When the Cleric slipped and broke her leg, the rest of the party panicked for a minute. It was a bad break. You could see the shattered bone beneath her skin. The Thief had checked twice for traps, declared it safe, and then she took a skid on wet stone. We all relied on her for healing, and none of us knew what to do when she was the one who needed help. We always just assumed she would be alright. As we slung together a liter to get her back to civilization, I decided to take first aid training.
A century ago, they’d launched the probe, hoping for the best. Now it would be landing on the first extrasolar planet. The calculations had been promising, but there were so many unknowns. The ten lightyear gap made sending corrections impossible. Humanity waited for images of the probe’s landing. It had been a symbol of hope at a time when the odds that we would survive the hundred-year journey seemed slim. At the time they’d only had spectrography to go by, but the crew picked a rocky planet in the star’s ‘goldilocks zone.’ They couldn’t have know there would be wildflowers.
When the blight came, we burned our crops. It would be a hard winter, but hunger was better than what became of you from eating the strange fungus. That winter, we rationed our stores, trying to make them last. But every day they dwindled, and we knew it wouldn’t be enough. By Solstice we were trapped inside, buried by the driving snow. We huddled in the dark and listened to the howling wind and other things outside: Our neighbors, gone made or worse from eating tainted grain. I thanked God we burned our harvest. Then I heard my wife chewing.
“ergot” by Stiller Beobachter is licensed under CC BY 2.0.
My very short story collection, The Mountain’s Shadow is available now from Amazon and Smashwords!
After the long drought, the townsfolk living in the valley were happy for a little rain. But as it ceaselessly fell, their world turned gray and damp. The rain kept falling, turning the dust to mud that slid down the hills and covered everything. It filled the lakes and rivers and burst their banks. The townsfolk called for help. They threw together sandbag berms and evacuated the lowest areas. As the floodwaters rose higher, they retreated to their roofs, watching the brown water churn beneath them. When nobody came to save them, they marshaled their boats and saved each other.
When she arrived, the ranger warned her that the trail behind the cabin was dangerous. She spent the whole trip heeding his advice. But the trail sat like a stone in her mind. On the last day of her trip, she packed a bag with water, snacks and other supplies. She set out. The trail was steep, and long, and there weren’t any rest stops, but the hills were beautiful, and the trees eventually gave way to a hilltop clearing with a stunning view. She watched the afternoon sun sink over the valley and knew she’d made the right call.
The peace conference was held in Jotunheim. Eager to impress, the Frost Giants set the table up in their most picturesque, snow-covered forest. They filled it with ice crystal chandeliers lit with a thousand candles. Then the guests arrived. The Elves complained that the site was too cold. The Humans that it was too cramped, and the Dwarves that it was too bright. This is historically known as the beginning of the Great Alliance. History also records the deaths of the lead ambassadors, and the newborn alliance’s war against the Giants. In Jotunheim, it’s called “The Meeting of the Whiners.”
Each night the mist would roll in, shrouding the little fishing village. The boy would wake up early, and be out at first light, disappearing into the cool air before the morning sun burned it away. He would go down to the shore and watch the boats pull out. The mist made their shapes fuzzy and indistinct, and his imagination replaced them with dragons and leviathans. He would return home after the boats left, usually to a lecture from his parents to get his head out of the clouds. At eighteen, he left home and became a successful fantasy artist.
He owned a stall in the Palace Square selling souvenirs and snacks to tourists. He’d inherited it from his father, and it was in a prime location, facing the famous Golden Gates. He’d worked at the stall since he was a child, and spent sixty years looking at the baroque patterns in the gilded iron. But he’d never been inside. Eventually, he passed the business on to his own sons. The first thing he did in his retirement was buy a ticket for the Palace Garden tour, finally able to see what was on the other side of the gate.
Every turn of the seasons, the goblins migrated to new foraging grounds. It was a raucous procession that trampled fields, knocked down trees, and reshaped the course of rivers. When human settlers arrived, they tried to put a stop to the migration. They built wooden palisades. the goblins went over, and sometimes through them. Stone walls fared no better. The militia met with disaster and hired adventurers did worse. Finally, the humans built a road. The goblins happily used it, sparing their new farms. But they still had the stray curious goblin poke their head through the door. Or wall.
When the little sprite found the whispering gallery in the Faerie Queen’s hall, she took full advantage of it. Sprites are tiny, quiet creatures that flit their way through life avoiding larger fae. They don’t have any political power. But by some forgotten architectural design or enchantment, she could whisper and the Queen’s petitioners would hear her as though she were standing on their shoulder. The sprite used the spot to spread dissent and mock the Queen, making her supplicants struggle not to laugh during audiences. The Queen sought her execution, but the sprite was tenacious and difficult to catch.
Hugh J. O'Donnell 