#SwiftFicFriday W67 – Vote!

#SwiftFicFriday W67 – Vote!

Another prompt, another round of great stories to choose from. Check the stories out below and vote for your favorite!


299 words, by David A Ludwig (@DavidALudwig)

“You and your mom really don’t get along!” Oaklie gasped airlessly.

“It’s complicated.” At a full sprint, even Vedania’s response was breathier than usual.

A hail of arrows plunging into their previous positions drove bunny and cupid apart. Diving over and under foliage rejoined their paths farther into the wood.

“Didja really have to shoot that arrow at her?” Oaklie ventured as they continued fleeing the flying archers pursuing them.

Vedania shrugged, “It made me feel better.”

Oaklie nodded, not really understanding. She considered the arrows striking around them. If they broke cover Vedania could probably catch them like her mom did, but Oaklie was going to be in trouble.

“The heart tips they’re using won’t really hurt us? Right?”

“Some say heartbreak arrows are worse than physical pain.” As the pair dodged around another trunk, Vedania tossed Oaklie her pack. “I’ll draw them off! Get the supplies to the others and tell them to be ready for takeoff!”

One cupid stayed on Oaklie after the other four followed Vedania. But a single observer was no trouble for Bunny Cadet First Class Oaklie Anne! She doubled back under him, disappeared into a bush and was well on her way back to the clearing by the time he realized she hadn’t stayed there.

Everyone was packed into the repaired sleigh and the reindeer hitched up by the time Vedania came flying like the wind from behind them.

“Go! Go!” The cupid called ahead to her companions.

Bluebelle coaxed their coursers to takeoff velocity. Vedania pulled herself in alongside the druidess as their pursuers crested the hill behind them, too late to catch up. At cruising altitude, Bluebelle put a boot up on the dash with a sigh.

“We may want to work on more anodyne ways to express your frustration.”


The Unfamiliar Man in the Unfamiliar Tavern, 298 words, by Joseph P. Garland (@JPGarlandAuthor)

Even after her eyes became used to the dark and her nose to the dank air, Clara remained disoriented in the unfamiliar tavern. The man she was to meet would have a bowler hat on the table in a corner. She discovered him. His eyes picked her out, and he used the back of his hand to clean some foam from his mustache before nodding. As she neared, he stood, gentleman-like.

“I cannot say why I am here,” she told him. A waitress was beside her as she sat. “A German ale.” With the waitress gone, he said, “Can’t you?”

An acquaintance said he could offer an anodyne for the pain that lingered from the attack. It had the bonus, he said, of enhancing the senses. Bursts of creativity were not uncommon, though he did not put it quite so elegantly.

The German ale was beside her before she again spoke.

“I am told it will not harm me.”

“You’ve been told right.”

She nodded, faintly but he saw it. She reached into the bag on her lap and removed a purse. She opened it and looked across the table.

“Ten dollars?”

“Ten dollars,” he said. He lifted his stein but put it down, seeing he was with a lady.

She took out the bill and slipped it to him. When it was in his left hand, his right was beneath the table, and she took the green bottle, revolted by his touch. She dropped it into her purse which quickly was in the bag.

She was up.

“You know where I am,” he said, reaching for the handle of his stein, seeing as the lady was leaving.

She nodded and turned, and with her eyes accustomed to the room she fled efficiently. Her German ale sat untouched.


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