Five Sentence Fiction – "Some Men…"

There will be a fire: a vast, world-consuming fire, brought on by the judgment of the gods. It's coming whether you want it to or not, no matter what you do or do not do, regardless of your good intent or lack of same.

You can build all the shelters you want. You can burrow underground to your heart's content. What you don't understand, what you've never understood, is that when the world burns, the forests will grow back — slowly, cautiously, first shoots poking up out of the ashes like a soldier in a shell-hole — but the cities never will.


You don't understand; you don't know how it feels.

I remember the first magic I worked. It was small, it was nothing. A compressed-time spell on a minute scale: forcing a dandelion to go to seed after it's been picked still-yellow and held pinched between forefinger and thumb. I remember the other students watching the seeds blow away in the wind, but the teacher, she was watching my face.

They say warlocks go mad because of the power, but I think it's the high. I think they're addicts, hooked on a more potent strain than the rest of us can procure, and they burn themselves from the inside-out chasing that euphoria.

That's why all my magic is small, subtle, gentle; every high is like that first hit. They can call me a hedge magician all they want, I'll still be here when they're a smoking ruin in a tattered robe.

Boots, With The Fur

"So what are yours doing?"

From around the corner, with disinterest: "What does it matter?"

"Mine are watching television. Something with people arguing. I think it's a reality show, but one of those ones that's mostly fake, you know? Where the producers set them up in situations and basically tell them what to say?"

"Listen, I'm trying to sit in the sun here. And it's already four, so there's only so much sun left. Sooo…"

"They feed you yet? Mine haven't. I smell food though. That yours? I can't see from here."

With a sigh: "I'm going to sleep now."