Strange Poetry

Hey, I’m re-opening this site.  Briefly, and probably just for my own use, but if you have a weird poem  that you’d like to contribute, send it to me, and maybe it will go online here.   I think poetry can be a form of flash fiction.


I have always loved poetry, especially poetry that rhymes.  I know hundreds of songs and poems by heart.  I make up verses—doggerel really on the spur of the moment.  On Trollhalla I reward poems with trollish victory points, and encourage every new member to write and post a poem for us on entering.

Still, poetry is just one of the things that I appreciate and do.  It has never been the main thing, and I suppose that means I am no true poet.  Well, true or false, I like it, and I create it sometimes.  The kind I like the best is poetry of the strange, the bizarre, the outlandish.  To that end I would say that my favorite poets ever are H.P. Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, and Robert E. Howard.  No, this essay isn’t about them really.  It’s about one strange poem I created a couple of months ago, and I want to send it out into the world, not let it perish in anonymity as poems do.

At CopperCon this year someone gave a poetry workshop.  I attended, and enjoyed what they had to say, and participated in the exercises.  One of the assignments sparked this idea from me. Now here it is.

If Mars had oceans . . .


Evolve or Die

          By ken St. Andre,

          Copyright November 2011


On Mars the seas died long ago.

Their creatures had no place to go.

Some died and simply left their bones,

But others sought for better homes.


The octopod things learned to fly.

They launched themselves into the sky.

They built their nests on clouds of dust,

And changed their hues from green to rust.

Their tentacles were whirly things;

Their bulbous heads developed wings.

On Mount Olympus they would perch,

Sing octo songs and go to church.


Eventually, technology

Helped them find another sea.


They came to Earth—a Martian stream—

I saw all this in last night’s dream.




Dead sea bottom


Closed Until Further Notice

Due to circumstances I don’t want to think about, this flash fiction blog is now closed.  I am just too everextended, and I’m also mad at the universe.  So, let me put my affairs in order.  I won’t cancel the site entirely.  You can still all read the fine stories we’ve already posted.

But I’m not looking for any more at this time.  This site is officially closed/dead/kaput/terminated/over/finished.

Victoria’s Secret

Victoria’s Secret
     by ????
Victoria had seen this before.  Her mum in a fit that she refuses the advances of the “gentlement” hand picked by her.  Ronald-well-to-do whom she KNOWS is going to lose his hair long before he should.  Gentry-ohhhh what wasn’t wrong about the man that looks like a boy dressed up in his father’s clothing.  Gerald-quite wealthy thanks to his father and promises the world but has the charm of a snail.  No…………..Victoria wants to marry for love.
As Victoria dresses  behind her screen, her mother continues on.  “I don’t know what all of your fuss is about,  Victoria.  You need to find a future for yourself.  You cannot continue to turn down every man we bring to you.”  Victoria was tiring of her monologue and steps out for her mother to tighten her corsett.  “Mother,” Victoria gasps as her mother tightens the corsett perhaps a bit too tight, “I want to marry a man I love, you know that.  I see no one here happy with arranged marriages as such.”  Her mother, exasperated, turned Victoria around and hissed, “You listen here, young miss.  Your father and I are not young.  We’ve lost your brother in the war and I need to know you will be well taken care of.  You will go to this party and you will entertain Richard.  Have I  made myself clear?”
Victoria, as fiery as her red hair, lifted her chin defiantly and said, “Yes mother, i will go to the party.”  Victoria turned away from her mother and lifted the lid of her music box.  The door closed, not gently.  Victoria quickly shut the lid as she heard a bird call she knew so well.  Quickly putting on her dress, she ran to the window.  Across the yard behind the tree, he was there.  Tall, handsome, eyes that burned for her attention.  Victoria, I will look for you tonight.  You are radiant my love.  Victoria turned to make sure her door was closed and put her finger to her mouth since her mother was not far away.  Blowing a kiss to Michael, she turned to the mirror.  
Oh how she loves this dress.  The cream with the blue lace and trim suited her well.  “Yes,” she thought, “I said I would go.  I didn’t promise I would entertain Richard.”  Victoria pretended to dance all the way to her door as she made her way downstairs and to the carriage.
The music was gay yet Victoria felt stifled and ill at all of the pretending and snobbery.  Richard approaches Victoria and her mother eyed her with a look that was threatening.  Victoria put on her best “i’ll-put-up-with-you” smile and her mom walked away.  “You’re looking qutie fine, Victoria,” she hear Richard say.  He held out his arm for her to take.  Victoria took his arms and walked a few steps.  “Yes, Richard, I am doing much better.  The doctor said I should be fine now minus the fact that I will never be able to have children.”  Richard stopped short, “unaware” that Victoria had a “problem”.  He excused himself and walked out the door.  Victoria, quite pleased, ran to the balcony and heard a bird call.  That “bird” is out there.  Victoria rushed to the steps to enter the garden.  She shall find  this bird………….

Victoria gets the bird in the end.


I went looking for an internet picture of a Victoria that I could borrow, and wound up with so many pictures of models in their underwear that I just couldn’t stop myself from having a little fun with this story.  I didn’t change a word of the story, but I added the pictures and changed the title from Victoria to Victoria’s Secret.  The heroine definitely has a secret.

Would you believe that people send me stories and then think I’ll remember where they came from a month later?  In this case, I don’t remember.  It’s  a fine little story though.  I’m reading it a bit cynically.  Read it like an optomist and it has a whole different meaning.

I was going to  do Every Picture Tells a Story: 3 today, but I saw Victoria languishing in inventory and decided to publish it.  Still, here’s a sneak preview of the next great Greywulf render to be ;used as a story starter.  If you know me, just email me the story.  If you don’t know me, send your submissions to:

They might be waiting for a bus.


A good night's work and a delicious meal for a succubus are one and the same thing.


     by Paul Haynie

Isabelle was hungry. Isabelle was ALWAYS hungry. If you were
a succubus who made the mistake of developing a conscience, hunger
was simply part of being alive.

The problem wasn’t that food was hard to come by, but rather that the
portions were small, and the quality was
miserable. Most men just
didn’t have the energy to spare to make her a really decent meal. That
meant she had to either take just enough to barely survive,
or take so much that her source would never fully recover.

Sometimes she tried to find people who deserved to be crippled or
killed, but that was
not a good choice, either. Such meals satisfied
her hunger, but the energy
always felt tainted, and the sex involved
in such a feeding always made her
feel unclean.

The dream, of course, was to find someone with so much
natural energy that she could sate herself without doing permanent harm to
her donor. She had heard of powerful wizards who could keep a string of
succubi well fed, but had never met such a creature…


Isabelle looked up from her drink and double
checked her glamour in
the mirror behind the bar. She looked perfectly human,
and her wings
were invisible; all was as it should be. As she watched, a
waitress brushed against one of her wings, took a half step backwards,
and shook her head as if a momentary thought had flickered and
vanished.  Isabelle smiled slightly at the proof that that spell was working
as well.

There was a small commotion at the door, and Isabelle saw a
man in a khaki uniform and a baseball cap walking toward the bar, to
the accompaniment of calls of, “Hey, Sheriff” from various patrons.
The man was young, and big, and moderately good looking, but he
also fairly crackled with energy. Isabelle tossed down her drink and
tried not to look too predatory. The Sheriff held a brief conversation
with the bartender, accepted and drank a glass of water.

“Hello, Sheriff,” Isabelle said, launching her best seduction charm as
she spoke.  “Would you care to take me somewhere private and question

The Sheriff looked at her, ran his eyes quickly but thoroughly from
head to toe and back again, and smiled. “Sounds good to me,” he said.

The Sheriff’s
house was only a few blocks from the bar; they made
their way to the bedroom
exchanging kisses and haphazardly removing
clothing. Isabelle maintained just
enough control of things to make
sure she stayed on top; her wings made a
singularly painful mattress.
And then he was inside of her and she was
kissing him deeply and she
finally was able to open herself psychically and
begin to feed.

She was careful at first; even though the man seemed unnaturally
strong, she didn’t want to draw energy too quickly and risk going
too far. When it seemed that she was not weakening him at all, she took
a chance on letting the flow increase. Again, it didn’t seem to
weaken him; if anything, he seemed to be getting stronger the more energy
she took. She opened herself still further, and found she was getting
lostin the sensation; a part of her mind realized that a normal man
would be reduced to a dying husk in minutes at this rate, but she was
too besotted to stop.

The man pulled his feet back beside his hips,
rose to a sitting
position, and then again onto his knees; energy was pouring
out of him, pulsing with their movements, and she was trying and failing
to draw it all it. She felt as if she would burst into fire at any
moment, and she was terrified, and yet it felt SO wonderful…

The man was
changing; his hips and shoulders were getting wider, and
the hands that
cupped her buttocks seemed to be as large as dinner
plates. The energy flow
was impossibly great; Isabelle was certain
that if she dared to open her eyes
she would see her skin glowing
white hot, and she felt that she was only
seconds away from being
shredded to her component atoms.

And then it
was over, and the two of them were panting against each
other in what felt
like a boneless heap, still somehow impossibly
upright; their bodies were
swaying slightly in an echo of recently
concluded rhythms. Isabelle suspected
that she HAD been blasted into
her component atoms, and that the universe had
reassembled her out of
gratitude at its amusement. She was sated beyond
anything she had ever
dreamed of, overflowing, flooded. She realized that her
glamours had been completely blown away by recent events, and that it would
be some time before she regained enough control to recast them. She
hoped it wouldn’t matter.

She realized that the skin pressed against
her cheek, breasts, and
belly was smooth and oddly slick, but the skin
against her forearms
and hands was extremly rough and… Ridged? What in
seven hells? She
opened her eyes to find her cheek was pressed against an
elongated throat covered in yellow green scales. She pulled back her head
and blinked in bewilderment. Her partner lifted his head and craned
it back on an impossibly long neck to look her in the face; Isabelle
found herself staring into enormous yellow eyes in a crocodillian
head, complete
with a long toothed mouth that could have engulfed her
entire head with ease.
She also realized that thier upright position
was made both possible and
necessary by the fact that her partner had
sprouted a tail larger than one of
her legs.

“That,” rumbled a voice so deep that Isabelle felt it in her
belly as much as heard it with her ears, “Was unexpected.”

Isabelle blinked again. “You’ve never shifted shape before?”

The creature
chuckled, and Isabelle’s whole body trembled at the
sepuchural rumble. “Never
during sex.”

“Oh,” Isabelle answered. There didn’t seem to be much else
to say.

The creature continued to look into her eyes. Its face wasn’t
built for human expression, but that deep voice made up for it.
Isabelle could HEAR the grin in his voice when he asked, “Wanna do it again?”



Thank you, Paul, for the momentary fantasy.  Even for creatures of the night, a good man is hard to find–and a hard man, even if he is a were-lizard of some sort–is good to find.

The photo at the top of this story is a publicity photo of European actress Isabelle Huppert.  She makes a very fine succubus.

Remember that this page is always looking for flash fiction of any sort.  If you have a story you want to see published, and it’s any good at all, send it to

Skull Stories

The Errand

     by Stacy Assaf

The air seemed to mold itself to her breath, leaving no trace of her presence.  Her control was effortless – blending into the surroundings as if she were merely a wind gently blowing by.

The statues in the cloister stared at her wordlessly as she crept toward the temple.  She wondered briefly if they approved.  Did they know what this place had become?
Would they be on her side or his?

As she moved from shadow to shadow, faded light filtered through the ancient leaded glass from
the inside of the temple to the ground below.
Ivies and shrubs grew up to meet it, wrapping around it and partially
covering the window.  She continued to creep along until she reached the servant’s entrance.  She had done her research well… paid the right informants, observed for long nights, making no moves, making no sound.  Only the orphaned slaves came here, to clean the incense and dust from the temple’s altar and walls.  The irony of a mistreated orphan cleaning the
surface which was used to offer a sacrifice in order to ask for favors and
mercy was not lost on her, but she had to stay focused.

They didn’t expect anyone to choose such a lowly entrance for infiltration, making it perfect for
her purposes, and after months of planning she was almost there.

The light seemed to shift across the narrow courtyard to her right. Before the sentry could even
raise his arm, the feathers of her shaft quivered slightly and her arrow found
purchase in his skull.  She had been
careless – and all was almost lost.  How
ashamed she would be if she had failed her errand! She paused to collect
herself, pacing her breathing  until her
heart stopped fluttering.  One.  Two. Three.
Now she was ready.

She slipped through the entrance, leaving the gardens behind.  The smell of the incense was stronger here, and she wondered if it was the last thing that her brother had smelled.  Suddenly the smell was nauseating.

The Backhall was dimly lit, the heavy curtain separating  the altar area from the less attractive
functional area behind.  Urns and clay pots littered the walls and small tables were covered with incense, embroidered cloths and colorful vials of oils scattered according to ritualistic
importance.      Everything was clean and carefully placed; even in servitude her people had done their work well.  It showed a pride that the Unity did not understand,
and that would be their downfall one day.

As for today, if her errand were successful, they would be given a hint
as to their destiny. However if their arrogant inhumanity stayed its present
course, no amount of hints would preclude the civil war that was inevitable.

Only one thing mattered now, here, tonight.  Only one.
She steadied herself before pushing back the curtain and sliding silently into
the temple main room.

This was the one room that she had not been able to observe – the one thing that she had not
been able to carefully plan. There was some concern that she wouldn’t be able
to find it once inside –but she needn’t have worried.  The skul lof her brother sat on a pedestal,
surrounded by candles – the unwilling leader who became the unwilling sacrifice
made for her people by bloodthirsty oppressors.
She took it down, kissed his beautiful head and left, carrying what would
be the symbol of their rebellion close to her heart.


Until Death

     By Robert Kassebaum

 “Did you bring the sword?” the skull asked.

“Yes… I did,” Colinda said as she held back her tears. “As
you requested.”

“Please don’t be sad. It’s really for the best you know,”
replied the skull.

Colinda started to pace the anti-chamber in a slow, circular
pattern; her leather boots creaked as she stepped. She stared into the empty
eye sockets of the skull she held. It is all that was left of her friend, her
lover, her husband. “Please. Is there no spell that can bring you back to me?
Something else we have not tried.”

“No. It is the only way to free my trapped soul. My time
here, on this world, with you… is over,” the skull answered.

Colinda walked over to one of the windows and looked out. She
saw the sun was starting to set. The sword in her other hand began to weigh
heavily, and as the tip of the blade hit the floor, it rang out.  Tears streamed down her face.

“Now is the time, my love, before the sun sets. The magic
within the sword is at its strongest,” the skull said.

She went to the center of the room and placed the skull down.
Colinda grabbed the hilt of the sword with both hands and lifted it above her
head. “Do you like my outfit?” she said, trembling. “I  made it just for you. The material is almost
see through and, if I move ever so slightly, quite revealing. It’s like the one
I wore on our wedding night.”

“I remember,” the skull stated. “It’s beautiful, as are you.
But it is pure torment, for me, to see you dress so. I can no longer hold on
you, as in life, I have no hands, to caress you, and no lips, to kiss you
with.  So please, while there is still
time, I beg you, strike!”

Colinda swung down hard, missing the skull by inches. The
blade of the sword broke in two with a snap as it hit the floor. She let go of
the sword, and fell to her knees. Both hands went to her face. “I’m sorry. I…
c-can’t bring myself to let you go,” she sobbed. “You mean so much to me. As in
life, so as in death.”

The skull was silent.

She stood up, picking up the broken sword with one hand and
the skull with the other. Once more, Colinda looked deep into the empty eye
sockets. “Please, say something,” she said crying. “Anything.”

But the skull remained quiet – not saying a word.



The Lusty Skull

     by Ken St. Andre

“Take me with you!”

Vrionne stopped admiring the wavy-bladed sword that she had just taken from its place of honor above the altar of sacrifice, and looked around for the voice.  The temple chamber was still empty, and that was good, but then where did the voice come from?

“Over here.  Look up! It’s kind of a high niche.”

The voice came from her left.  She thought about making a break for it.   She had what she came for, and the voice was scaring her just a bit.  Thieves hate to be interrupted in the middle of an operation–even if the interruption was just a disembodied voice. Still, it didn’t sound hostile.  She looked to her left–nothing but wall over there.  And a niche high on the wall with a skull sitting on it.

“That’s right!  I’m the skull. Come take me down.”

The voice was oddly compelling.  Vrionne crossed the chamber, stood up on tip toes.  Her fingers could just barely touch the skull’s lower jaw bone.  She stretched for it, and then felt teeth  clamp firmly, but not painfully on her middle finger.  She almost screamed.  But, thieves have self control, or they don’t last long in the business.  Slowly she pulled her hand back, and the skull rattled along until it fell off the ledge.

But, it didn’t fall.  Attached firmly to her finger, it came down at the same speed as her hand.

She put the sword down on the altar–quietly.  Then with her free hand she disengaged the skull and held it up to look at it.  “How can this be?”

“In life I was a wizard.  In death, I remain one.”

Vrionne was spooked, but she tried not to show it.  Holding the sword in one hand, she held the skull in the other and gazed at him.

“Why would you want to go with me?”

“I like the way you dress.”  Vrionne glanced momentarily at her skimpy costume.  It was an outfit designed to call attention away from her face, and also to permit rapid movement.

“Thanks for the compliment!  But I came to steal the sword, not a talking skull.”  She started to set him down.

“But baby, I’m in lust with you,” groaned the skull. Vrionne though she heard the hint of a chuckle in its bone-dry voice.”  She had heard such comments before, and she didn’t put much faith in them.

“It would never work out,” she told him. “You are notably lacking in all of the requirements I look for in a lover.  You don’t even have a tongue!”

“Well, then, I am the Guardian of the Sword.  How can I guard it if you leave me behind?”

“The sword won’t need a guardian where I’m taking it.  No, you can stay her, Sir Skull.”  She set the bony head down on the altar.  Then she carefully tied the sword around her neck with a piece of cord she had brought, turned and started toward the knotted rope that dangled from a skylight thirty feet overhead.

“You’re making a terrible mistake,” said the skull.  “Last chance!  Take me with you.  I am so bored in this place.”

Vrionne grinned slightly.  Men!  They always tried to wheedle her when they didn’t get their way. She gripped the rope and leaped upwards, catching it with her other hand.

“Freeze!” said the skull, and there was no longer any friendliness in his voice.

Vrionne felt her muscles lock up.  She felt an icy chill in every part of her body.  The rope turned slightly with her weight on it, and she saw the skull lieing on the altar.  A baleful blue glare emnated from the empty eye-sockets.

“Please,” she could barely whisper.

“You had your chance, baby.  You should have taken me with you.”

Vrionne hung helplessly in magical paralysis.  She wanted to scream, but only the barest whisper would pass through her lips.  She felt her body going numb under the chill.  Her mind raced, trying to think of a way out of this predicament. She knew what they did to thieves here in the city of Stormgaard.  Only one thing occurred to her.

“I’ll take you with me,” she managed to gasp.

“But I could never trust you!  No, you will hang there until the guards arrive, and they are already on their way. You should have taken me when I offered. After all, I told you I was a wizard, and you never want to offend a wizard.”

Vrionne wished the damn skull would shut the hell up.


Looks like the skull gets the last laugh.


Comments on these stories would be most welcome.  If you read them, I’d especially like to know which story you liked the best.


Time to Quit

Time To Quit

     by Paul Ingrassia

Alan slipped out the door and around the corner of the
building into the narrow alley. He hoped Joan and the kids wouldn’t miss him
for a few minutes. After a quick glance up and down the alley to make sure
nobody was around, he removed the loose brick in the wall and revealed his
stash. With shaking hands, Alan pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The
five-year-old tobacco was stale, but he inhaled it deeply, smiling with intense
pleasure. The familiar head-rush caused by infrequent smoking was almost

Alan tried to stay out of sight, but . . .

Screeching tires and flashing lights suddenly interrupted
his ecstasy. He dropped the cigarette and stepped on it, but it was too late.
Corporate police officers streamed into both ends of the alley, guns drawn.

“Police! Freeze!”

Alan quivered and his mouth went dry.

“Down on the ground, now!”

He dropped to his knees. Two officers pinned him down while
a third handcuffed him.

“You have the right to remain silent…”

Joan and the kids were now at the end of the alley, and
Alan’s attention focused on them. He saw a police sergeant approach them.

“Mrs. Winston, thank you for calling us,” he said
to her.

“When will I be getting my reward?” she asked.

“Within a few days,” he said. “The Incorporated American Territories
appreciates citizens who report contraband.”

“When will his trial be?”

“There will be no trial. The CEO of the IAT issued a
memo last week to Corporate Police Headquarters stating anyone found in
possession of contraband shall receive immediate public execution. We will be
taking him straight to Center
Square,” he said. “Mr. Winston will be
burned at the stake.”

It looks like the future will be more like the past.




I’m not a smoker, but I do think people ought to be allowed to poison themselves if they want to.  Once they stamp out tobacco use, what’s next? Chocolate?

Every Picture Tells a Story: 2

We got 3 stories from the first picture. Let’s see if we can do that well with the second one.  The rules are simple. Look at the picture below. Tell a story based on the picture.  Keep it to 1000 words or less.  The best story gets a $5 prize.  If you know me personally, send your stories to me directly via email.  If you don’t know me: send them to  You have no more than 3 days to get that story to me, so put on your thinking caps, open the inkwell, sharpen your pen, and get to writing!

One way to get a head.

The picture was created by my talented friend Robin Stacey, who is also known as Greywulf on Twitter.  Follow him and be delighted with many more excellent renders.


Wolf and Girl Stories

Three days ago, I started a flashfiction contest.  I got two entries and I wrote a story myself.  There may not be any literary prizes here, but I’m pleased with the stories, as it gives me something to share with you all today.  The winning story, imho, is the third one, but please leave a comment and vote.  I’d like to know which story you think is best.
Incidentally, I want to say, GOD DAMN WORDPRESS!!!  I worked and worked to get the formatting right on these stories, and WordPress kept putting the wrong, poorly spaced and balanced formats back.  Well, I give up.  You readers will just have to take the stories the way WordPress allows me to produce them.  GOD DAMN WORDPRESS!!!  I WANT A WYSIWYG INTERFACE!  GRRRRRRR!
Meet Me By the Fire
By Laurie Rose
The maidens giggled as they helped each other wash
their hair in the quiet place in the river.
The sun was shining warmly on the day, seemingly anticipating the coming
festivities as much as the maidens.
“Shareena, your hair is so beautiful, he is sure to choose you,” one of
the maidens pouted.
“I think he’ll choose her for her beautiful voice, “ another whinesd.
Shareena dipped her head into the water to rinse the herbal suds from her
flowing locks.  As she put her head up, she splashed Calaya, her best friend, and giggled uncontrollably.
“Oh, Shareena,” Calaya scolded, “you have
everything a man can want, but you are still like a child!”
Shareena laughed and then gasped as looking into
the forest she saw eyes looking back at her from behind a tree.  Shareena found a rock to lie on and be warmed
by the sun’s rays.  As she combed her fingers through her hair, she again spied the eyes in the forest looking at her.
“Surely, it must be Karlund,” she thought. Karlund was the greatest warrior in her village and the one she hoped to
be betrothed to this very evening.  Shareena removed the straps of her top, revealing much of her breast, as she spread aloe
and chamomile oil on her body to make it shine.
The eyes continued to look.  As Shareena massaged the oil  on her chest,
it became evident that the eyes watching her were causing her to be
aroused.  Shareena lay back on the rock, her breasts nearly fully exposed. Then she heard
the calling.  “Shareena, come to me.”  Shareena sat up quickly, looking
into the forest.  “Shareena………………….” The voice continued to call.  Was that
Karlund’s voice?  Shareena slipped her arms back in the strap of her top and slipped away while the other maids were
chatting and laughing.
Her limber body made its way easily as she called out
for Karlund.  “I heard your voice,
Karlund, make yourself known!  I am here
to………..” Shareena fell silent as she came face to face with a hideous
creature.  His teeth were sharp and pointy, ears facing forward, and he crouched ready to attack.  Behind the creature, a hideous female voice hissed, “You, woman, prepare to meet your final moments.  I will have Karlund as my own, and you are
the only one to stop me!”
Shareena jumped back and grabbed a large stick
just as the creature lurched forward to strike.
Shareena felt a new-found strength she’d never known before and with
both hands swung the stick hard making a loud thud on the creature’s
skull.  Shareena dropped the stick in surprise and looked to find the woman who had spoken had fled with haste.  Shareena, breathing quickly from as much fear as the physical strain of the moment, put her foot on the chest of the wounded
beast.  “I demand you state your purpose.  Why would you call to me and
attack me, creature?”
The creature,gasping, opened his mouth as though to speak, then disappeared as if he had
never been.   Shareena was bewildered as she looked around the forest.
In that moment, Karlund and his father stepped
from behind her.  Karlund’s father put his arm on his son’s shoulder as he praised his son, “You have chosen well,
son.”  Karlund smiled longingly at Shareena as he whispered, “I have found my true love.  Until tonight………….”
Shareena made her way back to the river, the other
maids staring at her dissheveled appearance.
Shareena could only smile as they maidens asked her endless
questions.  Finally, Calaya came very
close, enough to where Shareena could smell the fragrant herbs in her
hair.  “Shareena, you’ve only minutes
before we have to go to the fire for the festivities.  Do you not care?
Shareena smiled again, dipping her hair in
the water.  “Let’s  go, Calaya, let us dance, let us find our
true loves!!!”  Shareena half danced and
half skipped towards town, the other maids’ mouths wide open.  They could barely hear Shareena as she sang,
“It’s a goooood dayyyyy.”
From a story of true love, let us move on to a story of true lust.  Read this and then let me know if I have a great future in store for me as a wrtier of romances.
By Ken St. Andre
Runt hated his name, and he hated his status. He
was the smallest member of his pack, and the slowest, and the weakest. Even old
Greymuzzle could beat him.
So, he left. He changed into man-form and hitchhiked down the Pacific Coast Highway
until he reached San Diego.  Couldn’t get
much further south than that.  He got a
job at a Jack-in-the-Box cooking burgers and other local delicacies.  There was plenty of raw meat for him
there–just clip off an ounce before cooking, and pop it in his mouth.  Customers never noticed if their burger was a
little light.
And . . . he got a girlfriend, a cute little
brown-haired beach bunny named named Kara.
She caught him walking into the restaurant one morning and said
“Hey, what’s your name?”
“Runt–er, I mean, Ron.  Who are you? Why do you ask?”
“Ha, ha, ha!  Runt!? It’s a good nickname for you, Ron.  I’m not tall, but you’re shorter than
me.  Still, I like the way you look.  There’s something wild about you.”
“If you only knew,” thought Runt.  He licked his lips.  “Gotta
think of something nice to say to her.”
“You’re pretty hot.  What’s your name?”
“Kara.  Kara Smith. And you are . . .”
“Ron.  Ron Wolf   Hey, Kara, I’m a cook here.  Would you like a free burger, my
“I’d love one.  Make it rare for me, will you, Ron?”
And that was the beginning of a beautiful
friendship that got better every day.
Kara and Ron went to the movies together.  They went to the arcade together. They went
to concerts together.  They went to the
beach together.  They went to bed together.
Runt learned a lot about his Kara.  She was strong and wild, and she liked to be
on top.  Ron enjoyed his time with Kara, knowing that it would be short, because the full moon was coming.  With the full moon would come the change, and that, Runt thought, would be the end of Kara.
A werewolf dreams of the first maiden that he gets to ravish and devour.  He couldn’t help salivating every time he
thought of how he would really bite into her soon.  Grrrr and Yummm!
The day of the full moon came.  Ron got the afternoon off and took his girl
to a La Jolla beach.  They found a very remote spot way down past the nude beach and set up their blanket and umbrella.  By the time the sun went down they were alone.
“Tonight we stay and watch the moon come
up,” Ron told her.  He leaned in to
kiss her lips.  They were a bit salty
from her last swim in the ocean.
“Oh, Ron, you’re such a romantic.” Kara kissed him back, grabbed him, and rolled him on the blanket beneath her.  He lay beneath her with her bikini-wrapped breasts bobbling a few inches from his face.
He could scarcely repress a howl of glee.  The tingle in his skin told him the change
was starting.  He lifted his head to snap at her teasing tit, but she jerked backwards and he gnashed only air.
Kara  giggled.  “Down, boy!” she commanded.  Then her eyes widened.  “Ron,
what’s happening?  You’re changing!  Growing hairier, darker, more–“
Ron surged upwards and threw her off his body.  “I have a surprise for
you,” he growled.  His words were just barely human.  “You know why my
last name is Wolf?  It is because I am a wolf–a werewolf!”  He loomed over
her and let the saliva drip off his canine fangs and out of his muzzle.
Kara scooted away backwards until she could get to her feet. Runt advanced slowly, savoring each step as he
watched the terror on her face. It slowly occurred to him that she didn’t seem
as terrified as she should be.  Then he rushed her, claws outstretched to grab her rend her frail form.
Kara reached out, caught one arm by
the wrist, pulled him forward, bent to the side, and threw him to the
ground.  His head smacked into a boulder
and in the next second he found himself flat on his back with Kara stepping on
his chest.
“I think I’ll call you Rover,” she sneered. “And you should know by now, I like to be on
Poor Runt.  When you can’t win, you really just can’t win.  Just his luck to run into  a weregirl in his new home by the sea.
The third story takes place in Trollworld, and is by a member of Trollhalla. Come to think of it, all stories are by members of Trollhalla. Come on, rest of the world!  These contests are open to everyone.


by Bernard Assaf

“Bah!” came the cry, closely followed by chair-on-floor
scraping, pewter mug crashing, and sloshing liquid sounds.  “Dragon droppings!” Nocks lamented aloud.

Those in the crowd gathered at the Blue Frog Tavern who were
close enough to Nocks’ table, turned their heads in time to see the aftermath
of the collision.  One of the servers had
tripped over a wayward sword’s scabbard, and he had spilled his tray, which had
previously held aloft several of mugs of ale.
One of the mugs had sloshed its contents in a wide arc which splattered
on the head and back of the young woman who until a few moments previous to the
crash had been enjoying her evening meal.

“Oh no, I’m so sorry!” Crumbs the server quickly replied.  He scooped up the spilled mugs and wiped up
the ale from the floor, then offered to clean her ale-doused cloak.

“No way!  That dishrag
is probably dirtier than my cloak.  I’ll
clean it myself,” Nocks fumed.  She
gulped down the last of her grog and shoved the last of the potato slices into
her mouth.  Nocks bent down and scooped
up her pack from under the table, then made her way outside.  Outside, she shook her head and the stray
splashes of ale that had landed in her hair sprinkled the front porch.  In the relative quiet of the mostly deserted
landing, she was surprised by slurping and smacking sounds.  Quickly she turned around and spied a patron
relaxing on a chair by the door.  He held
a glass to his face.  “Good grief!” she
barked.  “Men these days—no manners!” she mused silently.

At this hour, none of the reputable cleaning establishments
were open, so Nocks trudged off home.
The man without manners lowered his empty glass, shrugged, and resumed
counting the cracks on its interior.

Inside Nocks’ under-furnished room in the female wing of the
third floor of the adventurer’s guild hall, Nocks slammed and locked the door,
dumped her pack, and stripped off her cloak.
She crossed the room with its lonely bed, desk and chair to the wash
room, and dumped her cloak in the wash basin.
The tub still held a half-full mix of water and soap from her previous
bath and would now serve to clean her cloak, just as it had cleaned the grime
and sweat from her body that afternoon.  She
kicked her boots off her feet, pulled off her tunic and trousers and tossed
them into the basin as well.  That was
when she heard an unexpected gurgling sound.

“Death Goddess!” she cursed, swinging around to scan her
tiny two-room home for the source.
Making a full circle, Nocks focused on the wash basin.  The water was slowly sucking her garments
under, and the guttural gurgle became louder.
Confused, Nocks reached in, brazenly pulled out her clothes, and spied
her cloak—if it could still be called that.
A beast with matted fur the same black color as her cloak squirmed,
sputtered and clawed its way out of the wash basin, dumping itself on to the
floor. Astonished, Nocks peered into the washer, which was empty save the soapy

“What?  Who?” Nocks stammered, returning her gaze to the black animal as she backed up into the
room toward where she’d left her pack and sword.  The creature was growing in size like a
soaked sponge decompressing underwater.

Nocks reached her sword, eyes still fixed on the monster,
and as she pulled the blade from its sheath the creature stood up on its
cat-like hind legs, shook itself to dry, then stared her down.  “More!” it growled, guttural and feral.  It picked up her soggy tunic with its clawed hands.

Nocks, clad only in her black and white flower print
undergarments, charged the beast with a brave roar.  It was the first time she had entered into
combat with a piece of clothing, but the actual mystery of its transformation
from cloak to creature did not surprise her, for that was the magical norm of
everyday life in the city of Khazan.

The beast surprised her with a back-pedaling retreat from her
advance.  Nocks hesitated.

“More?” it said more hesitantly, almost questioningly.  Nocks sensed no aggression, but instead fear,
in this still growing creature.  The
beast looked about, spied the lone window in the wash room, leaped to it,
banged open the wooden shutters, and jumped.

“I don’t think so!” Nocks challenged, and leaped after
it.  She knew what lay outside—the river—and
she was confident in not only her leaping ability but also her splashdown and
swimming skills.  This cloak come to life,
or whatever it was, would not escape her!

The beast, only a second in front of her, splashed down
first, and then quickly scrambled up to the opposite bank.  Like a cannonball, Nocks plunged into the
river after it, her topknot of hair whipping in the night air.  She pushed up from the rocky riverbed that
came too quickly for her comfort—she’d have bruised heels for sure in the
morning—and broke the surface.

Nocks heard the cat-like creature shout pleadingly: “More!”  It was now about her same height and
scrambling away from her, still clutching the doubly-doused tunic.  As Nocks approached with sword in front of
her, the cloak turned cat-man dropped her tunic, turned to run, but tripped
over a root and fell over the upraised stone circle surrounding a landscaping
rock which Nocks had seen the children use to play king of the hill.

This thing made no motion to threaten her, and so Nocks returned
the favor, thrusting her sword into the earth.
Nevertheless, the chase coming to a close, she jumped up on the stone,
earth and rock dais and plunged one wet foot into the beast’s midsection.  She pointed her finger accusingly at the
creature.  “What are you—and what do you want?”

“More!” it stammered, afraid.

“More?  More what?” Nocks demanded.

Exasperated and licking its lips, the creature cried out.

The End


There are many strange adventures told in Trollworld, but I don’t think I’ve ever read anything stranger than that.

And now, esteemed readers, please comment and let the world know which story you liked the best.!



There will be another contest later in the week.  Think about it!  Wouldn’t you like to see your flash fiction published here at Atroll’s Flashfiction.  All you have to do is write something–preferably something fantastic–and email it to:

Every Picture Tells a Story

This isn’t fiction.  Not yet.  It’s an idea I had to inspire myself to write more flash fiction, and then I decided to open it up to anyone interested.

From time to time this site will offer a render by Greywulf (Robin Stacey) and a challenge.  Write a story in 1000 words or less based on the picture, and submit it to this site.  You can do that by emailing the story to  That’s my account, and I use it to accept stories to be published here at Atroll’s Flashfiction.

Here are the rules.

1.  This is my site.  I get to decide what’s good enough to publish and what isn’t.

2.  The best story, in my not so humble opinion, gets $5 which I will send to the winner via paypal.  It also gets the lead position here when the story is published.

3.  Stories that I deem good/fun enough to publish, but are not the best, will get $1 from me via Paypal. 

4.  The contests are short, fast, and brutal.  I want to see a lot of flash fiction, and I want it now.  If no one else enters these contests, I’ll still write stories and publish them here.

That’s it.  That’s all the rules.  You wanna play?  Jump in and send your stories to  Here’s the first contest art:

Hunting Parties

Hunting Parties

two tales of Trollworld by Ken St. Andre

Hungry Fairies

“Summer is almost over,” said Bluefeather.

“I like winter better,” Prickle answered.

“But winter is cold. I don’t like the cold.”

“Cold doesn’t bother me, and I do like the meat.  Don’t you?”

“Mmmhmmm.” A dreamy glaze came over the eyes of the two fairies. Prickle licked her tiny lips.

“Hey, you two! I’ve got weapons for you.” Burndog flew up with his arms full of flint knives.

“Flint! Flint again? Why is it always flint? When do we get iron or steel?”

“We can’t buy iron or steel,” he answered.  “Fairies don’t have money for men-things. And the elves don’t like those

“The stinking elves,” snarled Prickle. “We treat them like lords. They aren’t our masters. We have no trouble with cold iron.”

“Psst!” Prickle and Burndog turned to look at Bluefeather.

“Look! Bunnies!” hissed the other fairy. “Let’s try out those knives.”

The three fairies attacked. The shrill screaming of the rabbits filled the night.

“Yum, meat!” Prickle gloated as she cut her prey open and started to eat.

Dinner is about to be served.

The End

Nobbig was making too much noise.

Frog Hunt

Four Goblins splashed through some of the shallower waters of the Great Sump.  They worked in pairs as they hunted for their supper.

Nobbig from Knor splashed through the murky water. It only came up a little past his knees, but the bottom was so soft and
muddy that his splay-toed feet kicked up mud and water with every step. He had a bamboo spear in his left hand – the perfect frog sticker. It was just a hollow cylinder of reed with one end sharpened.

“Do you have to make so much noise?” complained his partner – another goblin named Glumb. Unlike Nobbig, Glumb could glide through the swamp and never leave a trace.

“Are you worried that I’ll scare the frogs away?”

“A little bit. I’m more afraid that you’ll attract something that might want to eat us.”

“What? You didn’t tell me that we could be prey as well as predator!”

Rrribbet!  The bullfrog’s croak was surprisingly loud in the night.  Nobbig looked around apprehensively.

The Goblins stopped arguing. Their big ears swiveled on their bald green skulls. Their eyes darted from side to side,
searching the reeds and weeds and lilypads. Every ripple could be their targets.

As the water got deeper, frogs and other creatures began to appear. Fishy shapes darted between their legs and larger serpentine bodies sometimes pursued them.

As the night deepened even more of the swamp creatures came out. Glumb struck first – his arm darting out and slashing at a
big bullfrog, but he missed.

“Har!” snorted Nobbig. “And you’re the great swamp hunter.”

“I’d like to see you do any better!” snarled Glumb.

Nobbig looked left but speared right and there he had it – a big yellow-bellied amphibian transfixed on his spear. The frog’s
blood trickled down its bulging stomach.

“How’s that?” he gloated.

“Put it in your bag. We need more than one frog tofeed the clan.”

Nobbig got the second frog also. Then, Glumb got three in a row. They were doing well before the whirring of gigantic wings
interrupted them.

“Get down!” hissed Glumb. The two Goblins hunched down until only their eyes and nostrils were above the surface. The shadow of a monstrous dragonfly fell across the water, and a huge insect buzzed above them.
Luckily, it did not stay long. Two little goblins would not be enough to satisfy that bug’s appetite.

But they stayed low in the water until the whirring of its wings faded out in the distance. After nearly half an hour they
got back to an upright position.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Nobbig. “We’ve got enough.”

“I agree. I think the shore is this way.”

They started off. Nobbig didn’t splash nearly as much as he had at the beginning of the hunt.

They had just emerged from the water when the biggest frog Nobbig had ever seen appeared out of nowhere.  There was a mighty thump as it landed, and then the huge amphibian had its tongue around Glumb. and popped him right into its big, gaping maw.

Goblins are ferociously brave.  Nobbig and the other two members of the hunting party attacked.  Even Glumb struggled inside the frog’s stomach–he wasn’t chewed up on the way down.

The Goblins fought with determination, cunning, and all the ferocity they could summon.  And not a single one returned to camp to tell the tale.

The End