Behind closed eyelids dance sugar-plum fairies. They turn into darker fey, those that trap the unwary with snares of the tongue. The writer in me smiles. This is from where I draw my ideas. Or try to.

Into these waking dreams encroach my everyday worries - my boss, my landlord, my postman. I remember when I was so excited to get the mail, as a child. Now, it just brings more bills, more worries.

The creatures aetheral take poorly to this intrusion. Out come their blades. Their wings beat the air in angry rumble. Mundane men wield pens as weapons, envelopes as shields.

The battle rings sharply. Screams of pain, of fury fill me. When the spray of red clears, mortal man stands. My heart mourns the vanquished.

Why was I so much in a hurry to grow up? Why didn't I spend more time with the magic?

150 words. I'm tired, but I wanted to get some fiction out. I'm not sure this counts as really what I want in a flash-fic. I'm always going on about the re-readbility and how I practically hold it as a requirement. This one isn't very re-readable. (It might not even be readable, but hush...)

Is it more of an autobiographical monologue? Maybe. There is an element of fiction in there, but it certainly isn't the longing for that childish sense of wonder.

For me, writing is about that same sense of wonder. Perhaps not capturing the same images that originally triggered that feeling, but somehow uncorking that feeling nevertheless.

The power of 'what-if' coupled with the rush of projecting oneself into the thick of the chaos. That's what I try for, at least in the big stories, such as Sian. I should get back to her one of these days...