Tick, tick, tick. Each one goes left. The game should be easy by now, but then this is not a game. And the pieces are people.
The air gathers in a gentle warm breeze. Center of the spire, a blinding light stands, radiating tendrils down the corridors of the spire. The witch sits with book in hand, ever waiting.
The witch found a cottage on the river she would call home. Even still the broom and flight called to her senses urging her for adventure.
Name by name, cups are left on the counter. The cup she picks up doesn’t have a name, but a string of numbers.
The train arrives and she waits and waits, heart sinking. He is not on it and hasn’t been in weeks.
Astrid lead the charge into the enemy, as victory was surely theirs. She didn’t know, her cavalry over the ridge deserted.
The cold iron looks on, readying cannons for the next volley. The witch stops mid flight waiting the onslaught. Burst after burst, the witch ducks and dives. Timed blasts fizzle through her hair.
I miss you, the soft fire, gentle music, the warmth of your eyes and your hand in mine. I stand in front, closed and condemned.
The witch found another such as herself. One who understood the differences in magics, in the flourishes, and cantrips. They part, knowing the world is never too large.
Hello all! This is a quick update. I am currently working a large project that requires dedication and time away from updating, however, I will update the site with new content when I can. Microfiction Monday will resume as normal. Longer work/short stories may take time for updates. "Fractured" will likely not resume posting in … Continue reading May Update