Flash Fiction


The mountains loomed up high and all around, the morning sun dividing the world sharply into bars of delicate yellow light and harsh shadow. On one shallow slope, where the boy was kneeling beside a bare field, the rays fell, pale gleaming apple-gold.

Lryn was a tall, slim boy for thirteen, though he had not quite yet caught up to his brother…


The small tavern was quiet in the hours of early morning. Bire the keeper rested by the window and polished a mug methodically on his sleeve. As he looked out the window, scanning for customers, he saw the boy sitting by the road.

He was a young boy, six or seven, and thin besides; a shock of dark, straight hair fell in neglected locks over his forehead. His bare feet, crossed under him, poked out of ragged trousers that had long gone unwashed, and his shirt was in a similar condition. There was nothing, on an ordinary day, to set him apart…