The young witch knew what the child would be.
She tried to hide her concern when the older witches gave her slanted looks.
One day, deep in the woods, she said, “A boy? What do I do with a boy?”
“You begin by naming him Merlin,” said the oldest tree.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
“Tell me about your girlfriend.”
“Lucinda calls herself a witch but I have my doubts. When she tried some closeup magic, she wasn’t very good at it.”
“Did she cause you to break out in a rash?”
“No. These red marks are where she accidentally jabbed me with her wand.”
John H. Dromey stands tall but often writes short.
I wanted to pet that bunny, so I followed him to his hole. Determined, I muttered a spell and shrank to the size of a grasshopper. His nose twitched side to side when I found him.
We stared into each other’s eyes. Then I learned that rabbits will eat bugs.
Eddie D. Moore travels extensively for work, and he spends much of that time listening to audio books. The rest of the time is spent dreaming of stories to write and he spends the weekends writing them. His stories have been published by Jouth Webzine, Kzine, Alien Dimensions, Theme of Absence, Devolution Z, and Fantasia Divinity Magazine. Find more on his blog.
“Do you believe in magic?” she asked. “Charms… enchantments… love potions?”
He laughed. “Of course not. Do you?”
“Oh, no. But your grandma does. She told me.”
“Grandma believes in fairies, too. Don’t take her seriously.”
“You’re right.” She smiled. “Here, drink your tea.”
She watched for fairies.
B.C. Nance is a native of Nashville, Tennessee where he works as a historical archaeologist. In his spare time he writes fiction and poetry and has published several of his short stories and poems.
“Bargaining with the Sidhe is dangerous. They can’t be trusted!”
I ignored her.
“I want to live forever,” I told them.
“Then we’ll give you a form that will last through eternity,” they replied.
Now I stand here in the circle, one stone among many, watching the aeons drift past.
Bill lives in Aberdeen, Scotland. As he rises to the top of his profession, he awaits with morbid curiosity his inevitable fall from grace.
The soft glow of dawn
covers my room in rainbows.
Young eyes try to capture them.
My mother’s figure appears in the doorway,
I ask her to join me,
catch her own rainbows.
She simply shakes her head, eyes glassy.
Maybe another day, I think,
Or maybe not.
Lauren loves creative writing and can usually be found in her room writing a poem or short story or on the beach reading. She struggled to stay within the 50-word limit since she loves to talk!
She beckoned to me with a crooked finger.
I stepped into her tent, dropping coins in a box.
Fanning the cards in front of me, she smiled an evil smile.
I chose a card then, hopefully, held it up.
She reached into the box and handed back my coins.
Candace Kubinec wrote this story.
Rabbits escaped her hat; their itchy feet ached for dry dirt over dry-cleaned velure. Her sleeves cried pigments of cheap pretense. On the mortician’s table, her final trick was unveiled: a heartless ribcage—a taunting gimmick—was the oldest trick in the book. The coroners still queued for the show.
Alex Creece is a snow poff.
Normally she’s safe in her hutch, munching carrots, but today there’s only a swinging cage door and tufts of fur snagged on the wire. He hopes the fox granted her a quick death.
At the evening meal, he prays for her soul while his mother smirks and serves the stew.
Mark Farley is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck! See more at mumbletoes.blogspot.com.
Jars of lights filled the Big Top. Hanging from the ceiling, they were an illusion in themselves: no wires, no batteries.
The noise from the Ringmaster was too loud; no one heard the knocking.
If anyone looked closer—as close as they could—they’d see small, tearful faces peering down.
Ellie is a twenty-year-old student who still believes in magic.