After managing to blog in both ranty and writerly forms last week I’m feeling a tiny bit light on inspiration today. So in the absence of anything to shout about here is a tiny little flash fiction fable what I wrote. It’s called ‘The Children of the Forest.’
The trees of the forest grow tall and strong, and the children of the forest play low in the hollow beneath the branches of the oldest trees. They are safe in the hollow, safe in the forest, where the world beyond cannot get in.
The elders of the forest are afraid of the world beyond. There is a story, whispered from mother to baby, from father to son. ‘Beyond the last tree,’ they say, ‘a dragon lives. And the dragon breathes only fire and loves only gold and eats only children who don’t listen to stories and who run and skip and play beyond the hollow, beyond the forest, beyond the very last tree.’
One day a small girl grew tired of the hollow, and yearned for adventure elsewhere. She was a clever little girl who had heard stories of the dragon and the fire and the world beyond, and knew that they were only stories. Stories couldn’t hurt her. Dragons weren’t real, so she ran and skipped and cartwheeled her way to the edge of the forest. At the very last tree she paused. She would be the first of her kind to leave the forest, and one day she would return with new stories to tell the children she had left behind. She took that last step into the unknown her head full of dreams and her heart overflowing with hope.
And the dragon ate her.
I do of course write whole big book-length things as well. You can find details of those here.