Valley Of The Sighing Wind

The horse stopped dead in its tracks. Restive, on its hind legs, it neighed.

I dismounted.

“You will know it when you reach there,” I recalled the sage’s words.

Mist slyly revealed silhouettes of burnt trees in the distance.

“How will I find her in the dark?” I had queried.

“Spring returns to the parched land the moment one meets their beloved.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You become what you search for: the forsaken.”

“And I can't return?"

“The drought will follow you.”

While descending into the eerie silence, I looked back.

The horse watched me, foreboding in its stillness.

From Guest Contributor Sathyajith Panachikal

For the prompt Frontier

Worth

We knew that the Dragon was on the train, hired to guard the locked safe that held the payroll. Too many armed clerks had been lost. But in such a small space, the Dragon could not stretch his wings, could not swing his claws. If he used his fire, the wooden train car would burn. Yes, the safe would survive, but it might fall to the tracks and be subject to anyone with the block and tackle to retrieve it. No one knew it was the Dragon we were after. You would think they would have noticed the giant collar.

From Guest Contributor Ken Poyner

Tracks

The snow showed her tracks. It was easy for them to follow her. They were clumsy and noisy, but were on her trail. At this pace, she was not sure how long she could last.

As the snow came down harder, her tracks were getting covered and would make them hard to follow. If the snow continued at this rate, her tracks would be obliterated and she would be safe. Then she could stop and rest, and hide under some fir trees until they passed or gave up. She would live another day and maybe give birth to her fawn.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Christmas Eve On The Eastern Front

Schmidt and I carry Braun into the church. Outside we’d freeze to death this Christmas Eve.

Icy wind blows through the shell hole in the cupola. We break up a pew for a fire.

It illuminates a statue of St. Michael.

We share a cup of schnapps.

Braun cannot partake. His stomach wound means he will die during the night.

We hear the squeaking of metal tracks.

“Tanks!”

Schmidt extinguishes the fire. If they’re T-34s we’re doomed. The Russians take no prisoners for what we’ve done to their land.

In the darkness I sense St. Michael’s eyes staring down unforgivingly.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher