Hosted by Dani at Entertaining Interests and Jax at Bouquet of Books. Participants were challenged to compose a flash fiction piece of 300-500 words (mine is 352). The setting is chosen from one of four preselected pictures and the author must use three of the six magic words (in green).
To see all the possible settings and magic word choices, and to read more wickedly wrought tales, click HERE.
“Alright, which one is it?” Birch barked, his breath coiling in tendrils of smoky irritation. He was anxious to return to the dance, before some other bloke noticed his absence and moved in on his date. It had taken Birch the better part of a year to gather up enough nerve to approach Holly. Instead of whispering sweet nothings in her ear, he’s stomping through the woods with a couple of sods.
“I…I dunno…they all look the same in this light,” Willow wheezed, his lanky form bent at the waist. In the space of an hour, he’d run this route twice. He didn’t much care for running.
“Looks the bloody same?” Birch throws his arms in the air. “Didn’t you think to mark it somehow?”
“I…I panicked. It..It all happened so fast,” Willow runs restless hands through a mop of wild copper curls. “I feel positively wretched. What are we gonna do?”
“Honestly, Willow. And you call yourself a wizard,” Hemlock shakes his head.
“We were running late and–”
“As usual. Ever hear of a timepiece, Willow? Magnificent inventions,” Birch tosses over his shoulder, the snapping of twigs underfoot punctuating his foul mood.
“Mum gives me a watch every year, they never keep the right time,” Willow thrusts out his wrist, “See for yourself–it moves anticlockwise.”
“Maybe it’s a time machine,” Hemlock snorts under his breath, “We could use one of those about now.”
“Bugger off,” Willow snaps. “It was his idea to cut through the woods. When we heard the howling, we took off down the hill. Bleeding idiot tripped over a skeleton. What was I supposed to do? Let him get eaten by a pack of werewolves? It’s not like I had any potions handy.”
They walk around in circles a bit, the sound of crunching leaves echoing the hopelessness of the situation.
“What kinda gammy spell did you use? You turned your little brother into a tree. A. Tree. In the middle of the woods. And ya can’t even tell us which bloody one he is. Blimey!”
“Mum’s gonna kill me,” Willow murmurs, “Dogwood’s her favorite.”