Flash Fiction Month 2017, Day 28
Times were hard in Singstoat. The rebar in the ruins was all but mined-out, and the old city—the twisting nest of structures that had once made the fortune of many an investor—had become a blight on the new. All the crops for miles around were feeble from the dust, so the people of Singstoat had no trade left to fall back on.
There were those who did alright. Bicca the Blacksmith was one—for there was still enough steel in the stores—yet someday soon even her trade would dwindle to naught. Myke, her rival, was already resigned to giving up his business: a streetfall last year had robbed him of his apprentice, and he saw no point in two smithies struggling where one might thrive.
Owhen wished he could give up so easily. He had inherited his business—a shop set up to serve the miners who now fled—and with it a large debt. He could afford to move no more than he could afford to stay. Continue reading
Flash Fiction Month 2017, Day 19
Once upon a time there was a terrible dragon, which crawled along the ground on endless feet. The dragon was an ancient beast—forged long before Little Red was born—and only Grandmama was old enough to remember it. But Little Red had heard stories, and so when she saw the dragon coming she rolled her bike into a wooden bunker nearby and waited for it to pass.
But the dragon saw her inside with eyes of infra-red, and so it spoke: “Little Red, Little Red, let me come in.”
“Not by the spikes on your tinny-tin-tin!”
“Then I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your fort in!”
The dragon breathed out a huge gout of fire that burned the wooden bunker to ash, but Little Red was clever, and so in the commotion she escaped and rode away across the wasteland to a bunker of steel. Continue reading