The Chosen

Our people had been nomads, following the herds across the hills and wastelands until we came to the edge of the sea. There we found a new way of life and gave up our wandering ways.

No longer were the tribesmen burnt brown from the sun, no longer did they have the patience to track prey through the desert. Instead they became skilled in the ways of nets and canoes. The women learned to dry fish and weave cloth from the beaten reeds of the salt marsh.

The priests, who were our teachers and also keepers of our records, warned that these changes did not find favour with the gods. But a settled people had no use for the gods, and fewer and fewer people heeded their words. With each generation, the old ways became more distant in memory.

The day that brought the judgment of the gods upon us started much like any other. The men went out in their canoes to cast their nets and the women went to the marshes to gather reeds to beat on the rocks. When the men returned, it was with little to show for their trouble. This was the fifth day the catch was not good. The priests approached Dranin, our chief, for the gods share of the catch but this time he refused to give it to them.

“Why should the gods benefit from our hard work while our families starve?” he asked. “What use are desert gods to fisherfolk?”

Seath, the priest, grew angry at this. “The gods are gods over all and must be appeased. They grow tired of your miserly ways and chase the fish away from your nets. Spurn them at your own peril.”

But Dranin would not be moved. The people were uneasy, but Dranin was chief and they were used to obeying him.

The next day there was a storm such as the people had never seen before. Wind and rain lashed at the village. The people shut themselves up in their huts and huddled together in the dark.

The damage was terrible. Several canoes were broken, the hut the dried fish was stored in was gone, the salt marsh churned up, the reeds broken and useless. Dranin ordered the women to scour the shore for what could be salvaged while he and the other men took what canoes they could find out to fish.

Fishing was always good after a storm, but when the canoes returned hours later, their nets were empty. Dranin went to where Seath awaited him on the shore.

“We have no fish remaining, what can we do to appease the gods?” he asked.

A man might have gloated at the defeat in the chief’s tone, but Seath was a priest. “The gods grow weak on their diet of fish, they need red meat.”

“And where are we to get this meat?” Dranin asked. “There is not one among us who knows the ways of the hunt?”

Seath looked at him gravely. “Then you must choose from among the people. The sacrifice must be untouched, pure of body and spirit.”

Dranin paled, but bowed his head.

My sister, Jessil was the one Chosen. She was fair and pure, and had just come into her womanhood. A feast, with what little we could gather, was given in her honour. Many gifts were given to her to take with her to the gods.

They dressed her in white and Seath gave her a potion to ease her passing. Then Dranin paddled them both so far out they were just a speck on the horizon. When the canoe returned, only Dranin and Seath were in it.

Within a day the weather cleared and the fish returned. New shoots were seen in the salt marsh, it was only a matter of time before the reeds would be fully grown again. It was declared by the priests that the sacrifice must be made each year. The Chosen one would have a year of plenty – beautiful clothes, the best of the food and drink, and many fine gifts. A great feast would be held in their honour and their name would be remembered for all time.

I can’t wait until it’s my turn.

Flashing Friday

Final Exam

“Today is your final exam in shapeshifting. Those who pass – yes, Raphael,” the wizard said with a sigh.

The redheaded lad at the end of the row lowered his hand. “What happened to Gordie?”

“Gordie did not pass the last part of the test—”

“But we practiced together and he could turn into a fish real easy.”

“Nevertheless, he—”

“I’m sure going to miss him, he was lots of fun.”

There were a few murmurs of agreement from the other boys.

The wizard’s teeth ground together. “There are three parts to the shapeshifting exam – animal, fish, and fowl.”

Raphael looked like he wanted to say something else, but the boy beside him poked him in the ribs and told him to be quiet.

“Each of the shapes we have studied has its own unique aspects. The animal was easiest, can anyone tell me why?”

Raphael jumped up and down, waving his hand in the air but the wizard called on Alfred instead.

“Because with an animal, all we have to change is our form. With the fish we also had to learn how to breathe underwater and with the fowl we need to learn to fly.”

“Very good, Alfred.”

Raphael shot Alfred a scowl.

“And can anyone tell me why it’s important that we be able to fly when we shapeshift into a bird?”

The boys shuffled in place, looking at each other.

The wizard allowed himself a slight smile. “Perhaps this is something you’ll learn while taking the test.”

He led them to the gorge that bordered the forest. “You must not only be able to transform into the bird of your choice, you must be able to hold the shape and make your way back to the school.”

Again there was murmuring from the boys as they looked at each other.

“Don’t forget, choose wisely. You will not be graded on speed, but you will be graded on clarity of form.”

One by one, the boys approached the edge of the gorge. The first boy chose a robin for his shape. He peeped once and then fearlessly leaped from the edge. Next was a ragged-looking sparrow, followed by a crow. The crow took three tries before he was able to make it into the air. Alfred choose a canary, but was unable to hold the shape.

He turned back into a boy and blushing, asked to be allowed to try again. The wizard nodded and this time Alfred chose the much plainer cowbird. With only a slight hesitation he spread his wings and soared away towards the school.

Raphael couldn’t make up his mind what kind of bird he should become. He wanted to impress the wizard, but in the end he decided play it safe. There was one form he and Gordie had practiced a lot, dreaming of one day carrying messages too and from the battlefield.

He moved slowly to the edge of the gorge and concentrated hard. In seconds he transformed himself into a pigeon. He was so busy congratulating himself on a job well done that he failed to notice the spotted owl swooping down behind him.

Back at the school, the rest of the boys waited for the wizard.

“Where’s Raphael?” Alfred asked.

“I’m sorry Alfred, but Raphael didn’t pass the test. Now, you boys go along to lunch. I’ve already eaten.”

Flashing Friday

Oops! Sorry, I got my flash written in time, I just forgot to post it!


The Quest

They were hers by right of salvage but she was never meant to keep them. I just thought it was safer to let her wear them while the rest of us voted on who was to inherit them.

You have to understand something about the ruby slippers. They were never meant for mortals. The only ones who can safely wear them for any length of time are we witches. The chaos that child has created in her world is nothing compared to the chaos she left behind when she took those slippers home with her.

It takes the power of six witches to keep Oz going. It can be done with four, but only if one of the four is wearing the ruby slippers. Even then it has to be the strongest witch wearing them. We were already down to five witches (and one incompetent wizard) when the house landed.

I was the one who sent her to that fool wizard, who should never have been put in charge of the Emerald City in the first place, thinking he’d keep her out of trouble. After the vote was cast and it was decided the Eastwitch should have the slippers, it just seemed easiest to have him send the girl East.

Instead of telling her to deliver the ruby slippers to their rightful owner, the old coot turned it into some kind of mythic quest. Eastwitch got impatient, which she usually does, and tried to retrieve them herself, just making matters worse.

I tried to intervene but I was too late. The water had already been thrown and the girl was back in the Emerald City. That rumour that I was the one who told her about the power of the slippers? Lies, all lies.

So technically it was my fault we lost not one, but two witches – and the ruby slippers – which made me the logical choice to retrieve them. Now, can anyone tell me the way to Kansas?

Flash Me!

So, what is flash fiction anyway? To put it simply, flash fiction is just very short fiction, running from as few as 100 words up to 1,000 or even 1,500 words.

This is not to say you can get away with fragmented storytelling. It is not a prose poem, nor an extended paragraph used to set up a punch line, nor an anecdotal slice-of-life. The challenge of flash fiction is to tell a complete story in as few words as possible. It must begin immediately and move quickly toward the end--no long descriptions, no unessential words.

Flash fiction forces the writer to compact the story. Strip away those wordy descriptions and character developments. Define your character by having him do something instead of creating lengthy histories and motivations.

It can be any form, style, or genre. It can be whimsical and entertaining or literary and sublime. It can be controversial or unconventional. It can be troubling, unsettling, or unpredictable. The best stories are often about the human condition, showing it in an insightful way that isn’t always obvious.

The easiest way to write flash fiction is to just tell the story. Throw yourself into your writing and write a story, regardless of the length. Then grab a red pen and have at it. Get rid of every adjective and adverb you can find. Trust me, you’ll be surprised by how much emotion and description can be conveyed without using descriptive words.

Read the story again and ask yourself these questions:

Is there a clear beginning, a strong middle, a definitive ending?
Is the character compelling?
Does the story make its point and drive it home?
Is every word absolutely essential to the story, the language precise and clear?
Does the story have action, not activity?
Does every sentence move the story forward?
Is the ending understandable, whether it’s unexpected or inevitable?

Keep in mind that good flash fiction, like all good writing, should have some point to it, a reason for being. The best flash fiction lingers in the mind long after the story has been read--the way of all great literary works of art.

Places to submit your flash fiction:

Flash Fiction Online
The Drabblecast
Flash Me Magazine
The Vestal Review
Every Day Fiction
Flashquake