Two Tales of Fantasy and Quests

Two short pieces of flash/micro-fiction for you this week. Both feature protagonists who are on quests although of entirely different kinds, and both contain a strong urban/dark fantasy element. Our first story Eyes of Fire is by California-based writer Preston Dennett whose credits include sales to Andromeda Spaceways, Perihelion and the Future Embodied Anthology. Next, we have Seeking Ore by Seattle-based writer Alina Rios, who spent the first part of her life in St. Petersburg, Russia. "And like all early experiences," she adds, "it's deep in my bones." Her work has most recently appeared in The Colored Lens, Apex Magazine, Starline, Beorh Quarterly, and other fine places.



Eyes of Fire
by Preston Dennett

The man, old and stick-limbed, bent over the fire. The audience murmured. He wasn’t moving. His flesh should be charred by now. Somebody screamed. When he finally stood and smiled, we all jumped up, applauding. I was impressed. A proud pyromaniac, I’d seen fire-eaters, fire-walkers, fire-jugglers.I studied under a magician and I knew about fireproof lotions and salves. This wasn’t any of those. This guy was genuine.

“Teach me,” I begged, after the show.

He studied me, saw my eyes of fire.

“Okay,” he said.

Years later, I lay next to my fiancé. We were getting married tomorrow. Time to reveal my secret.

“I need to show you something,” I said, unwinding our limbs. I left the bed and stood before the fireplace.

“What?” she asked. She was so beautiful. Those eyes.

“Watch.”

I called forth the fire spirit. Flame erupted from my fingers. Fire enveloped me, then raced to the hearth, igniting the firewood.

Gina began laughing.

“I’ve got something to show you,” she said.

She sat up, raised her arms, pointed to the fireplace. A jet of water rushed from her fingertips, extinguishing the flames instantly.

I turned to her, surprised. Only then did I truly see her eyes of water.

What can I say?  

Opposites attract.  



Seeking Ore
by Alina Rios

Ore, the writer’s daughter, stands at his graveside. In her hands his last book, the one she wasn’t supposed to find. She is 14 and determined, and she finished it a month ago. It’s about a young girl who discovers a door to the underworld. Ore followed the clues from the book to an abandoned train station, overgrown with moss and vines. No door. 

“Show me the real way,” she says to the gravestone, her eyes narrow behind thick-rimmed frames too large for her face. “Or I’ll call your bluff. You always hated that.” 

A crow caws in the distance.

A large white dog approaches and stands at her side. Ore reaches for his shaggy nape and gives it a scratch, then digs in her dress pocket and pulls out a meat stick. The dog sniffs it and exhales sulfur and brine. 

“Do you ever eat?” She puts the stick away and crouches at the gravestone, running her fingers along the engraving. He lived in two worlds. The dog settles down beside her and she leans into his side. 

“He’s waiting for me,” she says and begins to cry. She buries her face in the dog’s fur. 

When the girl is calm again, the dog rises.

She looks up. “Leaving?”

It’s twilight and the dog’s eyes – two fires reflected in hers. She gets up too and they begin to walk, her hand on his back. They follow a path between the graves, the moon behind them, girl’s silhouette no more than a shadow. Soon they are gone.