Tag Archives: microfiction

Promised Land

Caution: Radiation Controlled Area. Creative Commons 2.0 photo by Oleg.

The door groaned closed, and Brother Ponder groaned also, dropping onto one arthritic knee before it. He shivered beneath his cloak, and ran gnarled fingers over the rusted hinges, whispering his solemn thanks.

For each drop of the sacred ointment he chanted prayers and blessings, his fingers tracing delicate ruins as he massaged the oil into the metal. This door had kept them safe for so long, through careful attention and the proper ritual. His father had taught him the words and the motions, that had been passed down the generations. Keep the faith, say the right words, sing the right songs and the door would hold.

He whispered his thanks, and moved on to the next doorway.

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Like Claws

Her hands were like claws, tight and cold, still clenched into fists.

He lay on the floor, and the rust-red pool around his head thickened.

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The Dragon is King

Dragon of Halong Bay (Vietnam) by LoggaWiggler.

Smoke rose on the horizon, a black-grey pillar, staining the sky. The wind carried rain, ashen rain, and the occasional silence-breaking echo off the moss-capped, tombstone mountains. Of lumber collapsing and of voices, raised in terror, screaming.


The dragon’s wings flashed, amber-sapphire-bronze lightning in the sky. Flames licked at the fleet of clouds overhead, as the dragon plummeted and dove before being lifted by invisible pillars of hot air – pirouetting within the temple he had created in the sky. The village beneath him burned.

Still the echoes screamed out their reminder, of voices extinguished, still screaming in terror.

He turned his bejewelled eye to the army mustered on the lake shore.

He dove into the lake, steam rose.

Burning, burning, burning steam.

They cooked inside their silver, fish-plate armour.

Now the dragon is king.

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Storm Clouds

Lightning lit the scene,

the tableau frozen,

momentarily .

Until the darkness rushed in,

and the shadows began to move.

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19th Century, artist unknown

They lit the kindling, the flames burst around her like an opening rose – orange-red-black.

They burnt her herbs and her knowledge too

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First Contact

Image: Phillip Parker King (1827)

The lizards sang.

Songs of sorrow, songs of joy, songs of thanks.

Their young would eat, would feast, would finally be sated.

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Image: BishkekRocks

A spiderweb scrawl decorated the stone, defiling, profane.

The whispered voices of Dark Gods echoed blankly.

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We Met in a Bar

Image Luca Giulivi

I smiled as she grimaced like an opening wound – no-one watched our slow, painful dance but the moon and the streetlights.

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Image Geoff Gallice

I can feel them creeping up my body, in antennae-caress, twitchingly confident.

A breadcrumb path, advancing.

I am their queen.

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