Five 50 word stories.
- The walls crumbled. Patrick watched the rubble collect. The dust choked him while he awaited the enemy. They rose like a shadow within the dust of his city. The invading army paused when they saw the lone man blocking their path. “Hail,” a soldier called to him. Patrick stood steady.
- He worked through the night, running his hands over the clay again and again. But it never quite smoothed out and he kept working. The light turned from black to gray and he redoubled his efforts; the sun would destroy what he built. The clay would melt to formless muck.
- “You say there are elves in this forest?” he asked.
“I’ve heard tales of them,” Calen said.
“Are they friendly?” He glanced at the dark canopy of trees cloaking the forest in thick shadows.
“The stories are unclear.” Calen loosened the sword in its sheath on her hip.
- Crys couldn’t believe it. A fairy. With wings and a trail of glittering magic following her every movement. And she was dancing with her. Crys tried to ignore her dirty hands and smudged trousers, tried to ignore the wrongness of a real, live fairy dancing with an ordinary farmer’s daughter.
- The sword arose. It looked about the large, gilded room. Warriors encircled it, all watching it hungrily. Their own swords lowered. At least well-made weapons knew enough to bow to their betters. A man approached, meaning to place his filthy hands on the sword’s hilt. The sword might have laughed.