The Wishing Pool #writephoto

The Wishing Pool (173 words)

Where the wishes went, no one knew. Silver pennies went up and down, disappearing into the bottomless black water.

“Shh, shh, don’t tell me what it is,” said the goblin. “Just let it go.”

That was an impossible thing—letting wishes go. Emmy looked down at the coin in her hand and dropped it into the water, a little girl’s wish going down, down, and down.

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The Festival #writephoto

The Festival (141 Words)

The Festival of Shadows was a memory. And like a memory, it could be frightening.

The girl watched the spectacle of dancing monsters, the giant, the scavenger, a man and a child, all theatrically presented in exaggerated flare. Aasfresser, that was the name for the scavenger. Sekr, the giant. She did not remember the man’s name.

The child was the Question.

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The Choosing of Scoral and Lune #writephoto

The Choosing of Scoral and Lune (878 words)

Scoral was a handsome mer, graceful and strong, his long hair the color of ripe kelp and his scales the same fiery orange-gold. He was chosen by Lune for his fearlessness and wildness. All mer have that wild edge to their personality, but Scoral was known to test his elders almost to the limit. More than once he was threatened with banishment from the chorus. Although lone mer were not unheard of, in dangerous ocean waters these solitary-minded mer only rarely survived.

Scoral himself was not concerned. He swam alone frequently, relishing the freedom of his own path.

Lune was his own age, the daughter of a chieftain. She was quieter and more thoughtful in her ways than Scoral, and she knew he was far too reckless. She better than anyone understood that to say so would be useless. Others had told him and Scoral refused to listen. It was left to him, to decide what his fate would be.

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Little Girl

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Little Girl (56 Words)

The aliens were sensitive to life forms, but Ji11 wasn’t a life form.

She was the last thing the humans in their containment cell expected to see, carrying the codes for their release.

Ji11 would never understand the relief on the captives’ faces, but she understood the pride in Mary’s quiet whisper: “That’s my little girl!”

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Written in response to Three Line Tales’ challenge. Check it out! Image (c) Alex Knight.