Dragon's Dream
Microfiction - Introduction
This page will showcase my Microfiction prose (of less than 250 words) to give short samples of my writing style with varying genres and topics.
NYC Midnight 2024 Round 1 (11th place) - In the Fog
Genre: Horror
Action: Tracing
Word: include
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The fog churns slowly through the twisting city; its clammy grip caressing her skin as she hurriedly walks along the dirty, claustrophobic street.
She should have been home by now. Her feet ache. She keeps up her pace. Her heart races. She’s being watched.
Hopelessly lost, she traces back her steps.
She stops still. She sees them then, or she thinks she does. A blink and they’re gone. Whoever it was, she did not want to be included in whatever sick collection they had.
She’s just about to set off again when she feels it.
Warm breath on her neck.
NYC Midnight 2024 Round 2 (Honorable Mention) - Leeds Love
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Action: Chugging
Word: keep
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A vision of beauty, if Ian had ever seen one. Red hair, like liquid fire, flowed down to her slim waist. Her skin was so white it could act as a beacon for Gondor. Anabelle was her name. She was perfect, a keeper.
Ian walked towards her through the dingy Leeds pub. His shoes stick, stick, sticking to the faux-wooden floor. The crowd around Anabelle cheered her on.
“Chug! Chug! Chug!”
Ian pushed through as Anabelle placed her empty glass on the table beside her. She chugged another pint.
Her sparkling blue eyes met his. She belched in his face.
Writing Practice 01 - The Abandoned Tube Station
A conspiracy theory about an abandoned tube station told from the perspective of the character as if explaining it to the reader as a co-conspirator.
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They said there weren’t enough punters. They said it wasn’t worth keeping it open. It was the only tube station that had links to all across London yet it wasn’t busy enough, used enough? Balderdash. Absolute bollocks is what it is. They could feel it all the way back in 1990. The dissatisfaction, the simmering resentment to all parties of government. They wanted an escape route, at first, then it became a route to send the secret police to squash the rising pockets of rebellion scattered through the city.
Writing Practice 02 - They Come
A short action scene.
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Milly turns her head at the sound from her front door. Glass shatters. Pain slices along her ear and a light dusty thump echoes from the drywall behind her. They’re here. They want her dead.
She dives down. Another shot through the broken window. A thump to her right. She crawls as fast as she can to the hall. Loud thumps echoe from the front door. A battering ram. The door creaks and cracks in protest but does not give yet. No windows here so she quickly stands as she wobbles her way to the kitchen and the cellar.
Hopefully they won’t know about it. Please don’t let them know.
On repeat in her head. The loud thumping gives way to an almighty crash as she sprints through the kitchen. Shouts from behind, more glass shattering. More light, dusty thumps in the drywall shadowing where she had been.
She runs down the cellar stairs.
Writing Practice 03 - The Bawdy Wench
A short story from the perspective of a female vagabond in Victorian times who works with her brothers to lure and then mug rich men.
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Top- hat, check. Clean suit,well, clean-ish, check. Slimy, smug mug, nose pointing to the sky like he can’t stand the smell, check. He’s only here for one thing.
I saunter up, as I been taught to do, and clear my throat.
“Ahem, excuse me mister.”
He turns to me, eyebrow raised. I flutter my lashes, push my whole chest forward and quickly open me top so he can catch a glimpse before covering it up again.
“You want more? Then follow.” I coyly crook my finger, seductively smile and walk back a few steps to make sure he follows. He is.
I turn around and lead him to the old building at the end of the road. We go in and I move into an adjacent room.
“In here lovely…”
Like an old ugly duckling, he follows. My brothers jump him. A quick hard wack to the noggin’ to knock him out. Only left him in his jimmies, took everything else to sell. A good haul.
Writing Practice 04 - The Ritual
A short story about a ritual.
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16:00. 4 pm. Every Thursday night it comes. Water and a fish neatly placed in gold-rimmed bowls on the back porch, ready.
The air feels heavy.
The black shadow slinks across the garden to the offerings. It devours the fish before washing it down with the water. It looks at me through the window, stares for what feels like forever. It slinks away to the back, dematerialising through the hole in the hedge it formed from.
The air lightens and I breathe a sigh of relief, the ritual is over for this week.
When I didn’t follow the ritual the first time - when I thought this was “just a cat" - it was the worst week of my life and it was everywhere I looked. It made sure I knew it caused what happened and I should not displease it again. 4pm on the 4th day of the week is its time. Never forget.
Writing Practice 05 - The Forest
A short descriptive story with a suspenseful end.
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The air is crisp and cold, trees surrounding me on all sides as I sit on the hard, flat boulder. My eyes shut. Trills of birdsong burst forth from above, sweet songs dancing amongst the branches - one to another. Between the myriad of choruses popping like bubbles in my ears is the gentle rustling of the leaves. The trees softly sway to the music of its inhabitants as they flitter and flutter through.
A crunching noise disturbs my reverie and I take a peek. A fox, it turns away and back into the brush. I close my eyes again.
Slowly, the sound of the rustling trees pervades all. No longer did the birds trill and titter.
The air fills with a static nervousness, or is that just me? I open my eyes and call out
“Hello, is someone there?”
My voice sounds dampened and enhanced by the heavy silence all at once, drowning and buoyed by the rustling leaves. The hairs on my arm rise.
Something is here…
Writing Practice 06 - Rat Arsed
A comedic story based on a true news article about rats eating marijuana from a police evidence room.
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We had a successful, massive raid on a suspected drug den yesterday. There was so much marijuana there was no room on the shelves in the evidence room, we had to put some bags on the ground. I entered the room this morning, we need to make sure everything’s accounted for.
“Squeeeeeaak…”
That was weird.
“Squeeeeaak…”
It sounded like rats but it was so slow. I may be a little hung-over from the following pub celebration we had afterwards but I didn't get that blathered… I carefully tread towards the noise.
“Squeeeaaak…”
Well, this was going to be an entertaining report to write up. It was rats, and they were high off their arse on weed…
Writing Practice 07 - The Eye of the Eclipse
A short suspenseful story with a twist.
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“It’s not gonna work…”
“Just trust me. It will.”
We’d been back and forth about this for the past hour as the sun was gradually swallowed by the moon’s shadow.
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We waited.
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The last few minutes until totality slowly oozed on by like molasses. The world gradually losing its brightness, its vividness, its colour.
The moon finished its meal, the sun fully consumed by shadow.
A strange dull light from the halo surrounding the moon being the only light we have and shining directly through the eye of the stone pillar.
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We watched the slab.
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Nothing happened.
“Told you so.”
Writing Practice 08 - Poor Polly
Another short suspenseful story with a twist.
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Polly dived into the water on her new adventure. She swam past large fish and explored the colourful coral reef.
Suddenly she felt a pull. She tried to swim away but lost all control. The water dragged her along. Even the large fish could not break from the water’s iron grip as it dragged them all down towards the black abyss. The hole for the abyss was too small for the large fish but poor Polly was small enough.
Down the abyss she fell as the water dragged her along. Thunderous child-like cries could be heard from where she fell.
Poor little Abby, only 5 years old had lost her Polly Pocket down the bathtub drain.
Writing Practice 09 - Tidal
A short action story - second person view.
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The water, receding, catches you by the knees. You fall. The water relentlessly drags you back, further and further from the flags that show where the end of the shore should have been. But the sand, rocks and seaweed stretch neverending in that direction. The town getting smaller.
The sea tosses you over and you finally see behind. A tidal wave. You should have run when the flare went up. Now no one will know where you are. Another missing body in the aftermath.
Writing Practice 10 - An Invitation
A short story of strange gifts and an invitation.
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On my 15th birthday, my Aunt gave me a velvet, forest green cape. On my 16th she gave me a hard leather water bottle, it smelled new but looked weathered and used. Both gifts I thought were cool, if a little weird. On my 17th she gave me what looked to be a quarter-staff, embossed around it were leaves and vines intricately designed. A very beautiful gift.
On my 18th she sent me an invitation.
“Hereby, on your 18th cycle around the Sun you are now of age to join me on my quests. This Summer you are cordially invited to the Durnsley Forest meet-up for LARP. Don’t you DARE forget your gear (cape, water bottle and staff). That stuff cost me a pretty penny so don’t you even think of leaving it behind!”
Writing Practice 11 - A Battle of One
Writing practice using a Genre, action and word.
Genre: Mystery
Action: Battle
Word: crevice
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Strike, parry, thrust. The battle raged on. Side-step, parry, strike. The blood kept flowing through the crevices of his fingers, onto his palm, his sword. He struggled to keep his grip. With a clang his sword fell to the floor. He fell to his knees.
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“Finish me!” He screams to the empty air.
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Blood sprays from his neck and he collapses to the dirt. Blackness overtakes him as his blood flows out. The whistling wind a mourning dirge the only sound. No one seen, no one heard. Alone in life and death.
Writing Practice 12 - It's the Rain
A brief story about the rain.
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The smell of petrichore, the feel of cool wind on my skin. I see sparkles in the drops dripping from the tree leaves, jewel-like in the brief moments the sun breaks through. The clouds threaten an encore. The spatter of rain hits my cheeks and flows down my face. It’s the rain, I say, it’s the rain.