abstract happiness.

fragments by kattra.

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, November 27 - December 3

Mother always knew when bad luck was coming, but the warnings were always odd. Like the time a frog hopped onto the table at teatime. It coughed up a ring, which she recognized with a frown, and a sharp tooth from a dog or wolf— She told my sister and I to pack our bags.

-

I opened my eyes to daylight, having passed out under a bush. My blind date had been talking all sorts of crazy—and he put something in my drink. I was so out of it, I pulled a Cinderella as I ran out. Somewhere back there, there was one shoe on the step.

-

The kraken will come, said the scarecrow. “But we’re completely landlocked,” the witch protested. The kraken will come, said the crows. Prepare yourself, whispered something in the corn. The storms started that day, and the waters rose—and she watched the tentacles emerge—

-

The house locked us out. As the light faded, we tried to prepare: Lisa always carried candles, and we had a handful of matches, thanks to Ben’s smoking habit. But the wind came up, the candles guttered out, the darkness rushed in—and oh, it was sharp like teeth—

-

In the morning, solitude was all Morgan craved, after listening to her sister go on all night. The fact that Elise was dead never stopped her chatter. Around dawn, Morgan dozed, and Elise faded with a sad smile. “Don’t pout,” Morgan shushed, “I’ll see you tonight.”

-

“You claim to be nothing but a monster—but you’re more than that to me. You’re the storm-tossed girl I found on a riverbank. You’re the warrior who spared me even after I aimed an arrow at your heart. You’re the lady who didn’t let the Faerie Hill devour me.”

-

Sen told her: “We need to get your guardian angel’s attention.” So Jules found the tallest building in the area—and took a leap of faith. Halfway down there was light and feathers and a voice that made their eardrums bleed: ʀɛƈӄʟɛֆֆ ʍօʀȶǟʟ, աɦǟȶ ǟʀɛ ʏօʊ ʊք ȶօ ռօա?

-

There’s a dead swan on the front porch. Blood on white feathers. It’s a warning. It’s a promise. “It’s a figment of your imagination,” her sister whispers. “You would know,” Malorie snaps back, “You’ve been dead two years.” Her sister vanishes. The swan does not.

-

The General scowled, fed up with her riddles. “Was that your plan, Lorelei? To conjure up your monsters, to lure me to your wild woods and slay me there?” She rolled her eyes. “Such ego, General. Why do you assume any of this had anything to do with you?”

-

Rev sat down beside Jess as she waited for the bus. He held out an apple, crisp and red and freshly plucked; incongruous with the frigid winter day. “A little on the nose, no?” she quipped. He smiled, flashing sharp teeth. They both pretended he wasn’t a devil, that he wasn’t constantly trying to tempt her. “One day you’ll trust me, Jessika,” he said in parting. Once he was out of sight, she bit into the apple. It was rotten inside, of course.

-

A thick rime of ice covers the entire room, including the queen. Her clock-work heart still ticks, faintly, under cold synthetic skin. —Was she frozen by her own hand, or someone else’s? —We’re not paid to ask questions, Jax. Let’s wake the old girl up.

-

“Mummy, listen to this,” Sammy said, and proceeded to tell a story that made her hair turn white. “Where on earth did you hear that?” she demanded. “From the boy beneath my bed,” Sam explained. “He tells the best stories! He whispers them to me through the floorboards.”

-

I found out Hadley’s mother was Jewish (and deceased) the night he got into a fistfight. Not that he was a fighter; his face hit the concrete pretty quick and I started screaming. This punk couple passing by saved his ass. One girl had a safety pin through her lip; she hailed a taxi for us while her girlfriend knocked the skinhead out cold. In the emergency room, Hadley got seventeen stitches, with a palette of bruises all over his face and ribs.

-

<You were drowning. We brought you here and operated—now you have gills and fins and can speak telepathically—please calm down, I’m sorry we did this without your consent, but—> <No, no—I have to go, I have to rescue my sister—she’s being held captive by pirates!>

-

“Have you read Doctor Flamel’s latest paper?” “The Rumpelstiltskin Theory? Preposterous. You can’t just turn whatever you like into gold—” “Her lab looks like King Midas took a stroll through it.” “She’s a fool, then. The Emperor will make her disappear.”

-

The sun went down, and Bren did not return to the standing stones. Lyra huddled by the fire, hungry and lonely and on edge. The night kindled atavistic fear deep in her bones; every sound beyond the fire’s light was a monster come to devour her. She prayed for dawn to come quickly. Before Bren left, he’d tried to be kind to her, even though he thought her half-mad. He’d told her, patiently: “Calm yourself. The fire will keep away the ghosts.”

-

Two palace guards stood at her door. “The queen awaits, at your leisure.” Nora dusted off her hands. “What does Her Majesty want with a spinster from Lowtown?” The Captain answered, “She’s looking for a hero, madam.” “Or a witch,” his companion added.

-

She plummeted, caught in the golden drift between planets. Navi caught up to her, his body stretched into a perfect dive. His pupils were shrunk to pinpricks by the light, ice crystals forming in his hair. “Stay between the beams,” he yelled, “or you’ll be erased.”

//

read more on: TWITTER | read more on: MASTODON twitter prompts: vss365 / FromOneLine / vssHauntedHouse / whistpr / vssMagic / 2WordPrompt / SciFiFri / SciFanSat / vssDaily / WeirdMicro mastodon prompts: MastoPrompt / MicroPrompt / Promptodon

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, November 20 - 26

My finger hovered over 'skip intro', past the warnings. One hour in, the video showed people collapsing, having danced themselves to death. The Lord of Dance—rumored to be an actual god—looked directly into the camera. “Bring me more people,” he cried.

-

The blood spread across the hardwood—impossible to scrub out of the grain, she thought, and of course she’d be the one to—“Clean it up,” the Duke snapped, disappearing behind the tapestry. She darkly wondered what he’d do if he had to clean up his own messes.

-

She suffers from hallucinations, the doctors said. Of course there’s no monsters—she must have scratched her own face. You must tell her it’s not real— * Not real, she whispers—as it drags her brother away. Not real, she screams—when it comes back for her.

-

Everything spoke to me as I read the room. Maddening pulses of—light color sound—past present future—suddenly focusing on the subject, his bloody entrance and exit. My eyes snapped shut, cutting me off from the vision. “I know where the killer went,” I said.

-

She woke up in a locked room. Scrawled across the wall: Do You Remember? She couldn’t even remember her own name. And yet—grasping at the edges of memory—the wallpaper looked familiar. And that stain— She had been in this room before. She had *died* in this room before.

-

“I have the weirdest craving,” Kyra said, staring at the veins on Don’s wrist. Her sense of smell was sharp tonight. So was her hearing. “Her fangs are coming in,” Jess muttered to Win. “We’ll have to kill her soon, if we can’t find the vamp who bit her.”

-

“I don’t understand. I’m back on time—why hasn’t winter ended?” Persephone asked. “Where is my mother?” “Demeter is in the park,” Hermes said, “feeding the pigeons and cursing anyone who litters. She’s really into the role this year—she’s forgotten that she’s a goddess.”

-

A witch parks her shitty rental car by the side of the road. On the edge of twilight, a form crawls out of the forest; it’s accompanied by moths, dripping river water, reeking of decay. A claw taps the car window. “About time,” the witch says, stubbing out her cigarette.

-

“We’re looking for an expert in lupine behavior,” said the man in black. The witch beamed. “Lovely flower. Perennial. Bit late for planting—” His partner snapped, “Not the bloody flower! We’re talking about werewolves!” “Oh. Well, you could have made that clearer.”

-

He escorted his lady fair through a dark winter wood. Roses bloomed on withered vines as she passed, and his notice made the scene fracture. “Don’t let it trouble you,” his lady fair said, “lest the dream collapse around us—Let us be together a while longer, my love.”

-

The behemoth came from space, the size of a city; crushed by gravity and its own weight. Its flesh took a century to rot, its bones bleached by the reddening sun. Strange flowers bloom along its jawbone and ribs; children play in its wide open maw.

-

His quest was clear: travel to alternate realities and find parallel forms of the dying queen. But in every timeline, the female in question is not a natural-born human, but a clone of his dimension’s queen, each carrying the same virus that will kill her.

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: FromOneLine / DarkMicro / vss365 / flexvss / vssHauntedHouse / whistpr / SciFiFri / SciFanSat

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, November 13 - 19

The green ones went first, then red, then blue. Little flower fairies pirouetting over the baby girl’s head. When the father checked on his daughter, he couldn’t see them properly—little lights, fireflies darting out the window. She giggled, and he wondered why.

-

Deep in the north, abandoned by your team, you find the last Direwolf—long thought to be extinct, lost to legend. But this beast is not a myth, or the subject of a research paper; it is an animal, and it is hungry, and it is very real when its jaws crack your bones.

-

Magic is outlawed here; the smallest spell can get you arrested. After his bail was paid, a Watcher was assigned to my brother “for the public’s safety”. This occult parole officer had a fake name, a friendly smile—and if I didn’t kill him, he’d kill us first.

-

We fell through the mirror—shattering, atomized, particles screaming—until we reformed on the other side, puzzle-pieced together. I had one of your eyes, your freckles, half my hair was your dark frizz. You had my hands, my pierced ears looking strange framing your face.

-

It was far from a perfect kiss, squatting six feet deep, coffin creaking under their boots. Above, the grave robber wielded his shovel, stomping about. “You have,” she hissed between stolen kisses, “the worst timing.” He grinned against her dirty cheek.

-

That summer, I knew a girl named Nebula, who loved the stars more than anything else. She said she came from the stars, that one day she’d go back. I thought she was making a Sagan reference. But she was perfectly literal—when the time came, she wanted me to go with her.

-

Lightning strikes, the cathedral spires a stark black against stormy skies. Two figures hurry through empty streets to the barred door. A whispered word charges the air, and the lock clicks open. Inside, a voice speaks from the shadows: “You’re late.”

-

The Lady’s bower smelt of blood, of roses. He entered silently, holding a silver blade and a wooden stake. She was sprawled upon silk sheets, red eyes watching his approach. “Well, Hunter? Will you kill me tonight, or join me in bed one last time?”

-

Adam didn’t want to move—he hated his stepfather’s creepy house, hated his weird stepbrother. One night he saw Lars go into a secret room between floors—surrounded by occult symbols, he summoned his mother’s ghost. Adam pushed into the room and said, “Teach me.”

-

She froze at his command to undress. “My Lord, the scars on my back are…unsightly. You don’t want to see—” “You think I am without scars? After all I’ve told you? Show me this unsightliness, the ugly side of your body and soul. I’ll show you mine in turn.”

-

Marta was a sturdy sort of girl. Solid as a rock, they said, strong as an ox. She laughed when she told her mother of these comparisons. “Imagine! They speak of oxen and rocks when I know very well you created me out of stag bones, and good river clay!”

-

“Can you say you’ve led a life well-lived? Thieving and whoring yourself out to the highest bidder? What about serving a worthy cause, for queen and county?” Cass told the Captain where he could shove his queen and country. “Right—then how about saving your own skin?”

-

They’d heard the portal’s guardian was quirky but hadn’t been expecting…this. “Welcome to the The Dismal Arch, your gateway to alternate dimensions! Payment up front—if you offer that Bitcoin shit, your friendly tollkeeper is at liberty to shoot you.”

-

A little gargoyle girl perches on top of the pedestal, watching the hobs and gremlins and fae cavort below. “Do you ever wish to join them?” the Goblin King asks. She tests the chains holding her fast, pierced through her stone skin. “Do not mock me,” she snarls.

-

They thought her a well-behaved girl, but really she was a forest—ready to rip apart at the seams. Stains of moss and dirt. Roots and thorns tripping, ripping. Rotten fruit and crackling leaves. Skittering beetles and cackling crows— Too wild to catch, too wild to hold.

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: FromOneLine / vssNature / vss365 / vssMagic / WeirdMicro / GothicMicro / vssHauntedHouse / whistpr / SciFiFri / 2WordPrompt

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, November 6 - 12

“Does it feel like coming home?” Cyd asked. Ava didn’t answer. The fortress rose from the promontory, dark towers piercing fair skies. Being born in hell does not make it home; plotting to unmake that hell stone by stone would not right past wrongs. But it was a start.

-

The house was built on a desolate moor; nowhere to run to, really. But when it all became too much (the bleeding walls, the shrieking in the attic), Paula ran into the fog…When the fog thinned, she faced the house. The front door wide open, welcoming her home.

-

Still torpid from the stasis pod, Kris didn’t register the alien standing at the control panel until it turned towards her. It possessed elongated limbs, skin that was not skin, a complete lack of face. It spoke to her in static, seeming frustrated when she didn’t reply.

-

I hadn't used this staircase before, nor visited the room it led to, but Father said I was finally old enough to lay eyes upon the family heirloom: a cursed mask, shattered into a dozen pieces. I unlocked the cabinet, and panicked—eleven pieces were missing.

-

Tara’s attempts to be syntonic were met with ridicule from her parents and teachers. They strapped her down, electrodes on her temples, subjecting her to subliminals for hours. After, she was “corrected”—slotting into her place in the Society like a puzzle piece.

-

You’re hypnotized by her ophidian eyes, her legato movement as she drapes herself over you. Desire and fear, sweet and sharp as champagne sliding down your throat, down your spine. A poisonous kiss—heart-stopping, overwhelming— You almost wish you were made of stone.

-

I hear a dissonant tune on the night wind—and watch the village children go, half-dancing, half-marching, into the woods. I’d warned them, about payment due, but no one listens to the old hermit. I pick up my knives—one silver, one iron—and go to settle with the Piper.

-

“Such tenuous bonds, so quickly severed. One little lie, and the quest falls apart. I wonder if your little band cared about ending the war at all— “You seem surprised. Of course it was me—not that they’ll believe you now. After all, you’ve been keeping secrets, too.”

-

Then he saw why the Duke’s canines had stopped chasing him: Framed by the forest was a girl, wrapped in a direwolf pelt. She had eyes the color of the moon and a snarling smile. “Found you,” she said. He felt his magic rise in response to her own wild power.

-

Her brother found a milk crate of dusty shellac records; all blank covers, no labels. It was normal big band music at first, but then: “Marie, Davis—do not play the B-Side, don’t listen—” Their dead grandmother’s voice dissolved into static, and the lights flickered.

-

In the Capital, the peace talks were interrupted by a distress call from the outer sector: The opposing factions had been forced to call a truce, due to the sudden invasion of blood-sucking humanoids hailing from an unexplored planet known as Gaia.

-

Every autumn they walk by the forest to catch sight of the birdmad girl: leaves and feathers in her hair, stealing anything with a bit of shine to it. She’ll sing and preen if she catches sight of you—but get too close and she’ll claw and screech.

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: vss365 / FromOneLine / vssHauntedHouse / whistpr / vssDaily / SciFiFri / SciFanSat / 2WordPrompt / WeirdMicro

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, October 30 - November 5

The General was not impressed by her little rebellion. “You’re mine, Lorelei—I’ll see you dead before I let you leave.” “The last man who tried to own me said the same—he was a king, and nigh-immortal, and he still died cursing my name. You have no power over me.”

-

Lady Black emerges from the hollow tree; her dress the color of dirt, her hands stained red. She has come to read the stars, on behalf of some fae King, underground, sleeping. She speaks with her hands and her eyes. She rarely brings good news.

-

The jack-o’lantern grins and grimaces, flickering and flinching, come alive with Nate’s soul. “Don’t you miss me, Sadie?” it asks, in his familiar smoker’s rasp. “I guess not. After all, you’re the one who buried me in the pumpkin patch.”

-

Her Halloween ghost knocks, and she wishes she could stay in bed. The first person she touches today will drop dead and haunt her for the next year. “Trick or treat,” repeats in the corner—the last words of last year’s victim. She hates when it’s a kid.

-

The demon’s touch was possessive; his eyes full of greed. “I could give you everything you want. The moon, the stars, and all the planets besides.” “And all it will cost is my soul, right?” I’d heard this tale before. “Oh, so much more than just your soul.”

-

It was a small kindness, but she knew he was not kind. She had once watched the King feed a deer from his hand, only to snap its neck a moment later. He was a clawed hand inside a velvet glove; he was a shark in calm waters, always smelling blood.

-

He traced her lips, his thumb resting on top of the Cupid’s Bow curve. “Did you know this line is called the philtrum? Such an unlovely name for where an angel touched you.” “What should we call it when a demon touches there?” Her fingers graze the base of his horns.

-

You dislike the painting in your room, a portrait of an old woman—only she seems to be getting younger. Her eyes are shut in the daytime, open at night. Sometimes she holds a knife. You wake with fresh cuts on your arms. You sleep with matches under your pillow.

-

A young woman puts on her wedding dress, twirling like a princess. Motes of poisoned dust release from the lace, mixing with light and laughter. The wedding song shifts into a funeral knell. The maid of honor, a dressmaker, comforts the grieving groom.

-

A true magician never reveals his secrets—but a foolish one might underestimate his assistant. Find himself helpless in his own top hat, reduced to white fur and quivering nose. Held up by long ears to rousing applause. Never seen again—what a legend, what a legacy.

-

The gramophone was haunted, of course—she expected nothing less from an antique that Kyle brought home. But the strangest part was when he tried playing a record. Instead of Dizzy Gillespie’s trumpet, their grandmother’s voice starting speaking to them—warning them.

-

A pregnant girl appeared at the gate, begging for asylum. She was branded with the Duke’s mark, which made Pat nervous, but he didn’t argue with me. The Riders came for her two days later. Billy shot four dead before they scattered. Now we wait for a war.

-

The record spins, a gruesome ode dragged from the grooves. It echos around the house until everyone drops dead, hearts stopped. The man in black smiles, as the music reaches what festers within the walls. The house will be well fed tonight.

-

Everyone made fun of Tara’s brother for his constant flirtation with the moon; he even invited the heavenly body to prom. A person of ambiguous gender showed up at the dance, with glowing skin, silver hair—and eyes only for Sammy, holding out impossible silver roses.

-

The characters startled when their writer appeared, anachronistically dressed and waving a battered novel. “No, no, no! It’s right here, on page 394—the origin of the beast is occult in nature, not extraterrestrial—this is a fantasy, not science fiction!”

-

The fox capers for the children (sometimes stealing one away). It pilfers pies from windowsills, laughs with the crows. A local burned the fox’s tail to drive it off; that man dropped dead at the crossroads a fortnight later, face frozen in terror—red fur on his coat.

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: vss365 / GothicMicro / vssNature / vssHalloween / vssHauntedHouse / whistpr / WeirdMicro / 2WordPrompt / flexvss / HorrorMicro / vssDaily / SciFiFri / SciFanSat

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, October 23 - 29

As you drift through twisting tunnels, the hive ignores you. Favored by their Queen, you are above reproach—for now. You’ve seen what happens to those She grows bored of. You must find a way out—before some sycophant buries the not-so-proverbial knife in your back.

-

Kisa had a pretty face and humble origins. Ennobled by the King, she was forced to marry his brother, who did not care for her. There was an illicit affair, a bastard child—a curse invoked. Kisa fled the kingdom, her bloodline doomed to never rest, to never find home.

-

They found the maiden hidden in the garden, beneath some fronds; hair like starlight, galaxies in her eyes. “Should we kill her?” one soldier asked. “The oracle said she’ll cause all sorts of problems…” The captain considered; she was just a child. “Not yet.”

-

Your quest is to find the children of the gods. Nigh impossible—surely they’re all in hiding by now. Or so you thought, until you wander into a tavern and find a youth with skin of literal rock, knocking back shots of molten gold—you guess even fools get lucky.

-

The beetle had a thousand eyes blinking away, even as it slept. It was the size of a planet. When it wakes, and all the eyes shut, and its wings open, it will destroy worlds. It speaks, as it dreams. Its voice, its monstrous language…the sound haunts me still.

-

Witches dance around their cauldron; something claws its way up between the gravestones. The werewolves singing to the full moon, the vampires knocking to come in, the ghosts rattling about in the attic— You sleep soundly, on this lovely Halloween night.

-

After hours of torture, her indomitable spirit did not waver or break. What reason did she have to fear death—she, a daughter of kings, who had descended into the Underworld, bargained with the Lord of the Dead, and returned whole and hale, to a life of grief and joy?

-

Clara peeked under the brim of her hat—the Duke was here. Most likely still holding a grudge (how unchivalrous). Then again, she had left him broke (and naked) in Prague. The memory made her smile. She’d gone too far, tying him to the bed—but she didn’t regret any of it.

-

I saw you dressed in tangerine, grinning like the devil. Your rivals sprawled out in their finery at the seaside picnic, looking lovely until you dumped rotten fish on them all—summoning the flock. That seagull really needs to stop pecking at Lady Clementine…

-

Desmond had warned her of traitors in their midst—she never dreamed he was speaking of himself. All hope shattered as he twisted the dagger deeper. “You were never going to win, love,” he said, further perverting the moment with a kiss. “This is a mercy, I swear.”

-

A charcoal black cat was scrawled in the corner of the empty vault—signature of a master thief, went by the handle Cat’s Eye. They only targeted the highly affluent Albrecht family. Rumor was they were an asset the family had silenced—returned as a ghost.

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: vss365 / vssMagic / FromOneLine / vssHauntedHouse / whistpr / WeirdMicro 

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, October 16 - 22

A shallow grave had been dug by the crossroads. Yet another woman, hanged as a witch; easy enough to unearth on a half-moon night. From dead lips, Agatha pulled a prize: an angry soul crystallized, good for all sorts of spells. She added a red bead to the jar.

-

In the middle of a busy market, you are seized by a vision: an army, a fortress, an unholy inferno cracking the mountain in two— Crashing out of the horror, you smell sulphur. A stranger stares at you, eyes reflecting the same flames.

-

They sacrificed cities—continents—all to open the door between worlds, to wake up the old gods. And they failed. And they failed. To absolve the enormity of their crimes, they had to become gods themselves—burying their histories so deep only the dead know the truth…

-

To stir up a storm, gather: the white wing from an albatross, a whistled-up wind, bones from a seaside gallows, a dash of malicious intent measured out in a shell, foam from the closest beach. Move away from the water, or you might be swept away…

-

In the Underground, reality twists deliciously, and you can’t trust your eyes. It’s a place where gossamer cuts the unsuspecting, glamored romantic. She was different; she went in with a devil’s smile and a thief’s heart, and came out of the thorns unscathed.

-

A letter arrived, written in a familiar hand. Go to where the bodies are buried, it read. I broke into Darkhart Manor after sunset, making my way down the dark, dusty corridors. A familiar voice was singing in your old bedroom—you, a dead man, ruthlessly alive.

-

Woe to the hapless traveller: took the wrong advice, followed the wrong path, strayed down into infinite darkness. And here we will keep her, for a long, long time— We may—eventually, tectonically—grow bored of her. She will not be the same, when she leaves.

-

You tried to play it cool, following her into the woods, but you’re jumpy. “I feel like we’re being watched,” you admit. She laughs, before looking you dead in the eye and saying, “Of course they’re watching us. And now that you’ve noticed, we’re probably screwed.”

-

Inside a circle of salt water and white-petaled flowers, he cast a spell to draw the moon down. It didn’t work. It never worked. All it earned him was dreams of drowning, and eyes stained silver, and distrustful looks from sailors and werewolves.

-

Even with vengeance in his heart, the sorcerer still took precautions to protect his treasures, siphoning his power into the gargoyles atop his fortress. His three daughters grew up guarded by these stone beasts, always looking west for their father’s return.

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: vss365 / WeirdMicro / flexvss / vssMagic / FromOneLine / vssHauntedHouse / whistpr / vssDaily

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, October 9 - 15

“This night will end when you tell me you love me,” the sorcerer declared. How unfortunate—he cast an ironclad spell on a princess already cursed with the inability to lie. Twenty years pass. Both are still trapped in that garden, ageless, caught in an endless midnight.

-

I wrote my name in the dust to prove I was here. I felt my time counting down—ghosts can only haunt a place for so long. Dawn will evict me from this house, leaving me in the unknown light. I waited, staring out at the night, and the night stared back at me.

-

When you stumble out of the nightmare, you can’t remember your own name. For a moment, you are Nobody. You smell like monsters and can’t quite convince yourself that it’s not real—you’re out, you’re safe, just look at your hands—flesh sloughing off to expose bare bone—

-

Our first mistake was leaving the house; the second, going to the graveyard without proper protection. The witches’ grimoire was buried beneath the northern stone cross. The second we dug it up, we were betrayed—the Brothers surrounded us.

-

“I spy with my little eye…a witch’s eye! There—catch it!” There followed utter chaos, near-misses of flyswatters and bug-nets—all to catch a dead man’s eye, fluttering about on enchanted wings. And elsewhere, the witch herself, watching and cackling at their antics.

-

The seraphim think they are safe—but those who’ve fallen before are drawn to the fresh sulphur scent, to the celestial power not yet faded from heaven-glazed feathers. They cannibalize their brothers’ wings, underscore their fall from grace with kin’s blood.

-

I’m walking with the one I love, and I am so happy. The bridge we’re on crumbles behind us, but somehow it doesn’t matter…until the one I love says, “How did you get here?” and pushes me off— I jolt awake, alone in bed. Something hammers at the door. It’s time to run.

-

Lisel is haunted, attracting ghosts like moths to a flame. She can’t keep them out. They come in the night, turning her dreams to nightmares, whispering—how they died, who they left behind—tell him I loved him—kill her for me—find my baby—bury me, bury me, bury me—

-

Their teacher didn’t waste any time. “I know you’re scared, he said, in a tone that was almost compassionate. Then he sneered. “Not nearly scared enough. Make one mistake, and the Creature will rend you limb from limb. Watch, listen, and learn—or die.”

-

The stones beneath the willow tree are full of words. Put one to your ear like a seashell, it will whisper a tale or two—for a bit of coin or a bit of blood. Some of those stories are true and some are false—but isn’t that the way of the world?

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: vss365 / FromOneLine / vssParanormal / vssHauntedHouse / WeirdMicro / whistpr / SciFanSat / SciFiFri / vssDaily

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, October 2 - 8

The power going out. Something shattering upstairs. The door creaking open on its own. The shiver down your spine— Someone is crying, down in the basement. Someone is laughing, in the next room. Someone is breathing down your neck—but weren’t you alone in the house?

-

He thought it was a trick of the light; he’d never seen Mary in short sleeves before. But no, her tattoos were moving—beautifully inked butterflies fluttered up her arms, where roses wilted and bloomed in time with her pulse. “How does your garden grow,” he murmured.

-

October breezes in, skirts rustling like fallen leaves. She leaves frost on the windows. And yet, she is generous, as the last of the harvest is gathered. Her touch, the final warmth on your face as summer unravels. She is kinder than the sisters who follow her.

-

The last dollar in my pocket goes to the three-eyed woman on the corner of Lark and Kestle. Rumor has it, she can see how you’ll die. Visibly confused, she says she can’t see my death (and no refunds). I walk away, relieved. This means the spell is still working.

-

Father warned her: Do not enter the library. So of course she slipped in, well past midnight. The books were dusty and…whispering? When she pulled one off the shelf, a shock went through her—the book fell open, releasing all the souls trapped inside.

-

They sent her away to a distant relative, to a manor house on the moor. The timing was bad—every eighty years, before the frost, the hobgoblins and such fae folk have a grand ball under the moon—and the Goblin King takes a bride. Sweet Jenny, she was just his type—

-

You should always go to the Badger before you set out on a quest. Badgers hear all the gossip of the world. Take a nice cake, and be very polite. After many cups of tea, and a slew of tales, you might hear ol’ Stripey-Eyes tell of things that have not yet occurred.

-

Adam was looking forward to the Double Creature Feature at the abandoned warehouse—at least until he realized it was being put on by the local vampire coven, looking for some easy meals. They weren’t happy to see him either. “No werewolves,” the girl at the door hissed.

-

Whenever Anne couldn’t find her sister, she checked the crawl space. Becky liked being weird in there, with all the spiders. (Anne hated spiders, and swore Becky put them in her bed.) Tonight, Becky wasn’t there; in the far corner was a white mass, like a giant cocoon…

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: vss365 / FromOneLine / vssHauntedHouse / whistpr

[abstracthappiness]

spooktober 2022, collected

This house contains a storm; our mother invited it in, years ago. It likes when we play the organ. The thunder sounds much different when it isn’t pleased with something, like when our cousin came to visit… We’d never seen someone electrocuted before.

-

The servants have fled, which is for the best. The ritual didn’t go right, not all the way. It was carried out with a careless hand, a shaking hand. Words were mispronounced. It isn’t the right time of year— But she’s back now. You brought her back.

-

You find yourself on a ghost ship, standing on a plank over endless water. There is something behind you; it wears your sister’s face. “Thalassophobia—fear of the ocean,” it cackles, and pushes you off. You wake up, salt water soaking the carpet of your room.

-

During family dinners, we pay no attention to the sounds coming from the cellar, even when the china cabinet starts to rattle. Father is most disapproving; the only thing he’ll say on the matter is: “You should have buried it deeper.”

-

There’s always a few dumb kids who wander into the woods on a dare this time of year. Just call up Sally Bracken—she’ll find the ones even the dogs can’t track. She wandered out of the forest herself, couple decades back; skin like bark, eyes black end to end.

-

You wake from a drugged sleep, a body cam locked around your chest. There’s a table of sharp and blunt instruments beneath a sign: Choose your weapon. You exit the cabin into a forest. You are fenced in. There are cameras in the trees. You are being hunted.

-

The new governess was horrified by the strange symbols of branch and bone hanging in the window. “It’s just chicken bones,” the cook said. “The little miss thought to frighten you off—she’s a bit…odd. Doesn’t care for strangers since her mama died.” * Miss Alice took the child aside, scolding her for the grisly crafts. Dana stared unsettlingly, but Miss Alice smiled. “You could have kept me away, if you had used cat bones instead. Would you like to learn the dark arts? It will be our little secret.”

-

The monster under your bed slithers out as you wake from a nightmare, frozen with sleep paralysis. You are fully aware of its shadow against the wall, the dull click of its claws, of its tongue against your cheek—tasting your sweat, tasting your fear.

-

The man in black watches you lay flowers on your mother’s grave. He keeps his distance, but he’s always there. At the cemetery gates, you look back (never look back!) and he’s standing at the same grave. The flowers wilt in his presence.

-

You stumble into the wrong room, empty except for rows and rows of masks on the walls. When you try one on, it feels too tight against your face. “Do you like my collection?” the host asks. A voice that is not yours speaks: “Oh yes, I like this one very much.”

-

Your only ally is a demon trapped in a jar, left in the back of a closet, forgotten by the witch coming to torture you. “Have you ever heard the story of Pandora?” the demon whispers. “Who?” The demon laughs. “Let me out, I’ll tell you all about her…”

-

The girl wears a bright red cloak. The wolf blends into the shadows, dogging her steps. The foolish might think she’s in danger, until they see the truth: the girl and the wolf have the same eyes. Both must burn and be buried, before they devour the world.

-

Of course there are bodies in the lake. We still go swimming there. Sure, we lose a few people every summer—don’t you realize how much worse it would be if we shut things down? Remember what happened in ’94? What it took to get that thing back in the water?

-

You’re hiding in a closet, pressed so hard into the corner your bones ache. You cover your face with your hands, giving in to that childish belief that if you can’t see it, it can’t see you— “Found you,” it sing-songs into your ear, claws brushing your skin.

-

You watch as he—the man with the coat of leaves, with the iron blade, with red eyes and black teeth—enters your sister’s room, leaving you bleeding out. (You’ve dreamt this every night for five months. The calendar has a date, circled in blood, counting down.)

-

There’s a stone circle outside of town known as Goblin’s Gathering, where all manner of mysterious things are said to happen. People disappear, or see frightening creatures, or find strange objects that change their destiny. Tonight, it is where you will die.

-

You want to forget last night—the bite marks on your body make this difficult, but you bandage yourself up and move on. The wounds don’t heal; teeth begin to emerge, tiny spikes on your arms, on your belly, ripping open into mouths. You are so hungry.

-

“Your debt has come due, Monsieur Malinare.” “Here is a soul to take my place.” He gestures to the sleeping child. The Reaper frowns. “This is the third deferment. You cannot do this for eternity.” The so-far immortal man smiles, as his daughter is swept away.

-

The servants have fled the manor. All for the best, you think. It must have been alarming, to see all the blood—even if it came from a deer, you’d swear on the bible that’s what it is. The whispers inside the walls grow louder: You’re doing the right thing.

-

The apocalypse has been brewing in your basement for all your life, and most of your grandmother’s. She calls you down on your birthday; she needs your help with the final ingredient. You ask what it is. “My heart,” she says, and pushes you in.

-

The beast shifts according to its prey. When it killed your brother, it was insectoid. A flayed woman stalked your father. It came for your mother as a rabid bear. You think it has forgotten you, then realize: it is your loneliness, eating at you like a void.

-

It’s quiet in the tomb. You stopped screaming awhile ago. It’s difficult to move, to breathe; the water you drank was probably poisoned. The bones start chattering. They say, Stupid girl, getting yourself locked in here. They say, Sleep, it won’t be long now.

-

The resemblance to your sister is uncanny, down to the birthmark on the wooden face. The joints clack as the strings jerk, dancing the figure closer. “Don’t be afraid.” Your sister’s voice issues from the puppet’s mouth. “It only hurts for a moment.”

-

The tour of the castle took an sinister turn as they ascended a staircase. “Of course, this place is thoroughly haunted—Do try to avoid the torture chamber,” the butler intoned. “The spirits there are the most restless. They will hurt you, if they catch you.”

-

Something went wrong, and we were blinded by a flash of red light, before the room went dark—the candles snuffed by a sudden wind as a mass manifested itself in the summoning circle— The creature uncoiled slowly. Its eyes glowed in the dark. So did its teeth.

-

Father is locked in his laboratory again. After Mother’s death, he became obsessed with immortality. The servants leave, one by one, disturbed by the noises, the smell. Nanny tries to take me with her, but I refuse. He’s my father. He would never hurt me.

-

“Don’t eat the candy corn, it’s poisoned.” Watching Sara choke made Brad laugh. She punched his arm. “Next you’ll tell me there’s razors in the apples.” “That’s just a myth.” Brad leaned in close. “But seriously? Avoid the punch. I definitely poisoned that.”

-

Joel was all tricks, no treat. He stole candy, kicked in pumpkins, and jump-scared everyone. The grownups laughed it off—boys will be boys—until he went too far one Halloween, and Kyra Pent ended up in the ICU. One year later—she’s come back to haunt him. * Kyra usually gave out candy on Halloween. All treat, no tricks. This year she tagged along with her friends to a haunted house. Joel Spencer was there, pulling his stupid, dangerous pranks. Kyra can’t remember dying. But she knows exactly who to haunt.

-

Sherrie met many folk on the road on Samhain night—not one of them human. Gram had these warnings for her: “Carry silver coins and iron nails in your pockets—rosemary and a little grave dirt, if you can get it. Wear a mask and keep a false name on your lips.”

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompt list

[abstracthappiness]

swordtember 2022, collected

The sword is made of crystal, its blade polished to a rainbow sheen, pulsing with magick. It holds a ragged edge, deceptively fragile. If the wielder forgets to wrap the handle, shards will cut deep into the palm, enchanting the blood even as it poisons her.

-

The sword is a candle, and a test, as she slowly climbs the tower. The blade burns down, hot wax covering her hands. If she cries out or releases the grip, she fails. If the flame goes out, she fails. The wind howls. The beacon waits to be lit. She climbs.

-

She twisted the hilt and the blade seemed to shatter—gears clicked and whirred, shifting and spinning the metal pieces until the sword reformed into a shield. The edge bit into the ground as she braced for impact, hugging her sister close.

-

Four swords lay sheathed in the temple, each forged with a sacred orb containing an elemental. In order to awaken that power, each wielder must pledge their very soul—resigning themselves to be slowly devoured by the element they have sworn themselves to.

-

At midwinter, a blind warrior hands out weapon-shaped cookies. You’re meant to break the edible sword in half and share it with a rival. This tradition echoes the Breaking of the Blades, which accompanied the signing of peace treaties after the Hundred Year War.

-

She utters a word, leaving her mouth tasting like copper. The sword shivers, spills—becoming liquid at the knight’s feet until she flicks her wrist. The blade stretches into a mercurial whip with an edge that slices through almost anything: steel, stone, bodies.

-

The sword’s blade is a mirror. It is named Bloody Mary, unsheathed for the most serious trials. The criminal is made to look into its surface, hands tied to the grip. She must answer truthfully; if she lies, cuts will appear on her face and hands.

-

She took up her father’s shattered sword, soldering it together with spell-worked metal. It was quenched and blessed in a thunderstorm. When she found the murderer, she wielded a gold-veined blade that hummed with power, calling lightning down upon the guilty.

-

The sword was elegantly forged, the blade etched with a floral motif, designed by the princess herself. When she overheard someone mocking the aesthetic, she gently explained, “The flowers depicted are all poisonous, and the etching holds the poison well.”

-

The sword itself was unremarkable; it was the sheath that made the thief’s fingers itch. Twin snakes twisted down the ebony shaft, each scale a glittering emerald. They came alive when she reached for it, two sets of diamond fangs sinking into her arm.

-

The sword powered up, neon blue light reflecting off the knight’s cybernetic augmentations. “Never thought I’d see one of those again,” the old man said. “Was it your father’s?” “I stole it off a dead man,” she replied. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

-

In every lifetime, a chosen one is drawn to the Fractured Blade. Once the fragments are gathered, they are woven back together by the Sisters Smith, masters of magic and metalworking. The art of sword-spinning has been lost, but for those three witches.

-

The sword lies hidden, invisible until wielded by one with royal blood. It was lost after the slaughter of the royal family. Years later, a local girl sees a glimmer in the woods; a sword in a stone. The king’s bastard steps forward and draws her birthright.

-

The witch’s sword cannot cut or stab through armor or flesh, but it is far from useless. Its enchantment allows the witch to pierce the veil between worlds, giving her a quick exit from unfriendly situations.

-

Her weapon was dual-purpose: a rifle for taking out prey at longer distances, with a secondary trigger allowing a blade to swing out for the close-up kill. She tried not to favor one over the other; right tool for the right job, and all that.

-

The sword is carved from the bones of some deep sea monster; the blade is set with pearls and shells in a wave pattern. A ceremonial weapon, to be exchanged with the Landwalkers as a symbol of unity between earth and water. It will soon be dyed red with blood.

-

The Oathbreaker Knight is marked by the blade-less swords she wields. One century ago, when war broke out, she bent the knee to her king and swore an oath before the gods of fire and victory. When she broke that faith, every blade she had turned to smoke.

-

The sword was forged from enchanted glass; blessed to strike a killing blow, cursed to constantly fracture under its wielder’s touch. It was once wielded by gods and giants. Now the shards are fit for only the smallest pixie.

-

The sword in the stone was an impromptu family heirloom, appropriated by the MacAlyster Clan when they built their castle around it. It stood in the gardens for generations, until a newly hired nanny sneaked out to retrieve the sword that would make her queen.

-

The tomb was guarded by two knights, carved from white marble. The statues held swords stylized as acanthus leaves; appearing too garish to be functional, but sharp enough to cut a careless trespasser. It was said that in the moonlight, the knights came alive. (Acanthus leaves are a symbol of immortality and resurrection; somewhat ironic for the cursed emperor who claimed he would never die.)

-

The Revenant Knight carries a sword with a short, curved blade and a long handle. The pommel is a ring, upon which hangs a lantern. They roam the wilds, the light guiding the restless dead back to the corpse roads, where they may wander to the underworld.

-

The Forest Lord sharpened the tips of his antlers until they were sharp as swords. A pretender had come to His territory, claiming the Summer Throne and the Winter Crown. The Lord would show this whelp exactly how He had held the Greenwood for three centuries.

-

The sword is held in place by chains. The blade is shattered, clinging to a soulstone. This whispers and sings and screams with the voice of a witch long dead. The sword and the soul are too powerful to destroy, forever suspended over a chasm, out of reach.

-

Deep in the Water Temple lies a sword, with a mother-of-pearl blade, and a guard of twisting coral. Whoever retrieves it will be crowned King By the Sea. One bright night, a pearl diver descends to claim the treasure, and all that is promised with it.

-

Your former bosses contracted the android assassin known as Spider. A looming figure approaches; three extra sets of arms extend from the torso, each limb tipped with a blade. Eight swords spinning in your direction, cutting through everything, smooth as silk.

-

The child wielded a wooden sword, uttering a war-cry as she charged her brothers, who scattered with mocking cries of terror. “’Tis not ladylike,” tutted her governess and her mother, but her father roared with delight at his little lady warrior.

-

The swords and shields are laid out in a neat pattern, criss-crossing down the hall. The swords get more rusted, the further you go; the shields are rotted through. There’s a throne at the end of the hall. You don’t know what you’ll find, when you get there.

-

One side of the blade is normal, sleek and sharp; the other is jagged, spiked, pocked with red shards. The blessed side, the cursed side. As befits an asymmetrical blade, it has two very different wielders, who love and hate each other in equal measure.

-

The giant wears a crown of swords; a broken, rusted thing. No one has challenged him for a long time—no one has failed for a long time—where are all the foolish champions? He is almost bored enough to come down from his mountain and look for someone to kill him.

-

It’s hard to say where metal ends and bone begins; the sword was created using necromantic methods, and is full of souls, nigh unbreakable. Two skulls make up the guard, and chatter while their wielder hacks away at flesh and bone, both living and undead.

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompt list

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, September 25 - October 1

The young priestess withholds the vial of liquid starlight from you—with good reason. She knows you’re a thief. “Do you swear to take this to the Temple Beyond Time, to place it on Astrea’s Altar?” You lie, of course—and the curse crashes down around you.

-

A flash of red catches your eye, and you leave the trail to see what it is. Red dresses hang from several trees. As the sun goes down, it looks like they are dancing. As you return to the trail, you look back; they are much closer, now. You start running.

-

You come across a small cemetery, headstones streaked with moss. The names are familiar; people you know from town. The death-dates are all set to the future. You notice the nice lady at the post office is set to die this winter. You move on (before you find your own name).

-

The bandits came riding through town, looking for the wizard called Strange. “That one,” scoffed the blacksmith, “is spinning spells in yonder tower, past the cursed woods and the poison river. If you reach the gardens, mind the flowers. And the dragon.”

-

Two noblewomen were gossiping about his mother, the great Lady Knight who saved the realm from the Dark Lord. “—but what a shame about her antisocial son—disgraceful really, how she lets him carry on.” Mal snapped his fingers, setting the hems of their dresses on fire.

-

We didn’t know the house was haunted when we moved in. For a while, we could pretend not to notice. But I can’t ignore what’s happening to my brother; whenever he’s possessed, he smells of smoke. He stares at matches. I’ve called for a priest.

-

Sandy from Drama Club had a near-death experience; now she can speak Latin and play the violin like a concertmaster. Then she started sleepwalking—the other night she made it back to where the accident happened. She started to dig in the dirt with her bare hands.

-

After getting the call, she hailed a taxi, but had to wait until sunset to get him out. The burns on him, from crosses and sunlight, were awful. “How embarrassing,” she said later, “a five hundred year old vampire, getting trapped in a church basement.”

-

Things were not going to plan. Last year, I heard the rumors. Last month, I arrived, learning all the secrets of this place. Yesterday, I finally found a way into the basement where it all happened. Today, I tried to kill it. Tomorrow, I think I will run—

-

Your mother used to sing a lullaby, but you’ve forgotten how it goes. Something about the flowers in her garden. Samhain draws close; you’ll talk to her soon. Ask her how the lullaby goes. And ask for her gingerbread recipe. You can never get the spices right.

-

You’ve been treated well, despite the shackles. You still spit at that person when they visit—call them false, call them traitor. They smile, placing a tender kiss on your forehead. “You’ll understand someday. This is for your own good.” And then they lock you away.

-

The General orders the warship to be moved into position. “Don’t you dare look away, Doctor. This is your finest creation. Surely you want to see if it works.” She has no choice but to watch as he activates the weapon, and cleaves the planet in two.

-

The muse tells you: be the verse rewritten, that rights the wrongs from previous drafts, notes falling flat. Before the chorus gives out—be the ending your song deserves.

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: whistpr / vss365 / vssDaily / SciFanSat / SciFiFri / vssHauntedHouse / vssParanormal / HorrorMicro / 2WordPrompt / flexvss / FromOneLine

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, September 18 - 24

When their impending doom stared them in the face, the townsfolk called for a saviour—never realizing they had burned her as a witch the winter before. So for better or worse, the town was swept away by the storm and tides. And perhaps that is some small justice done.

-

The exit music started playing, but this wasn’t the ending she wanted— She told the Custodian as much, and they replied, “You have one do-over, but are you sure? This might be the only happy ending you get.” With no hesitation, she hit restart.

-

Beneath the floorboard, a child’s cwtch, containing: a bell on a red ribbon, a small teddy bear, assorted stones and shells, a broken toy car, a crumbling snakeskin. Lastly, a journal written in messy cursive, starting: I found a magic door in the big pine tree stump…

-

A dark ball of fur and feathers popped out of the hedge; Addie shrieked, grabbing a fallen branch as an improvised weapon while the thing squawked and chirped. Then she froze, as it blinked up at her with gold eyes. It was a griffon chick, no more than a week hatched.

-

After weeks of asking what was wrong and getting no response, your best friend told you to write it out. That was the loophole to the spell your mother cast on you—she only censored your spoken words. So you wrote it all down: all of her crimes in black and white.

-

“The Chosen One is dead,” the old man declares. “He has a name!” cries the lover. “Had a name,” the rival mutters. The old man asks the heartbroken lover, “Would you go the Underworld to bring him back? Would you take his place to save him—and the rest of the world?”

-

Rumor has it our family is cursed. I didn’t believe it until the ghosts of the manor told my twin and I to go to the basement, and put on the shackles there. To our horror, as the full moon began to rise, the silver chains began to burn against our skin.

-

We knew they were coming; the thunderstorm was just a distraction. When the electricity went out, and the dark settled in, there came a terrible knocking—not at the front door—it was coming from the mirrors.

-

On the autumn equinox, a stranger came to town. A rather draconic fellow: gold eyes, gold rings, wearing a scaly red coat—inquiring about treasure. Ada saw him light his pipe with a puff of fiery breath. He gave her a wink, and went on his way.

-

You have been walking for a long time, following the black flutter of crows’ wings. They lead you to the cemetery gates, down a muddy lane, finally landing on a tombstone with your name on it. This is not the first time they’ve led you here.

-

When the harvest starts, your sister falls ill. “Do you remember the scarecrow with the twisted grin?” she asks, burning with fever. Your parents don’t understand. You do. That thing took Adrian away last year, and a new scarecrow has appeared in the fields…

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: whistpr / vss365 / vssDaily / vssHauntedHouse / WeirdMicro / GothicMicro / 2WordPrompt / vssMagic / vssNature / flexvss

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, September 11 - 17

The seer has blood on her teeth. Sometimes warlords don’t want to hear the truth. She grins and delivers the prophecy a second time, word for word, altering nothing. Her fate is sealed, but so is his.

-

Finally, it stopped, and we emerged to survey the damage. Gram had left the proper offerings before we went into the bunker, and some small god had been happy to spare us. This time the wind screamed for five days; it took our neighbours to the north and east.

-

When summer swells, he says he’ll never come back. Yet as the seasons chill, he’s drawn to the lambent warmth of her cabin. He calls her a witch, she calls him a fool, they hold each other close. He stays the winter; they’ll do this dance again in the spring.

-

Caught in her delirious visions, she finds a journal. It is written in an unfamiliar hand, the ink still wet. When she comes back to herself, the journal remains—the pages blank. But there is black ink on her fingers. And a voice, whispering in her ear.

-

Ever since we moved into this house, when I look in a mirror, a dark shape appears behind me. Stranger still: as my own reflection grows more blurry, this wraith draws closer, becoming more distinct. Today, I feel her breath against my neck.

-

You dream of a pale horse for weeks. It cuts through the town, riderless, halting at your garden gate. You wake up feeling empty; you’ve started remembering who you were. You’ve been alone for a long time. You take up your scythe. The flowers wither as you leave.

-

They came from the east, wearing holy masks, their hands painted red. They were all friendly enough, but Gram marked how the crows followed them like pets, and told us to pack our things. We fled the village that night; heard of the slaughter one moon cycle later.

-

The Pumpkin Spice Mantle comes from unknown origins, circa the late 18th century, but is proudly displayed in the Museum of Magical Curiosities. It’s been proven to turn the wearer invisible, leaving behind only the scent of cinnamon.

-

The stars called her Chosen, but when she reached for the Light, her hands turned black. Her family hid away this darkness, ashamed of the daughter who could speak to shadows. But the king’s champion came for her eventually—calling her the hero who would save them all.

-

Great-grandmother Dvornik fled the country of her birth, losing everything but her thick accent. The quilt she made as a new mother hangs on the wall. In the tiny stitches, a history unfurls, a family tree grows—she even predicted your birth. It still smells of smoke.

-

“Go outside and play,” your mother said. To appease her, you abandon your book, rake up some leaves, and jump in the pile. And then you fall, through dark earth, through roots, through crystal tunnels. Something calls to you from below. Strange things wait upon landing.

-

When the entrance was breached, they found nothing in the church but bare stone and stained glass and an old woman, muttering her prophecy like a prayer, like a curse: When two moons rise, red as blood—the next incarnation of the God Mage will come forth…

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: whistpr / vss365 / FromOneLine / vssNature / vssDaily / vssHauntedHouse / vssParanormal / WeirdMicro / 2WordPrompt / vssMagic  

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, September 1-10

The tree grew from a battlefield. Roots nourished by blood; branches braided with bones. When moonlight hit the bark, the tree looked like it was weeping silver tears, glinting off the blades the trunk had grown around. Some prayed to it for peace. Others, for war.

-

The druid’s prayer sinks into the soil like water: By root and branch, by oak, ash, and thorn— The rest is lost to rustling leaves and groaning bark—the path closes behind them, overgrown by ancient trees in an instant. The forest shifts into a maze, and they run—

-

He studies my cards, which glow with a secret light. “Fortunetelling will get you arrested—or worse if you’re really a—” Because the Crown controls those with the Sight. This man was once my friend; either he’ll let me go, or I’ll show him what a witch can do.

-

The angel spoke of its Fall, of justice against Heaven—and Earth listened, for surely a being so beautiful cannot lie. But the angel was of alien origin—exiled for unspeakable crimes, intent on dragging humanity into a galactic war against its former order.

-

“You’ll find your family in the south,” the Dragon Seer declares, “But you’ll face three great losses along the way.” “And if I go north?” she asks. The Seer is quiet for a long time, then: “You’ll find a terrible weapon, and your greatest happiness, but you’ll never find home.”

-

The sorcerer spreads his cloak, and from its umbral depths, nightmares spill and slither. The spectral creatures flood the town, impervious to all barriers—until they strike one door hung with rosemary and rue…

-

Sometimes souls become lost on their way to be reborn; they are drawn to my fire. I see visions of past lives as they dance among the flames. As dawn breaks, I gently hold the soul, whispering, “There’s someone out there waiting to love you. Your path is blessed.”

-

This isn’t the first time my sister’s disappeared. This time, at least, she left a note: Heading west, see you soon. Like: one day I’ll be in California, knee-deep in the Pacific, and she’ll swim right up to me. Stranger things have happened in our family.

-

The eyes of the Hyde family portraits follow you around the house. You tell yourself this is comforting—to have someone watching out for you. But it’s no consolation as the eyes watch you bleed out, watch your murderer take your gold rings and flee—

-

When the trees cast shade over the house, she heard demons whispering in her ear. She told her father, who cut down the trees. The next day at sunset, the house was still covered by shadows. And the demons laughed, louder than ever, as the girl began to scream.

-

Made heavy by the opium, she watches crows made of smoke draw close. They speak in unison: Return to the North, or you will die. “This is a dream,” she whispers. Death is not a dream, but a promise, the crows say, scattering black feathers.

-

When the guests arrive, Edith stays out by the folly, a charming little tower ruin set up in the garden—rich people love to make their land look like it was kissed by history, and her father is no different. But she loves it—it’s where the faeries leave her messages.

-

The fence is magicked down to the nails, usually enough to keep out even the nastiest spirit on a full moon night. But this ghost slips through the barrier, cold as ice and sweet as you please. It asks for Gram, calling the old crone out by her full name.

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: whistpr / vss365 / vssDaily / SciFanSat / SciFiFri / vssHauntedHouse / WeirdMicro / 2WordPrompt / vssMagic 

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, August 2022: Part 2

It was wildfire season when she wandered into the yard, covered in dirt and ash, cuts on her arms. Her breath was a rattle and her eyes hollow, fading fast… Of course we welcomed her. It had been over a century since we welcomed someone new into the family.

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Once there was a woman who fell in love with all the wrong people. They were careless with her heart—stole it and broke it and lost it. The woman faded away, dissolved by her tears; her forsaken heart wailing on the wind evermore, disturbing sleeping lovers.

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The prices are marked in dollars or euros or yen. Not that it matters; your pockets are empty. You’re desperate, and the shopkeeper knows it. “We also take years,” he says, flashing gold teeth. What does that mean? “Years of your life, kid. How many will you wager?”

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She runs about barefoot, wrapped in diaphanous fabric; barely there clothes for a barely there girl. Stolen away to play among faerie kind, a changeling child left behind. Her mother watches from the forest, wielding an iron blade, ready to take her child back by force.

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White flowers surrounded her mother’s grave. Impossibly; it was too cold here for oleander. But they were her namesake, and strange things had always happened around her mother when she was alive. Why should that be different now that she was dead?

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When I was mad at someone, I wrote down their obituary to let off steam, slipping the paper under a loose board in my room. Mostly harmless, until they started dying—on the exact days, in the exact ways I described. I pried up the board—all the pages were gone.

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We dilly-dally down the lane, singing of lavender, of kings and queens, while the afternoon fades. Harvest season is ending fast, and we hurry home, playing peekaboo with the moon. As the nights grow colder, my love, will you come keep me warm?

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Everyone carries a horror story: Jamal described a tokoloshe that haunted his village for years. Antoine swore he saw a monster at his school, but it sounded like a Slenderman ripoff. Trix got very drunk, told us what her stepfather did to her—and where she hid his body.

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As winter breaks, shatters, thaws into spring—love stirs in the air. Most look forward to the Celebration of Desire, a time to find one’s true match. But there are those who flee to the forests and mountains, eager to dodge the arrows of passion aimed by a fickle god.

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My shoulder angel and shoulder devil quibble over the state of my soul while I contemplate stepping into traffic. But I don’t want their constant bickering to be the last thing I hear. Also, I don’t want to die on a Monday. Seems like a bad start to the afterlife.

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You only hear it when you’re alone. The knock-knocking on the pipes. Finally, you take a sledgehammer to the walls, expecting a face, a body—but only a dark void greets you on the other side of shattered tiles and drywall. And the revenants continue to knock.

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The captain glares down, unimpressed with your bravado. “You’ve strayed into the General’s ambit; it’s his law you’ll answer to, wretch.” A chill runs down your spine. Now you recognize the insignia the soldiers wear. You can almost feel the noose around your neck.

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: vssHauntedHouse / whistpr / vss365

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, August 2022: Part 1

The door—which she was sure had been locked—was wide open. All the lights were off. She heard something…dripping. Her phone had no service. Ominous music was playing from somewhere— She walked away. She wasn’t going to be the first person killed in this horror movie.

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Cam gestured, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. “I heard something down that hallway. Something…crackling? Or breaking. Loudly. A lot of things breaking.” Felix shone a light down the corridor.  His expression was grim. “That’s the way to the boneyard.”

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When she started out, she had a loaded gun, two best friends, and a stray dog tagging along behind them. By the end of things, she was very alone, covered in blood, and out of ammo.

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He studied the photo; it was taken on his birthday, all his friends smiling at the camera. But there, framed in the doorway was the silhouette of a woman— “Who the hell is that?” “Mary Blisskin, murdered in that room in 1979. She’s been haunting you since you moved in.”

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You watch the end of the tunnel until a shape detaches from the darkness. Curving horns, too many limbs, a tail slowly twitching. The demon watches you, waiting. Predatory. It knows there’s a deal to be made tonight; you smell just the right amount of desperate.

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You’re haunted by dreams of cracked mirrors, reflecting faces with scratched-out eyes, and worst of all: bloody rain flooding the house. Your brother seems delighted when you tell him. “Excellent,” he says, “the spell worked. You’re possessed by Bloody Mary.”

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Her cybernetic arm had a clear casing, showing off circuit boards and wires. “Why don’t you get a natural casing to hide all that?” he asked. She flexed, grinning. “Why should I hide the fact that I can punch through a concrete wall?” She demonstrated. He shut up.

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Rumors have been rampant in the kingdom: a chosen one has appeared, raised by dragons. The missing crown prince is travelling with a band of outlaws. The giants are waking beneath the mountains. The end of the world is coming, as surely as an eclipse blotting out the sun. ~ More rumors: The head vizier is a ghost, still advising the king. The duke’s daughter is a ghost, shrieking in her tower. The queen herself has been dead for five years, haunting the royal gardens on moonlit nights.

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Two children arrive at the witch’s cottage; one clutches a piece of parchment, written in an elegant hand: I beg you, witch of the wood, protect that which is most precious to me— The children have the murdered queen’s bearing. The sorceress welcomes them inside.

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Every night in your dreams, you hear the sound of crying. The sound of…cutting. The servants whisper about the previous owner, a missing daughter… You find a bloodstain under the carpet. The cutting gets louder, closer. You hear it even when you are awake.

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The mist came early this year. We whistle call and response, following the cords when it’s safe. Listen closely—sometimes a mimic will sound like a friend or loved one, and the next thing you know—the cord snaps, you’re pulled off the path, and you’re falling—

//

read more on twitter: kattra | prompts: vss365 / 2WordPrompt / vssParanormal / vssHauntedHouse / whistpr