Today is flash fiction Friday.
To make things interesting we are all writing from the same image. I think part of the fun is comparing stories – to see how they are similar, but even more to see how widely they differ. Check out what we’ve found…
Robin Lythgoe
Author of As the Crow Flies
Trapped
She’d lived for so long in the monster’s dreams that his reality felt false. Too bright on her eyes. Too sharp against her skin. Too pungent in her nostrils. The flames, though, they were the same. They licked at her as they always had. Insatiable. In the dreams they did her no harm. In reality they would consume her.
Patricia Reding
Author of Oathtaker
The Resistance
They call me stealth. No, not that kind of stealth. Let’s see . . . How can I make this easy to understand?
Oh, I know!
Imagine the largest man you’ve ever seen. You know the one. He has legs the size of a cathedral’s pillars, and biceps like boulders. His neck is reminiscent of a bull’s. He might be a bit—yes, all right, quite a bit—overweight. His middle hangs over his beltline . . . And don’t even start me on what happens when he bends over. Honestly, that is a sight I do not want to think about.
There. Can you picture him? That’s right. He’s the guy the others call, “Tiny.” So . . . that should give you an idea of what I mean when I say they call me “Stealth.” In short, I earned the nickname because I’m anything but.
Parker Broaddus
Author of A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising
The Myths We Didn’t Tell
Our city was rotting, from the inside out. Any city has a bit of corruption. It’s the nature of our world. Everything is fallen. Except the naiads, if you believed the legends borne in the shadow of their sacred mountain, towering above us. But in Trichor we did not believe in myth and legend. Only gold and silver.
Corruption had slunk and slid into every corner, from the gilded palace on Domuk’s Hill, to the underground drain system that housed the gambling mobs and fight rings. Everyone knew the system was corrupt beyond repair. It was like a game. A charade that kept the illusion alive. Appearance was power, power was money, and money was stolen. There were no real tyrants in Trichor. There was no one strong enough to be a tyrant. As for honesty or nobility – I don’t know if an honest man could have survived in Trichor. I never met one.
That our demise came was no surprise. A fall and destruction were expected. Perhaps even welcomed by those weary of the farce. But no one wanted it to happen in their lifetime. Let the next generation deal with it.
But that was what the past generation had said. Someday, the bill comes due.
I suppose most assumed that Trichor’s fall would be to Fraglan, from the north, or Dirnmoust, to the east. Neighbors, marginally less corrupt. Some destruction and chaos and anarchy, followed by a new leadership and a new order, in many respects similar to the last, but with different emblems and different hands taking bribes. Perhaps they would call them taxes or fees for a time. What we did not expect was complete destruction, from the earth, the trees, the stones. We didn’t expect the naiads. Their magic was forgotten or scorned.
But their retribution was not mixed with mercy. It was foreign to our understanding. If we had known it, heard of it, we would have been terrified, and rightly so. But we no longer remembered what justice looked like. We had no concept for its totality.
The night of Trichor’s fall – the night the stones came to life and the trees marched out of the Halstrom Forest and the ground opened up to reveal Sheol – that was when I saw their shadows. There were many of them in the city that night. Unleashing their magic through the streets. The myths had referred to them as beautiful maidens, and perhaps they were, during a different age. These were warriors, dressed for battle, though I did not see them engage with the city. They didn’t have to. They watched.
My last memory of Trichor was in the city square. By that time the city was lit with a living fire. It breathed and devoured, turning brick to ash. I ran into the Garden of Ish, one of the old gods. The place had been abandoned by the city and was covered in old vines and decay. I stood on a platform in the garden where I could see the Twingate Tower teeter and lean as the earth underneath it buckled. A movement along the garden wall caught my eye, near the encroaching, living flame. It was a naiad, but this one was not wreathed in shadow. Perhaps it was the light of the fire that burned so near.
Her look crippled me. Her eyes were true and clear and honest. Her gaze knew neither hate nor fear nor compassion.
I knew then that nothing of Trichor would survive. The platform under me gave way. I fell into darkness.
Later, I realized I was still alive. I had fallen into a garden well, and somehow survived the demise of Trichor. The city was no more. Soot floated in the wind. Not one stone sat on another. The Mountain of Yuziel towered above us, larger than I had ever known it while I lived surrounded by city walls. We had built in the shadow of myth and legend, daring them with our arrogance. And we are no more.
I am Gregus Sandburr. Historian. Sole survivor of Trichor.
I love it, Parker! Keep going!
I agree! There needs to be more!