FlashFictionMonth

Smogg, the greatest of the crimson dragons, wheeled in the skies above Pondtown, belching impenetrable clouds of smoke and showers of white-hot sparks. A band of treasure-hunting dwarves had driven it out of its lair, and their fastest messenger had raced into town bearing the sole arrow capable of killing it. Burt the bowman drew the arrow back to his cheek and waited patiently for his target to present itself. He had a reputation for unfailing accuracy, and it was well deserved. “His entire underside is coated in gems from his hoard,” said the messenger, hurriedly, “but there's a gap on his left breast. It's the only way to kill him.” “No!” protested the mayor, waving his arms blubberously. “If you kill it now its body will crush half the town! Aim for its eye – drive it back to its lair!” Smogg swooped low, flaring its wings to impose upon them the full majesty of its impervious glittering armour. Still, Burt held off, the perfect opportunity apparently not yet perfect enough.

It was patterns. It was a thing spinning in time, existing only in how it changed from one moment to the next. Existing only in how it stayed the same. It was music. It was a song, the song. The one Master had made with loving iron gloves, had been told: spin, sing, here, manage each beat, overlay them, control them— It was the one who could see through itself as it spun its vibrations in the air—could see all people from the land—and lower the note, quicken the beat, do what it was created for, its great art. It could see all, know all, and be the music in their hearts. Change the music in their hearts. Master had said: make sure they love me. What is love? it had asked, off-beat to itself. This one, Master had patiently said, led it to the patterns that meant love, the collections of notes that invoked it, the rising motion, the bridges. Oh, it said, and it was beautiful. Make sure, Master reminded. And here, here’s what anger looks like— Rhythms on top of each other, a

“He’s losing stuffing fast. I need 30 CCs of polyester, stat!” Nurse Cuddles rushed to the dispenser. Her stubby, stuffed hands shook. It took several tries to engage the lever. There were so many. How was she supposed to know which was the right one? She filled the container and hurried back. Doctor Snugglebug took one look and pushed it away. “That’s wool, not polyester. Get me polyester or get me someone who knows the difference.” Another nurse took Cuddles by arm. “I’ve got this.” She filled the container and rushed it over. Snugglebug scooped it right in. Doctor Buttons swooped in with the stitches and bandages. Nurse Tuffy applied the feel-better kisses, and just like that, it was over. The patient was wheeled into the recovery ward, and they all cleaned up. Cuddles sat in the chair in the corner and tried not to cry. It was her first emergency, and she’d nearly blown it. The other nurse sat next to her. Her nametag read Nurse Honey.

Echo suspects she shouldn’t be talking about her job this much on a first date, but in her defence, Kim did ask her what she does. “We actually had Jesus herself in the bar last night,” she says as she pleats the corner of her napkin with her freshly trimmed nails. “She’s a real firecracker—ordered a Red Herring, and when it didn’t lead anywhere, she turned it into wine. She turned almost all the drinks into wine, actually, but I hear it’s an occupational hazard.” “Wow,” Kim says, looking down at her own neatly buffed talons. “Only almost all?” “Well, some of the drinks were wine to start with,” Echo explains. “Isn’t that a little old-fashioned?” Kim asks, looking up now. One of her eyes is yellow, and the other blue. She reminds Echo of a skittish cat that she would very much like to scoop up into her arms and cuddle. “Dionysus is a regular, obviously, since she hosts the drag nights and all that, so we always have a few barrels on hand. She actually dances on them every now and

“Papa, don’t forget to do your injection.” Cara calls from the other room, and tilts her head around the corner of the door, just to check. Her father sees her, and rolls his eyes, his face creasing with old laugh lines. “I won’t forget.” Which is what he always says, but she knows better, and leaves the living room lights on because otherwise he’ll just fall asleep in his chair. “You’re meant to take it on a schedule.” Always the same exchange, every night. But she’s glad for it, because it means he’s still here. He grumbles, but to her surprise he gets up, grimacing with pain as his legs creak beneath him like old wood. Every day, the disease reaches a little further, takes over a little more of him. The medicine helps, but he has to take it regularly or it won’t work. Sometimes Cara wonders if it’s some subconscious thing. Maybe he wants to die. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe, it’s all of those things. She knows plenty of people live for years with the treatment, and manage to have

My breath fogs in front of me. They say that the last breath we breathe can be seen to leave the body. Is that mine, I wonder? Shades of red orange dilute the blackness of the sky, a gradient I am well familiar with. How many times in how many variants have I used the morning sky as inspiration to dye my students’ papers for the week? My eyes mist and I do not know if it is because of the frigid morning air or my sorrow. The embers burn in the firepit I lit under the full moon, but I cannot release even a single page into its hungry tongues. So ingrained within me is the unholiness of fire that even when I am no longer holy myself, it is still alien to me. I rub a fibrous paper between my fingertips, some of its red dye staining my skin. How beautiful it is. I was meant to have granted Krad a dragon of this paper for earning his black tassels. But that privilege is no longer mine. I tell myself that the Papyrus Guild no longer wants me, that they cast me out for suggesting a

Rowan couldn't smell brimstone. That was something. “Curry,” she said, after a long pause, “Curry, coffee, and cheesecake. Not in any particular order.” Elijah wrinkled his nose a bit but helped her shove an old sofa up against the door. It was probably sturdy enough to hold. She wouldn't want to sleep on it or anything but with any luck no one would have to. “Cola,” he said, “Coffee needs too much junk dumped in it to make it taste good. Maybe chow mein and chocolate cake.” He turned to a rather clunky looking bookshelf. She didn't wait for him to ask, she took the spot beside him and helped work it up against the sofa, one corner wedged between the wall and the counter. The door groaned, straining against the lock and hinges, but it held. “Good coffee is fine black,” she said. She ignored the scritch-scritch-scritching of bloodied fingernails outside and the heavy press of a body thumping against the wood. “I mean it's good if you've fried your taste buds

Trevor knew he was being watched when he left his loft, gliding to the street below on the wings that were the gift of all pigeon-kin. He tried to tell himself he was just being paranoid, but he knew when to trust his gut, and right now his gut was screaming that Harry Sloan, the damned puma-kin private detective that had been dogging his heels the last two weeks, had twigged to what had happened to the Perkins’ son. Or at least that he had something to do with the disappearance. Cursing the fact that true flight was denied his kin, Trevor changed course and landed on a nearby rooftop. Running, he took a leap and glided to another rooftop, thankful for the increased field of vision his pigeon-kin eye’s afforded him. He saw Harry disappearing down a side street, trying to keep him in sight. Puma-kin were fast, but he knew this part of the city and its rooftops better than any uptown detective ever could. The familiar shouts of annoyance floated up toward him from apartment windows as

The muses were, well, amused at the proposition. It must be- clearly they were so inspired, and inspiring, that they could successfully bargain for the unions. Art, and Print, and Poetry were at the guildhall already in their silk and gossamer robes, and Painting was rumored to be arriving later that day in a chariot pulled by horses of each color. "What do we do? Just encourage the corporate negotiators until they feel something and are compelled to create?" said Art, running her hands through her hair. Art never looked the same way twice. She morphed slowly but constantly, tempting those who followed the figure to try and capture her glory and her grace. Her robes shimmered and shifted colors, always putting her at best, or most interesting, appearance. "I'm happy to call for them to be more disciplined-- To check their greed, and cease censoring our writers thus." Print was scrappy, her black robes revealing well muscled arms that were never quite clean of ink or asphaltum.