All in Flash Fiction
The shimmering black dunes surrounding the little village seemed to take in the sunlight with an endless hunger, and at night mirrored the stars overhead as faint flickers of light drifted over the sands. But the treacherous sands were not the only danger, for iron wolves maraudered over the desert and often in the night a child would vanish into the shadows, never to be seen again.
Betty was worried. I didn’t even need to be her twin to know that; supposed mystical bonds and other claptrap aside, it was obvious to anyone with eyeballs. Helped that she told me, too. I wasn’t one of her clique, not one of the shallow hangers on that flocked around her at school. I was unthreatening, safe.
August 23rd
Camping sucks in the worst way possible, and that’s when you know that you’re only going to have to endure two, three days tops pestered by mozzies and squelching in the mud. But I guess when the other option’s death, it’s not so bad.
When people spoke of the witch in the woods, they whispered lest the breeze carry their words to her pointed ears. For all their proximity to the wild woods and the horrors they contained, those on the edges whispered more fervently, their wagging tongues and tall tales distracting them from the gnawing, creeping cold that encased the town in its icy grip.
They called Tifa a beggar, those well-dressed, nose-in-the-air folks who strolled the boulevards and esplanades. Her ragged clothes and enormous hat stood out against the jet black paths, ruining the sleek lines of the city, catching the eyes momentarily, it was true, but she wouldn’t lower herself and don a name chosen by others.
Keys jingling, silver and sharp, Alistair stumbled through darkened hallways, ears pricked for the telltale clatter of boots, the click of a gun being cocked. Any moment, the lights might return and with them - soldiers, alarms, the end.
Molten metal surged, lit by the incandescence of its own heat. The heart of the planet pulsed and roiled, following strange fields and courses invisible to the naked eye.
It’s impossible to ignore a car screaming fire and shrapnel as it smashes through your bedroom wall at three in the morning. Of course, my parents say it was my scream that woke them, or the thud as my body hit the floor, but I know they’re lying.
Shimmering dunes stretched hungry fingers towards the towers of Theros, false water threatening illusory floods in the blinding sunlight. Aspasia watched the travellers trudge across the sands day and night, huddled beneath meagre shade-cloths even as their sprawling caravans stretched out towards infinity.
Apparently, a long time ago, shooting stars were seen as omens of death or bad luck. When he heard that, Murad was struck by the thought that time had a way of sometimes changing things for the better.
