no choice but to steal. It will be worth it, once the dragon’s slain. Once I’ve broken the hold the mountain’s had over our land for years longer than anyone’s sure of. Once you’re free to live your whole life long, and I’ll never again have to fear losing you to a monster.
Shadow and altar touch. You pull away, as far as you can, as far as your shackles allow. I turn away, my eyes on the mountain. Any moment now I’ll hear—
The roar. The air ripples with it. The power of the sound knocks me to the ground, and for the space of the breath I can’t take, I’m too scared to move. Because the roar came from too close.
It came from you.
When I can lift my head, I catch only the end of the change. The stone’s runes glowing unearthly-bright beneath you, you stretch and twist and thrash and grow. Another roar, riding from your throat on an eruption of flame. Somewhere within the sonic blast, I hear your scream of terror.
There never was a dragon. There were only the sacrifices, cursed upon the altar. What have we been doing?
Your alteration complete, your first chain breaks, the sharp sound shocking me out of stillness. I burst from my hiding place, sword drawn, calling your name the best I can with a voice scared half-worthless. Your eyes have finally found me, and they shine red, the pupils slitted like a snake’s.
You speak, your voice again somewhere inside the dragon’s.
“Please…” you say. You back away, your head dropped low on the end of your long neck, shimmering with scales. “Please. You promised.”
“To slay the dragon,” I say.
“To see me freed,” you plead. “And free I am, to be gone from this place. To discover the truth of what I have become. Will you let me go in peace? Or are you my champion only when I am powerless?”
My racing heart slows as, beat by beat, you make no move against me. At last, I swallow. Fill my lungs. Speak.
“You loved me when I was the stronger,” I say. “I will do no less for you now.” I plant my blade’s tip in the snow. “Fly, my friend.”
With the snap of your second chain, you raise your head. Your wings unfurl, starkly silhouetted against the twilight sky. Your tail sweeps around to rest before me, the ridges rising like a staircase up your spine. Your dragon voice rings out: “Fly with me.”
And so we rise together, our whole lives long awaiting.
Ever On Word 