Clear your mind, she said. He quietened his thoughts leaving only the crack and snap of burning logs. He gazed deep into flames.
A shape appeared. A face? Yes, his face, screaming, twisted, contorted in anguish.
Suddenly cold, he tore away. The camp was empty. Everyone had gone.
Steven is taking tentative steps into the murky lake of fiction writing. This is his first submission to the site. There may be a second.
Granma’s room; always dark. Silence, stillness, nothing touched.
Nine years old, the oldest, not the favourite.
Is Granma alright? Maybe tea?
Two cups of bitter, peaty liquid; no milk, no sugar.
The leaves drift into symbols.
“What do you see?”
The word stains like nicotine.
David Rae currently works with numbers, but prefers working with words.
“Will she be faithful? I must find out.”
“I can divine the future from anything you own – pass me that jug from your breakfast table.”
“Whoops! Sorry! Thought it was empty…”
“Idiot! Your fate cannot now be foreseen.”
“All men know: there’s no use scrying over spilled milk.”
Nick Johns lives in Sandhurst, UK. A retired cat wrestler, he now breeds mongrel flash fictions for release into the wild.