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Tag: flash fic

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B is for Banshee

This flash fic bit originally appeared on my old blog, and was a post in the “Blogging A to Z challenge.” For the month of April, participants in the challenge write a post starting with that day’s letter (working sequentially through the alphabet.) For my theme in 2012, I chose fairies and mythological creatures.

The full moon hung heavy in the night sky, flooding Wilhelmina’s bedroom with a cool, silvery light that was battled by the warm glow of the bedside lamp. It seemed a fitting analogy for the contrast between the warm feel of life and the cool beauty of death.

Wilhelmina knew she was dying. She should be frightened, she supposed, but she had lived a full life, and although there was no other person in the room at the hour of her death, she was not alone. Her bright eyes found the robed woman who sat at her side. Though her long, flowing hair was silvery in the dim light, her face was unlined. She regarded Wilhelmina with a soft smile that warmed her cool blue eyes.

Banshee only appeared dreadful to the living—with pale faces, and demonic red eyes. Those who stood on the border of the two worlds could see her true form. Attached to one family for the duration of her immortal life, her bond to the women in Wilhelmina’s family was deep, like that of a mother or a grandmother. 

Wilhelmina relaxed into the silence that came after her last breath. The feeling of the beautiful woman’s hand in hers began to fade as she crossed over that threshold to what lay beyond. “God go with ‘ye mother,” the banshee said, in a voice like rain—cool, and soothing, and good for sleep. A single tear traced down her perfect cheek. “I will remember you when you leave this world.”

Then Wilhelmina was gone.

The woman placed a gentle hand on Wilhelmina’s forehead, caressing her white curls fondly. Then she stood and pulled her dark hood over her silver hair. Gathering her power to her, she shifted to smoke, rising up through the roof of the house where Wilhelmina had been born and had died after raising eight children, burying two husbands, and nurturing her children’s children’s dreams. A soft wail rose in her throat, and she mourned the passing of a woman who had no one to mourn her.

 The neighbors shifted restlessly in their sleep as the eerie keening sound reached them, miles away. A farmer, coming in late from his field, would recount the vision of the evil red-eyed, darkly hooded woman who hovered over the house, heralding death.  

Originally published on the Write Me blog, April 2nd, 2012.

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A is for Abatwa flash fiction

This flash fic bit originally appeared on my old blog, and was a post in the Blogging A to Z challenge. For the month of April, participants in the challenge write a post starting with that day’s letter (working sequentially through the alphabet.) For my theme in 2012, I chose fairies and mythological creatures.

A is for Abatwa…

The tiniest creatures of human form in existence. They coexist peacefully with the ants in the anthills of Southern Africa and eat plants. They are very shy but they tend to reveal themselves to very young children, wizards, and pregnant women. (Source)

      I woke to the sounds of the ants. My roommates were always moving, filling the hill with a perpetual hum of energy. I climbed out of my nutshell bed and straightened my little alcove before heading out to the main tunnel. An ant rounded a corner in the tunnel and I hastily flattened myself against the earthen wall, getting out of his way. It’s not that my companions weren’t kind, but he was carrying several times his body weight worth of seeds, taking them to the deeper parts of the hill where the young ones would soon be hatching. He tilted his head curiously as he approached, and I hummed a little tune to tell him who I was. Ants have terrible eyesight, especially in the dark recesses of the tunnels, where they find their way by memory.

      The ant trundled on by and I peeled myself away from the wall. I set off, following the tunnels that sloped upward. Unlike the ants, I could see just as well in the pitch dark as I could in daylight. Once I reached the surface, I took a moment to survey the grassland before stepping out into the light. My people were easy pickings for birds and lizards, and I shuddered at the thought that you never knew what was lurking just outside the hill. 

      I once met an abatwa whose hill had been devastated by an anteater. He had described waking to the walls falling around him, narrowly missing the long, sharp claws that destroyed his home and the whip-like tongue that devoured his comrades.

      Taking a bracing breath of the dry African air, I set off, my pouch slung over my back. I would return with it full of seeds and grasses for the ants to eat. I patted my stone hunting knife, comforted by its weight at my hip. If I was lucky, I would find some grubs and smaller insects as well.

      Most hills were kept by a family of abatwa, who looked after the ants in exchange for shelter. In my hill it was just me. My parents had died long ago, and I hadn’t found a suitable mate. Unattached males traveled in the spring, looking for a home. I hadn’t seen another of my kind in at least three seasons, and I wondered if I would always tend my hill alone…

Originally published on the Write Me blog, April 1st, 2012.