Sometimes flash fiction happens to me.

Hoarfrost
(c) 2011 Maura Anderson

As the crescent moon sets, shadows deepen to ebon velvet and the relief of dawn seems a lifetime away. The night sky is now decorated only by the faint shimmer of distant stars, their meager light unable to warm the sharp, freezing air.

Slowly gathering in the depressions and hollows, a light mist begins to blanket the land. Icy tendrils flow out and fill the valleys, deepening from silver to grey as the growing fog works to block out even the light of the stars until the very land beneath it seems isolated from the rest of the world.

A place between the worlds of Sun and Moon. A time and place so temporary and so rare it bears no name of its own, yet it’s the only time she can walk the lands of man again.

The fog thickens and roils into a column, then a vague form emerges and solidifies into a tall, gracile female form. Clothed in flowing robes that changed from white to grey to midnight black in a shimmering pattern, her presence makes the very air weigh heavily and the residual warmth of the earth fades into a dusting of frost. Her white hair streams out behind her like tendrils of clouds and glistens with drops of ice.

Released, at least for a short while, from the prison of her own making, she wanders this small part of the land of man. All the life she has missed, all the plants and animals she lost through her own attempts to manipulate others. Slow tears flowed down her face only to drop frozen to the ground, a trail of diamonds to mark her path. A gently caress coats a crocus in glistening frost. A slight brush against a bush freezez tendrils water dripping from its branches into tiny icicles.

The first faint colors of dawn begin to drain away her cloak of fog and she knows her time here is over again. As she fades from the land of man, her last heavy sigh flows out over the branches of a tree and freezes instantly into the lacelike tendrils of her namesake, fragile and delicate. Even that beauty is doomed to disappear at sunrise, leaving only a memory and the faint scent of the wild and regret.

She is Hoarfrost.

I’ll look up the up-to-date instructions for using it and update my Friday Flash page as well.

Sorry I don’t know any more.

Sam tossed Mykael Montero’s file on top of the rapidly growing pile of paperwork on her battered desk. She’d already made so many trips to the sally port, then to the holding cells, then back to her desk that her feet hurt. And it took a lot to make her feet hurt, no matter how torturous the shoes. Her long day was getting longer and longer, with no real end in sight.

Full moons were always busy and this one seemed worse than most. There was certainly some truth to the oft-repeated belief that the nut cases came out at the full moon – whack-job shifters at the very least. But this month was absolute hell.

Maybe it was the very early Spring weather on top of the lunar event that was causing the teenage shifters to lose what little self-control they had. Or maybe it was just a larger batch of shifters than typical was going through puberty. Who knew. All she knew was sure of was that her counterpart, along with half the office staff, had caught the flu and were out sick at the very time it seemed like every teenage shifter in five counties was being violent or stupid – or both.

It was no coincidence that the greatest mortality in shifters was during puberty. At this rate, Sam might kill a few herself just to reduce the amount of paperwork she was going to have to do today.

She wanted to scream. Too bad her morals didn’t let her take a sick day or two without actually being sick. And she couldn’t catch the flu, even if she tried.

Barbara had damned well get over being sick soon.

The ugly beige government-issue phone blared out its harsh call for attention just as Sam opened Mykael’s folder. Hell, it was amazing to have had the second needed to sit down before it rang this time.

Snatching up the receiver, she barked out a curt greeting only to hear a smoky baritone voice chuckle in a way that always seemed to make her bones melt. Not that she ever revealed that effect. Deputy Kai Mahalee was the embodiment of tall, dark, exotic and handsome and most of the female staff simpered and fluttered their eyelashes at him, hoping to be the one who caught his eye and tamed the Hawaiian Hunk. To his credit, he was also all business and never stepped a millimeter out of line. Determined to not pant after him, Sam got stuck purely to business, the weather and the current Seahawks news. So far, it seemed to work.

“Hello, Deputy Mahalee. What can I do for you?” Sam rubbed her forehead with her other hand, trying to chase away the impending headache. Today had better not be the rare day she actually got a headache; she had NO time for that.

“Hi, Sam. I just picked up one of yours, a Jerald Robins. I’m about fifteen minutes out.”

She barely stifled a heavy sigh. Great. Jerry was teetering on the edge of being put away for more than the sixty days he’d served last time, especially if he violated his parole. “What charges?”

“Assault. He and another juvie were fighting over a girl and your boy used some sort of ninja claw on the other kid. We didn’t recover the weapon so we’re not sure what it was exactly, but it cut up the other kid’s his face quite a bit. He was bleeding so much that Sander took him to the ER to get stitches.”

This time she couldn’t stop the sigh. “Okay – I’ll meet you at the sally port to take custody.”

It took willpower to not slam the phone down in its cradle. Instead she gently set it back down and flopped back in her chair as much as she dared, given the creak the ancient piece of furniture let out.

Great. Just f-ing great. How the hell was she supposed to help prevent shifter violence and keep the knowledge of the shifters from humans with these out of control teenagers flowing through JD like a tsunami? It sounded like Jerry had managed to retract his claws before the deputies showed up, at least. Even Deputy Mahalee’s renowned cool wouldn’t have been a match for seeing three inch claws on a sixteen-year old boy.

Hell, why couldn’t these kids just go into the woods, beat the shit out of each other, then shift and nap until they healed, then go home? Why did they always pick someplace to lose their tempers where there were witnesses galore and arrest was pretty damned certain? Hormones had to destroy brain cells, it was the only explanation. Not that male shifters had an abundance of brain cells to start with.

Oh hell – stitches. If the other kid had actually needed stitches, he wasn’t a shifter. Crap – had Jerry attacked a human?

Popping upright again, Sam pulled the keyboard to her and opened the form for Mykael’s intake. She had to fill it in while she still had a few minutes. If she didn’t do it now, she might not get a chance later. Come to think of it, she might not get a chance to go to the restroom either. Or grab a snack. Right on time her belly rumbled. Sam yanked open the bottom drawer of her desk, wincing at the squeal of the metal slides, and pulled out a few sticks of homemade jerky. She devoured them faster than she would have dared had she actually had any company in her cubicle bay.

Saving the information to the mainframe, she stood to head back to the sally port to see just what lame-ass story Jerry would try to tell her today about why he’d gotten in a fight, whose fault it was and even where his parents actually thought he was at the time versus where he’d been arrested.

The last story he’d told her had sounded like a really bad rip-off of Dallas mixed with a little Dukes of Hazard and some Twilight thrown in for good measure. Of course, that was before she’d given him a taste of just what she was. She’d even made him clean up the floor after he’d wet his own pants in submission.

Damned kids.

Bunny Boy
(c) 2009 by Maura Anderson

Shit, Todd hadn’t been kidding when he said this convention would be sorta like a neo-Victorian mosh-pit.

People lined the hallway as far as he could see, dressed in an amazing assortment of costumes. A preponderance of browns in leather and canvas and an huge variety of goggles seemed to be the style of the day for many. The costumes also ranged from elaborate to casual and even minimalistic but, for the most part, they were in good taste. Some had him jealous of their outfits, a few made him wish for eye bleach and a couple looked like they’d mistaken the steampunk convention for a fetish party. Despite the attractive men he’d noticed, he was here with only one person in mind.

A yank on one side of his skirt made Jamie grit his teeth and roll his eyes. These people had NO concept of personal space and kept stepping on his borrowed satin bustle skirt. Hell, it wasn’t like he was invisible in the bright fuschia and black ensemble. Snarl hopefully hidden behind the gauzy veil Todd had swaddled his head with, a quick hip-check persuaded the oblivious woman next to him to back off a bit so he could tug his skirt away from her platform boot-shod feet. She hardly seemed to notice but just the fumes from the amount of spandex and latex she was encased in may have already killed any brain cells she’d once possessed.

He somehow managed not to make a snarky comment about her choice of costeme. Barely.

How the hell had Todd persuaded him to wear this getup? He might be gay but women’s clothes were just not his thing. Especially not bustles that gave him an ass the size of a Suburban and enough yards of screamingly-colored satin that he could have made goth princess party outfits for twenty. And the corset, gods. Not only did it make sitting a trick in aiming and blindly hoping for the best but he was sure Todd had laced it much more tightly than necessary, judging by the determined yanking and the cackle of glee from his friend.

Todd had merely told him that Ben would be at this convention. Jamie had caved instantly and when Todd had suggested a costume so he could sneak up on the gorgeous man he’d had a crush on for years, Jamie’d agreed without asking the questions he should have. Like just what costume and how uncomfortable it might be. There were a lot of men in victorian finery or just photographer vests and goggles. He could have dealt with any of those. Instead he looked like a color-blind Victorian hooker.

And so far he’d not seen hide nor hair – not cute ass – of Ben. Of course he’d not realized there would be nearly a thousand people at this event, either.

The veil tickled his face again and he puffed a quick breath of air at it to get it away from his face. It fell back against his skin right away. Frustrated, he peeled the white gauze up and stuffed it onto the brim of the two foot tall hat pinned to his head with enough bobby pins to overwhelm his grandmother’s beehive. Even with the swath of ostrich feathers, the hat was not coming off unless it took his hair and scalp with it. That was better – now he could see at least.

Tired of standing and posing for pictures, Jamie took a few deliberate steps into the hotel lobby’s seating area and perched on the edge of a red upholstered chair. He quelled a shudder at the lovely clash of fuschia skirt with the chair’s red fabric. The boned victorian corset made it impossible to sit in any comfortable position, though. Maybe he should just give up and see if he could spot Ben tomorrow. Or maybe Ben would come by with everyone else wandering toward the afternoon tea.

Jamie’d finally convinced himself to give up and see if he could escape from the corset’s steel embrace and relax. Then a rich laugh snapped his attention away from his sore ribs. That had to be Ben’s laugh. A heavy shudder flowed through him and goosebumps raised on his arms.

The familiar tall body walked into the lobby from the atrium. Graceful and unhurried, Ben laughed again at whatever the short blonde girl next to him said. He was wearing striped shirt and trousers and a brown leather corset over the top. Jamie licked suddenly dry lips and reconsidered his take on corsets, at least as worn by Ben. The other man unfurled the parasol he carried and struck a cute pose, revealing the white fluffy bunny tail pinned to the back of his trousers and the adorable bunny ears perched on the brim of his brown top hat.

The costume was almost unbearably cute and Jamie’s cock hardened with lust. The leather corset made Ben’s cute butt even more pronounced – and even more attractive. The bunny ears and tail were a reflection of the other man’s fun sense of humor. How had he stayed away from Ben for so long? Whatever resistance Jamie had disappeared when a cute man in a top hat and frock coat began flirting with Jamie’s Bunny Boy. The bitter bite of jealousy churned his gut and when the other man reached out to caress Ben’s short beard, he couldn’t stand it anymore.

He pulled the veil down from his hat again and stood up, shaking his bright-colored skirts out so they settled back into place. Not too fast and not too slow, he stepped behind Ben’s fluffy-tailed ass. No time like the present. A deep breath and he wrapped his arms around Ben’s corseted waist and ground his hard cock against the ass he lusted over.

Ben gasped for a second, then pressed his ass back, rubbing against the cock behind him. Arching a bit, he tried to turn his head far enough to see just who was behind him. “Have we met?” His voice was nervous but held a tinge of excitement.

“Hi Bunny Boy. I’ve been hunting just for you.”

The Wild Hunt
(c) 2009 by Maura Anderson, all rights reserved

Night was closing in fast and the dense shadows thrown by the huge trees overwhelmed what little light was left in the deepening gloom of dusk. Limbs twined and wove in intricate patterns against the indigo sky like skeletal arms reaching for the full moon just emerging over the valley’s rim.

A bone-deep chill moved in along with a heavy fog that roiled and writhed along the uneven forest floor, disguising everything underneath it until the bracken, fallen leaves and paths seemed an unearthly landscape. The large rock I perched on was adrift in a sea of mist and a shiver ran through me, despite the warm clothing I wore.

The peace I should have felt while holding my Samhain vigil was nowhere to be found. My visualizations and meditations deserted me and instead my stomach churned with a sense of foreboding, of fear. The night sounds of the forest grew fewer and fewer until only a silent stillness surrounded me; my racing heartbeat all I could hear.

The final rays of the dying sun ebbed from the sky and the world seemed to freeze. Then in the distance I heard the mournful sound of a horn, long and low, sending a shiver through my entire body and soul. I wanted to run, to flee the area but I couldn’t even see the ground, let alone make out the path I’d taken to get here. If I got down from my rock, I’d be lost in minutes.

Drawing my legs up to my chest, I wrapped my arms around them and tried to calm myself. Surely I was just imagining things. The mood was getting to me and I was letting my imagination run wild. A full moon on Samhain night was rare but it was just a matter of coincidence, not a special time for magic.

The horn sounded again, closer this time. And again, even closer. Now I could hear rustling and howling, as if wolves were baying in painful and savage delight. The Wild Hunt was running – toward me.

Maybe if I stayed as still as possible, the huntsman wouldn’t see me. If he noticed me, I might become his own, destined to spend the rest of eternity running as his servant. I made myself as small as possible and hoped the Hunt would not continue in this direction. Head tucked against my knees and my eyes shut tight, I prayed to the Goddess. Oh, how I prayed.

Hoofbeats and howling came nearer and nearer, filling the forest with their noise until they were so loud they had to be near. Unable to resist, I lifted my head and saw a huge horned figure on a massive steed formed of storm clouds and lightning. He waved a spiraled horn of silver over his head and thundered past, running atop the mists and fog. Around him wove a pack of wolves, some black as night and some grey as mist, but all with eyes that glowed with the magic of the full moon and the madness of endless servitude.

The great storm steed reared back on his hind legs and the hunter brought the horn to his lips and blew it again, the sound piercing through me like an arrow of icy terror. His scarlet-red eyes glowed with the fires of his blood lust. He hunted this night and he hunted me.

I tried to choke back my gasp but not in time. The horned hunter turned and when his red gaze met mine, I knew my fate. He pointed toward me and blew his horn again. The wolves gathered around the boulder and, one by one, they changed from wolf to naked man.