Aug 202015

Welcome to Micro Bookends 1.44. This week we pay homage to one of the most influential writers in the horror genre, H.P. Lovecraft.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft was born on this day in 1890 in Providence, Rhode Island, USA. He had a troubled childhood; his father was committed to a mental institution when Lovecraft was just three years old and remained there until his death five years later. After his father’s death, he lived with his mother and extended family of two aunts and grandfather. His grandfather in particular encouraged his interest in reading by providing him with books and telling him his own tales of gothic horror. He also had trouble with classmates in school and was often kept at home by his overbearing mother. By the time he reached high school he was better able to connect with his peers and form friendships, but preferred a ‘nightbird’ lifestyle, rarely leaving the house before nightfall.

In 1916 Lovecraft’s first published story, The Alchemist, appeared in United Amateur. His first commercially published work came six years later when he was thirty-one. It was also around this time that he started to build a huge network of correspondents. It is estimated that he sent nearly 100,000 letters during his lifetime. Many aspiring writers later paid tribute to the coaching and encouragement they received by mail. Lovecraft was virtually unknown during his life and his work was published exclusively in pulp magazines such as Weird Tales. Stephen King, who acknowledges Lovecraft as being responsible for his own fascination with horror, has described him as “the twentieth century’s greatest practitioner of the classic horror tale.”

Join me in a celebration of all things Lovecraftian with this week’s photo prompt:

Photo Credit: Xenja Santarelli via CC.

Photo Credit: Xenja Santarelli via CC.

The Judge

Judging this week’s contest is Rebekah Postupak, winner of MB1.13MB1.15MB1.30 and MB1.43 (phew!). Read her winning stories and what she has to say about flash fiction here.


A story of between 90 and 110 words starting with LOVE and ending with CRAFT and incorporating the photo prompt.


Anyone, but especially you!


Why not! Because it’s fun. Because it’s a challenge. Because the winner will receive their own winner’s page, their story on the winning stories list, a ‘Who is the author?’ feature to be posted next week, entry into the ‘Micro Bookend of the Year’ competition, and a copy of this year’s winning stories compilation.


Now! Get your entry in BEFORE 5:00 am Friday (UK time:




Post your story in the comments section. Include the word count and your Twitter username (if you’re Twitterized). Don’t forget to read the full rules before submitting your story.

Anything else?

Please give your story a title. It will not be included in the word count.

Please try to leave comments on a couple of other stories. It’s all part of the fun, and everyone likes feedback!

Remember, only stories that use the bookends exactly as supplied (punctuation, including hyphens and apostrophes, is allowed) will be eligible to win.

  149 Responses to “Micro Bookends 1.44 – LOVE [micro] CRAFT”

  1. Sonia

    Love heart dearest,

    Do I dare venture out on such an ominous eve? The streets are sinister slick with shadows, lamplights twisting at broken-neck angles, fog thickening in pools of dried blood, menacing and congealed.

    My courage diminishes with each passing hour.

    Shapes spiral up, shifting with the ghostly moon.

    Love heart, nights such as this spare no one.

    I so wish to betray my cowardice, to take that first brave step into the dark, to prove myself to you.

    That is surely what you desire; not a timid imprint of a man but, rather, a hot blooded warrior, with fierce flesh, gumption, guile and craft.

    106 horrible apparitions

  2. @firdausp
    Love is the most evil person to walk the streets of Lustyland. He targets his victims with moonlight dipped arrows, so they walk like zombies— lovesick!
    Tonight he’s lurking in the shadows of a dark sinister street. His arrowheads drip the lethal silver liquid.
    He watches a couple coming down the street. He can smell the sweet fragrance of hatred emanating from them.
    Not his favourite perfume!
    He quietly takes aim.
    They come to a sudden stop. The acrid smell of love and lust fills the air.
    An evil smile spreads over Love’s face, his fangs glinting in the moonlight.
    Oh! How good he is at this evil craft!

  3. something familiar …
    (w/c 109)


    ‘Love is yours,’ she whispered. ‘If you still want it.’
    She pressed a piece of paper against his palm and his fingers closed around it.
    He glanced at the note as she retreated into the night. It was directions to a familiar street. He grinned, patted the concealed blade and set off.
    It only took him thirty minutes to arrive but she was already there, waiting. And she wasn’t alone. ‘You remember what to do?’ The young man beside her grunted and focussed on the approaching killer.
    Neither had told the truth.
    Neither could tell the truth.
    They were trapped in identical destinies.
    Each driven by their cunning craft.

  4. @AvLaidlaw
    109 Words

    A Harsh Mistress

    Love spells are feral, deceitful things. Magnus keeps them in an iron-bound book, warded with charms, but at night they whisper, “Why are you alone?”

    Unable to sleep, he studies treatises and plots astrological charts, illuminated by the potent magic of the full moon shining through the trees. But the spells whisper alone, alone…

    There never was time when young, consumed by the lust for the hermetic secrets of the world. But now perhaps his elderly bones needn’t be so cold.

    He unlocks the book. The spells leap and rollick but he feels nothing, only the stone light of the moon that keeps him transfixed by her dark craft.

  5. David Shakes

    Early Mourning
    (110 words)

    Love had deserted me. I called out for her in empty amber streets, wondering how I’d sound to insomniacs:

    “Love, where are you? Love come back to me.”

    I continued unabashed, eschewing well-lit lots for darker places – they’d always been a fascination for her.
    I wandered haphazardly, a somnabulist with intent, only finding long shadows and high gates.
    I sensed movement, but before I could focus something heavy leapt into my chest. I smelled damp earth and copper breath.

    Love had returned – daft name, daft dog.

    We mourned the one who’d named her as we returned to the car, sat empty in the lot like some alien craft.

    • Great word play. I wonder what the worst name for a dog could be?

    • Somehow, I misread this as a ghost story the first time around. lol

      I called out for her in empty amber streets, wondering how I’d sound to insomniacs:

      “Love, where are you? Love come back to me.”

      Love this.

    • Nicely done!

  6. THE ETERNAL QUEST (100 words)

    Love is what? A feeling? An idea? It certainly need not mean lust, for one can love broccoli and not want to jump into bed with it.

    Is love a sense of security, the realization that one is taken care of by another – and in glorious reciprocity, we are allowed to care for them?

    Perhaps love means to be understood. We all need to express ourselves and have our ideas successfully conveyed.

    Maybe love is simply an appreciation. Gratitude for the blessings our lives afford us.

    Most likely it is all these things…and many more. I’ll leave that to be explained by the poets and their solicitous craft.

    • Philosophical piece, wouldn’t necessarily leave it just to the poets though – I have a hard time understanding some of them!

    • “Maybe love is simply an appreciation.” For some reason, I misread that as “apparition”. I’m doing a lot of misreading tonight! Or maybe all this talk of love has left me melancholy. Or bitter. lol

      “Is love a sense of security, the realization that one is taken care of by another – and in glorious reciprocity, we are allowed to care for them?” My favorite line. Great use of the bookends.

  7. @fs_iver
    WC: 109

    Love Is

    Love is patiently waiting for you to tell the truth. I saw you and Amy under the gate tree last night; this is your grace period.

    Love is kind enough to remind you of your vows – “until death do us part” could be a long time. Or not.

    Love isn’t easily angered so you should understand the gravity of this situation. That plate was a warning.

    Love keeps no record of wrong doing, yet every day you bring up the coffee incident or the Christmas present fiasco. I’m human.

    How can you make it up? Don’t worry, Love. I have a remedy. Quenching those pesky desires is my craft.

  8. In the Shadows

    109 words


    Love makes me hide here, in the dark. I have imprisoned myself beyond your reach. For you to try and find me would be a mistake, yet I let you glimpse me in the shadows, hear me murmuring behind the walls.

    My predicament is grave; egoist that I am, I fancied myself a master and read aloud the words of the dread Necronomicon, awaking the long-slumbering Elder Gods.

    Now they claim me. I am holding out for as long as I can; just until I see you leave. Only then will I turn my face from this life, a fitting end to a man who practised a fool’s craft.

    • I love, ‘imprisoned myself beyond your reach.’

    • “Yet I let you glimpse me in the shadows”. There’s something so intriguing about this line.

      I’d like to learn more about this story. Please let me know if you decide to expand it!

  9. @carolrosalind

    W/C 106

    Dank Cellar

    ‘Love these old houses don’t you?’ He said glancing around the

    cellar in the flickering light.

    ‘Yeah! It’s all that history.’

    ‘If you want to make it habitable down here that tree’s going to

    have to come up, the roots are growing up through the floor.’

    ‘Well it has been boarded up for years, that’s why it’s so dank

    down here’

    ‘Someone told me the locals shun it – say it’s haunted.’

    The solitary bulb flickered again then sizzled, before giving up

    completely, leaving them standing in a dim stream of filtered


    ‘I think you need an electrician – or an exorcist – know anyone

    practicing the craft?’

  10. Love’s Craft
    110 Words

    Love brought color to this world.
    We walked this path, hand in hand, the warmth of your coat around my shoulders. You lit me up and with that light the world was anew.

    Love brought purpose to my world.
    Your small hand in mine, a whiff of your perfume. I would walk this path and wait, for you. Then you’d turn the corner with a bright smile and the world was anew.

    Love brought unrecognizable pain.
    Flayed us open. Let the harsh wind scrape our most private of parts. You were mine, I was yours. The world was anew. Then the gods stepped in with their malicious craft.


    “Love your shoes. Where’d ya get them? Charity store?”

    Trapped, one song from home.

    “Your mamma make that dress?”

    She sees a birdfeeder on the nearest tree, perhaps someone kind lives beyond that locked gate, sends out a silent plea.

    “Check out the hair – you got rats in there Goth girl?”

    Rain hisses down, lit by the street lights. She can feel her kohl running down her cheek.

    “Aw – it’s a cry-baby.”

    She pushes out into the darkness harder – a stronger demand – blood beats at her temples.

    CRACK. Something gives. The lights go out.

    They squawk and scream.

    She runs.

    She will, in time, perfect her craft.

    109 words

  12. The Song of a Housewife

    Love the way her blood filled in the streetlights with a sacred pulse. The green creatures with multiple heads and speaking several tongues at once left suburbia intact, except for one thing.

    She had dream of a loaf of bread eating her head.

    She made 911 call. “Help me!!! Please!!!! I am baking!!!!”

    “Where are you?”

    “It is dark. There are gears. I’m inside my lock!! It’s ticking!!!”

    “Sorry, did you say lock?”

    Everything in its place. But short whimpering weaving inside metal.

    Baker sets combination at 400, then alarm. She was sliced and used with breakfast decorated with strawberry jam.

    Being a housewife is an art… no, a craft.

    (110 words)

    • “The green creatures with multiple heads and speaking several tongues at once left suburbia intact, except for one thing.” Haha Sounds like a bit of a learning curve but that they figured it out by the end!

    • Surreal and a little gruesome. Loved it.

  13. Surprise Ending?
    110 words

    “Love isn’t enough anymore,” Harry said. The chainsaw vrrrrrrrred in agreement.

    “Please, Harry. It’s late, you’re angry…”

    “Shut up, Mandy. You don’t know anything!”

    “You can stop this before you sober up and realize your mistake.”

    “I said shut up!”

    “No! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

    Harry sliced through his victim.

    Mandy screamed.

    The tree toppled to the ground. Harry’s father had planted it, and now it was gone. Love wasn’t enough; he was sick of raking leaves.

    Then he went ahead and murdered Mandy, because why not? The chainsaw was already going. He used her blood to paint the dead tree and in the morning admired his craft.

  14. @fs_iver
    WC: 110

    First Day of Intergalactic Theater

    “Love you to the moon, kiddo.”

    “And back?”

    Daddy hugs me until my lungs pop. The Newcomers are gathering us toward their ship; it’s like Minecraft only I can touch it.

    “Where’s Mommy?”

    Daddy’s eyes are wet because he’s proud of her.

    “The New Royalty wanted to see her juggle. Chainsaws and all.”

    I frown. I’m proud of her, too, but I’m also something else, hot and sour and head-achy.

    “Don’t be mad, little man. We love you.”

    They’re pushing the grownups behind the gate, now.

    “Have fun!”

    Our guides look like deep-sea fish and I don’t believe they’re masks. Remembering to be brave, I follow them to their craft.

    • Great voice with this one! And really creepy. What do the New Royalty have in store?

      I’m not sure if it’s what you intended, but my first thought was of this Twilight Zone episode called “To Serve Man”. Saw it as a kid, and it’s stayed with me ever since.

    • That second line broke my heart a littlle when I read this.

  15. Lessons

    Love isn’t enough, mother.

    I am walking these desolate streets tonight, just like you did. You must have needed to take refuge under the silent moon to dry your tears. But, I needed you to hold me. I wish you had the opened that gate to save us once and for all.

    Remember that purple dress you tried on and glowed wearing it? But purple was my color, and you bought the dress for me.

    I learned to cry and to sacrifice my needs.

    Tonight I will unlearn it all. I will open that gate and learn to soar, learn the art of liberty and the craft.

    107 words

  16. A Glass of Milk

    Love sparkled twisted snow streetlights. She put gallon in fridge.

    Time sphere eradicating all molecular structure emanated from his third eye that was hooked up to photoneutron plasma gyrate screen. He activated imagination sequence and touched his solar plexus chakra with the proton reflection beam. In front of him materialized the subconscious cell dividing board allowing access to God complex; he slightly rearranged his facial features and then astrally traveled to astral theater and watched a film in 4D. Returning to his body, he went to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk. He choked and gagged and then died.

    Red worm came from his left eye – witches’ craft?

    (110 words)

  17. @carolrosalind

    W/C 96

    Unrequited Love

    Love! What do you know of love?
    My letters returned unopened.
    My calls unanswered.
    My advances rebuffed.
    What do you truly know of love? Answer me – please.
    You leave me powerless to resist as the dark path beckons; as the shadows
    collude with my silence to hide me from your view.
    I await my opportunity, marking off the days, the weeks, the months; stalking you.
    When the time comes I will strike and in your heart of hearts you understand me
    well enough to predict how the outcome must be, for that is within your craft.

  18. Submission

    98 words


    Love is a light that has faded from my life. The roads I have taken, dark and lonely. My journey, as I cast off friends like worn-out clothes, is one they cannot follow. It is obsession that has brought me here, to this place.

    Will my words gain my admittance, my acceptance? Or will I be rejected and be sent back into the void?

    I cling to my sanity, now wafer thin and leave my offering at these gates of perdition, my words, my other self. And wonder again at how I have been consumed by this craft.

    • “My journey, as I cast off friends like worn-out clothes, is one they cannot follow.” Love this line.

    • The writer’s road is a lonely one…which is why it’s so great to meet up here! Lovely take on the prompt.

  19. Name: @dazmb
    Words: 97

    Title: Love is a lake that will fall from the sky

    Love is a lake that will fall from the sky.

    That’s what we felt, the first time we kissed.

    The shy awkwardness of our braces, quickly submerged to the thrilling jolts in our stomachs.

    Inscribing our love deep in the tree, scarring the bark in some future recognition, even as the leaves rustled their forgiveness.

    But love is a tree that grows in the night.

    That’s what we know as we grow old together.

    Burnished caress of the long familiar.

    The daily graft of air and water.

    The alchemy and blessings

    of this patient, loving craft.

  20. Sorry, David, this is the version I meant to post, could you ignore or delete the other one. Thanks.

    Strange Love
    (109 words)

    ‘LOVE: instructions for the hard of feeling.’ He opened the book.

    1. Surprise her.
    He boiled the kettle. He’d take her up a cuppa.
    2. Be romantic.
    He placed on the tray the rose he’d picked late last night.
    3. Smarten up your appearance.
    He straightened his tie and slicked back his hair. Today, he’d try harder.

    He climbed the stairs, teaspoon and cups rattling. Her monotone voice met him at the top:
    ‘I cannot process tea,’ she said, before using the flower as an appetizer.
    It was when he watched her devour the tree outside, he began to rue the night he’d taken her from the craft.

  21. Advice

    “Love is like walking home at night. Each streetlamp is a lover,” Terry said with a warm, fleshly voice.
    “Being under the light brings comfort, but you will never reach home standing under one light. The dark is terrifying but necessary. You must pass many lamps and dark spots before you reach your home. Well, thanks for calling listener. That’s all the time we have.”

    The on air lights switched off.

    “How the hell do you come up with this stuff, Terr?”

    “You gotta start with an image.”

    “Sounds difficult.”

    Terry stared at a picture of a gate on his desktop.

    “It’s like building a gate. To master this craft…”

    110 words

    • “Being under the light brings comfort, but you will never reach home standing under one light.” Interesting thought! So, does the on-air personality recommend passing by all the lights? Or lingering a little while at each one? Because I know people who live both ways. lol

  22. @stellakateT
    110 words

    Daughter of the Crafty One

    “Love left this home, years ago”

    I acknowledge his courageous speech with one raised eyebrow.
    His head snaps backwards with the force of the slap. It comes from nowhere. Didn’t even see who did it. They were too quick for me. I try to keep my thoughts to myself, shy away from mess and disorder. I’m being kept alive for some reason and only they know it. Maurice is old, in his mid thirties, what use is he now. I’m even older; a rarity these days, no one ever makes it past forty. I quietly pull the needle in and out of the tapestry of life. This is my craft.

  23. Word Count: 110
    Title: High Voltage

    Love hangs dormant on starless nights — nights scented with the monochrome hue and hum of facsimiled fluorescent fixtures. There’s no sport in illuminating such nights; languid lampposts are no competition for Love with its ultraviolet, electric touch that incapacitates any daring enough to graze its bare, seductive wires. Love lives starved for the taste of blackened nights lavishly salted, eating through stardust-tinted and humidly textured environs, feeding the anxiety and desperation of needing to be found drop-dead gorgeous in front of other romantics.

    Love is sadomasochistic. Love is a horrific machination. Love is a murderous mechanism. Devouring so many insectan souls, Love is by all means a vicious craft.

  24. First Day on the Job

    Love the material.

    You must think it impossible; to you, they look worse than animals. Their stench is assaulting your noses, you want to run home. Your noses will adjust. I arrived here once – on what they call a Friday night, when they come stumbling out of their public houses, pissing and vomiting in the streets. You may not believe it, yet you will grow fond of them and their primitive customs.

    Beware of that day. It will make living here easier, but you must remain dedicated to your task. You must keep the supply steady.

    Respect the reapers’ craft.

    (100 words)

    • Love this one. I’ve always been enamored with the idea of Death as a being; reapers fit in with that. I like the idea of us charming them. Makes me think about WWII. Maybe these reapers are more human than we are. lol

  25. Man Overboard
    Word Count: 110

    Love lay behind the fence. He heard it whisper as he walked past on his way home. It never called out in the morning. And he thought that odd. Love seemed to belong to bright sunny mornings, at least, it did in books and movies.

    He didn’t know. Then again, he imagined, no one really knew, they just felt something and they decided that was that and they stepped forward.

    The whispers beckoned. It had been a long day. A long year. A long life. Alone. He wanted to lean against someone.

    He fell from the top of the fence, as though thrown to the ocean from a hijacked craft.


    * * *

    Brian S Creek
    110 words

    * * *

    Love makes us do foolish things.

    Just ask Mike Sane; amateur adventurer and monster hunter. Right now he stalks the dark, wet, streets of his home town, knowing full well that he’s putting himself and his friend in danger.

    He gave up his old life (or perhaps it gave up him), and now travels the world protecting it from all those things that go bump in the night.

    But tonight he has returned, searching for an evil more powerful than anything the pair have ever faced.

    And still he charges in, because she once meant the world to him.

    So he’s most grateful that he learnt such a useful craft.

  27. Inheritance
    109 words

    Love was for lightweights, Jimmy told himself, as he watched Jack dodge his mother’s touch, her hand a spatula of saliva trying to tame his cow lick.
    Love, and its vodka and lavender scent, had slipped from Jimmy, soft shod, into the night.
    Jack needed an extra hard shove, toughen him up. A lesson in life.
    Whisky was his father’s apocalyptic sunrise, even his drunk punches were fierce.  The future broken, Jimmy had to patch himself up, the crude stitching showed.
    Jack had the best gear, the best sweets, and Buckaroo. Red liquid now matted his precious crown as Jimmy accepted- the one thing passed down- his father’s craft.

  28. @OpheliaLeong
    109 words

    Fiery Prose

    Love has blinded me. That conniving librarian knew exactly how to bat her gray eyes and purse her ruby lips until I was all hers. The Library of Mystical Works has existed for too long and it’s time that I take a torch to it. The smoke of scorched books will swirl up into the sky like a colony of bats.
    “Where do you think you are going, Sylvester?”
    Drat. The librarian with the voice of smooth golden liquor found me. I was spell-bound before her swaying hips and she grabbed the torch out of my stupefied hands.
    “Never,” she whispered huskily, “come between a woman and her craft.”

    • “The smoke of scorched books will swirl up into the sky like a colony of bats.” I’m partial to any mention of bats, lol, but this is a great visual.

  29. @rowdy_phantom
    109 words

    Howard vs. the Workshop

    Love the idea of elder gods, but New England? Really?

    Okay, sure parts of the northeast have the right atmospherics: bedraggled foliage, mist-shrouded avenues, brooding cobblestones, and foghorns moaning over dark waters. Honestly, though, no one’s going to buy twisted titans lurking off the coast.

    The tone is all off. An awful lot of telling through here. The language is way too abstract to inspire genuine fear (though it may indeed induce insanity in prospective editors). Besides, you make some of these creatures seem like wigged fogeys strutting about Parliament.

    This needs some major re-writes. Keep at it, though, Howard. Someday you just may pick up the writer’s craft.

  30. Name: @dazmb
    Words: 110

    Title: The Willow Tree

    “Love you not. Love you I will.”

    The struggle was brief. Blood seeped into Earth.

    From it grew a willow tree, for none other would put down roots where such evil had occurred.

    Iron succoured its roots and, strengthened, it began to mock the sun.

    Spring blossom or summer leaf never touched it spindly branches.

    It bided its time.

    “Love you not. Love you I will”

    The struggle was brief. Blood seeped into Earth.

    Gnarled fingers drew the man a-quarter.

    “Come learn the power of your sex” the willow whispered enveloping the woman in its bark.

    “In time they will call you witch, but not before I’ve honed your craft”

  31. Fragments of a Dialogue Heard through a Fence
    (100 words)

    “…‘Love which moves the sun and the other stars.’”


    “It’s Dante. The most profound poet who ever lived.”

    “It’s still bullshit, no matter who said it. Physical forces move the stars. Beyond that, there’s just the void.”

    “Mere physical forces could never produce anything as complex as that tree, much less something like human beings.”

    “Human beings are the product of physical forces like the stones under our feet.”

    “You’re walking in a fog, distracted by the vastness of the cosmos from what’s most important.”

    “And you’re deluded by apparent regularity.”

    “The Creator can be known through His craft…”


  32. Death on the Couch


    “This will go much easier if you dont fight it. Now, let’s start again.”













    “Maybe we should continue later.”

    (A knife brandished and psychologists throat cut. She was placed on couch by killer.)









    Streetlights lined the road like moons dreary cheerleaders.

    She buried body under brick in front of her home so everyday they would drive over it on thier way to church.

    And she realized it was much easier to tell the story, alone. You didn’t need schooling or fancy degrees and you really didn’t even need, craft.

  33. — 500 Miles For Freedom —

    “Love me, Billy? Then do it.” Scissors glint in the streetlight. “Cut me.”

    Flicking a small leaf from her long blonde hair, Billy makes the first tentative snip.

    “You know it makes sense, Billy. I’m sick of all this Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner BS. We need to get out, go where we can be together.”

    Golden strands gather among the roots.

    “Hopefully none of Dad’s friends will recognise us at the station, then it’s overnight to Philly and a brand new life.”

    Billy smiles. “Just like your heroes?”

    She beams beneath a crooked fringe. “Yep, just like Ellen and William Craft.”

    106 words

  34. Permanence (110 words)

    Love had a way of tattooing itself to you, like a perverted mutation of melanin.

    Bruce was slurping the water traversing down the curb and into the sewer. Down on his hands and knees like a stray dog, the street lamp soaked into his pores.

    The streets were the only thing to love him back. So he was fiercely loyal.

    For instance, the other day, he saw a man drop a McDonald’s wrapper right there on his street. Bruce did what any person in love would do: he beat the man with a steel-toed boot. His blood ran into the sewers.

    It’s the streets where Bruce thrived at his craft.

  35. @PattyannMc
    WC: 46

    Reap what’s sown

    Love begins.

    Balloon heart

    Cumulus head

    Firefly eyes

    Hover board feet

    Champagne sensations

    Silver bell giggles

    Butterfly stomach

    Breezy whispers

    Moonlight romance

    Comfort, complacent

    Jaded years

    Fallow soil

    Scattered weeds

    Barren trees

    Gated secrets

    Thunderstorm fights

    Midnight loneliness

    Tend to your garden; love is a craft.

  36. Twilight Desires (109 words)

    “Love, a foolhardy quest, eh friend?”

    Elias ignored the rasping tone that had broken his mediation of the night sky. His fingers teased the brass of the telescope. Relics of beginnings glittering within darkest velvet.

    “I mean, here I am, waiting for a blind date, like a lovesick teenager eh chap?”

    Frustrated by the intrusion Elias rose from the lens. His tormentor was dressed like a fool, all suit and flourishes of silk. Behind him the gnarled tree loomed, demanding sustenance.

    “A blind date you say? How delightful.”

    “Indeed! Very excitin ….”

    The blade struck deep, silencing the oaf.

    Tree branches creaked forward as Elias’s blade began to craft.


  37. 01001100 01001111 01010110 01000101 (113 words)

    Love had always evaded him.
    But only until today. He had finally found the love of his life when the girl had abandoned him near the gates. He did not know how he had missed it. He had always been so happy when they were together. He distinctly remembered their nights together – such beauty was present in their relationship. And he knew he never had to ask about taking it to the next level. He knew such a question would always find an answer in the affirmative.
    He walked past the gates into the house, and found his love, waiting for him. He would never get over his first, and last, love – Minecraft.

  38. @GeoffHolme
    Word Count: 110

    You Can Check Out Any Time You Like

    “Love this!” I said, turning up the car radio’s volume.

    # …from Providence, the one in Rhode Island… #

    Hotel California.” Cooter took a drag on the doobie.

    The road was slick with rain and my judgement was just a lee-tul impaired. But it was late and I needed to see Suzie.

    “I preferred them with Bernie Leadon,” said Cooter. “He wrote Journey of the Sorcerer… awesome! And his banjo-playing on Midnight Flyer…”

    “Who wrote that? …He also wrote that weird Ray Stevens phone-sex-pest song.”

    “I know!” Cooter yelled, passing the reefer.

    I dropped it, bent to retrieve it. We swerved… smashed into a tree.

    Last thing Cooter said was, “Paul… Craft.”

  39. The gathering

    “Love, its just not right. There’s traditions y’see dearie. Wear black. ”

    “Black. Not… not… not whatever that is. ”

    I held my ground.

    ”It’s called Ganguro.”

    “Think Goth, instead.”

    “Having you own style is all well and good, but witches and black just go together.”

    “You know what they say, black is the new black.”

    The coven meeting continued with no further interruptions, but I knew they would have to have at least one more dig.

    “When next we three meet, make sure you are suitably attired as befits one of our kind.”

    Chastise me will they? I’ll show these old fools the power of my craft!

    99 words

  40. What Would Freud Say?
    109 words

    “Love,” he said, scrawling on the chalkboard, “equals attraction plus compatibility.”

    L = A + C

    “Your assignment tonight is to perform an experiment that either proves or disproves this theory.”

    He stayed late grading papers and downed a dram of cocaine for energy before heading home.

    An eerie mist hung in the air as he stumbled down the slick, cobblestone streets.


    The voice from the shadows belonged to one of his students, but the creature he saw barely resembled Mary.

    “I can prove your theory wrong,” she said, wrapping her tentacles around his shoulders and drawing him into a kiss.

    Indeed. Perhaps it was time for a new craft.

  41. Unlove
    (110 words)

    Love. I don’t think so. Waiting across from his house, I lurk outside the glare of the streetlights.

    I know the signs. He checks his phone frequently, cancels on me. Distraction. Distance. Carelessness.

    But where he is careless, I am careful. Where he is distracted, I am focused, razor-sharp.

    When he hangs up, he says: “I love you.”

    It’s all I can do not to laugh into the receiver.

    Instead, I pause, then say, “I love you, too.”

    He doesn’t notice the pause, but he should.

    Here he comes, arm around a woman. He thinks there will be no consequences.

    I pause, then follow. Fool, not to realize my craft.

  42. Burned
    (105 words)

    Love, the deceitful harbinger of heartache accosted him in a dark alley on a rainy night. Ruby-colored lips, lushes hips and a come hither glance from smoldering eyes extended an invitation not easy to refuse. Spellbound by her beauty, he followed like a vampire on the scent of blood.

    The wet night promised heat like dragon’s breath, setting his loins on fire. He took the bait as if he’d never been burned and gave no thought to the consequences.

    Reality crashed over him in the faint light of dawn. But the spell had lasted just long enough, cast by a witch who knew her craft.

  43. Faith, Hope and Love
    (105 words)

    Love swells lifted her above the sordid reality of her existence. A princess treated like scum and tossed aside like so much garbage.

    But she had faith that despite those who inflicted hurts beyond hurt, and pain beyond pain, the bitter dregs of rejection could fall away before loves unstoppable onslaught.

    Hope flowed from above, its waters raining down upon her, lifting her up to something higher, better, more pure than the sodden sidewalks of life’s misery.

    Love kept her going. She knew one day her prince would come. And her desolation would fall away as his love bore her heavenward in his royal craft.

  44. by Ross

    Title: Witchcraft – 87 Words

    Love? Not even close. It was a writhing compulsion, a sickening Lust. I felt it. I breathed it – the rustle of crisp leaves, the deep cool sky, the dusty, earthy scent of the harvest work. So hypnotic, the smoke and the crackle of cherry logs, beneath the ancient iron cauldron. When I tried to turn away, I felt such despair. Only her face could make it stop.

    Naked, grasping her vile hand, I blissfully obeyed her request, and stepped into the boiling pot. It was witchcraft.

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