Short Bits, Volume 3: Short Bits, #3

By Belinda Crawford

Five original science fiction & fantasy stories.

 

Short Bits is an eclectic mix of messy literary explosions, from high fantasy to space opera and back again, each one exploring a new world. They're written for the fun of it and published here because otherwise they'll sit in a drawer, and where's the fun in that?

 

Short Bits Volume 3 includes five original stories, including 'Maelstrom', a short action-packed tale of revenge inspired by the Chinese fantasy genre, while 'Scholar' takes you back into the world of virtual gaming where brains are more important than brawn. In 'The Wind', you're transported  to a bloody battlefield and a warrior's moment of defiance, while 'Crash' takes in you the other direction to when a pilot gives in to her demons. The collection ends with 'SEED', a short story set in the distant future, where one girl's desire to win leads her into new and dangerous territory.

 

Every story is introduced by the author, taking you behind-the-scenes and providing insight into the inspiration and writing process behind each one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belinda Crawford
• Release date: Jun 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645678437

Book preview

Contents

Untitled document

Introduction

The Wind

Introduction

The Wind

SEED

Introduction

SEED

Maelstrom

Introduction

Maelstrom

Crash

Introduction

Crash

Scholar (I Am Maggie)

Introduction

Scholar

Do you want more?

Did you enjoy any of these tales?

About the author

Also by Belinda Crawford

Copyright, etc

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Details can be found at the end of Short Bits, Volume 3.

Introduction

If you've dived into the other Short Bits collections, you've probably noticed a few trends: one, birds – in particular crows and ravens; two, a number of these short stories seemed to be linked. Although there are definitely a number that are linked (such as those in the I Am Maggie series), the rest are a solid… maybe, if you stand on your head and look at it from a certain angle.

If you're looking at it from the interconnected stories angle… I'll leave that one up to your imagination, my imagination is swimming with dark, glossy wings, wicked talons, and whispering winds.

Whatever the linkage, I'm having a blast writing these short stories. One of the things I'm finding is that certain themes and ideas keep cropping up (such as the birds). This shouldn't be surprising, giving my previously mentioned inability to contain a story within the few thousand words allotted to it, and still…

Anyway, I was (kinda… a little bit) trying to keep the bird thing under wraps but it's come out full force in this volume. Those with eagle (or raven!) eyes and a passing knowledge of Norse mythology may also notice another idea working its way through these last two volumes. Expect to see more of it.

As always, if there's a story in this collection that you love and just need more of, let me know. I'm keeping an unofficial record of the stories you like most, and when there's one that enough of you are clamouring for, I'm going to turn it into a book (or series, or series of series).

Happy reading,

Belinda

Introduction

This story was originally titled 'Death' and it was not going to go quite this way; there was, as you can imagine, going to be more actual death involved. But, as with most of my stories, what I intended to happen before the words hit paper, is often vastly different to what actually happens.

That's what makes the writing fun though.

Should you have some familiarity with Norse mythology, or one of the many variations of it in popular culture, this is where you'll start to see one of my current obsessions come through: the Valkyrie.

The idea of the Valkyrie has been stuck in my brain long enough for me to take the idea of Odin's shield maidens and give it my own, somewhat darker spin. In The Wind, I'm giving you a little taste of what I've come up with over the years.

Want to know more?

Scan the QR code for the behind-the-scenes audio commentary.

THE WIND

The wind whispered her name. It wrapped around the pale, snow-laden branches of the gnarled tree above, age clinging to its flaky bark, its wide-flung arms, and twisted trunk. It sighed through the bare twigs, the tiny buds waiting to burst as soon as the frost gave them leave, and it played with the ends of her hair.

S'Ahn.

She lifted her face to the breeze, the frozen chill long-since embedded in her cheekbones, and drew deep of the earth, the sweat, the blood that rode in on it. That twisted through her nose, hit the back of her throat – the ice freezing the heavy copper tang to the back of her tastebuds – and burst in her lungs. Thorns shot through her rib cage, a bloody rose nestled against her heart, feeding on pain, adrenaline and the moans of the dying.

The wind tugged, pulling at the long, ragged ends of her war braids, casting loose stands of dirty chestnut hair across her lips.

S'Ahn, it said again.

She dug her talons into the dirt, felt the tree's roots under the sharp, black tips, the blood-churned mud squishing between her black, scaly toes.

The wind slipped under her breastplate, the heavy leather scratched and scared, through the rough woollen tunic underneath – the once rich red fabric a dull, muddy mauve – and slid cool fingers along her ribs, working its way upward to her shoulders and the heavy, feathered appendages erupting from the pale skin.

It rustled the short, downy black feathers close to her skin, slipped in among the longer, glossier ones that dragged in the mud.

S'Ahn. On the battlefield, the moans rose, following the wind under the woven leather band trapping her hair over her ears. Choose, it said, and pulled; a hard tug from the middle of her gut.

She stumbled, jerked forward by the call, only a hand on the old pale tree saving her from falling to her knees. Thick black nails dug deep into the flashy bark, sap oozing around her fingers, mixing with the blood embedded in the skin.

Choose, it said again. Harder, meaner, wrapping around feathered wings and twisting – a miniature tornado ripping glossy black feathers from her back. The moans rose higher, a cacophony of pain and death drowning her heart, pulling her to walk among the bodies, highlighting the bright, shiny souls waiting to be plucked from decaying mortal flesh.

Another yank and lurch forward, nails still dug in the tree, sap clinging to her fingers. Obey.

Above, a pale streak, more dark wings catching the air as Olia descended from the sky, the battle sister hitting the field with the force of a comet, taloned feet shredding dead and dying alike.

Olia knelt, gauntleted hand passing over a warrior's dead face, sweeping up the glow above it, wrapping it around her fingers before shoving them in her mouth.

Other battle sisters strode through the muddy field, long flight-feathers dragging in the mud. Their faces – dark and light and golden – were streaked with dirt and blood; their hair – twelve different shades of black and brown and blonde, long and short and frizzy – were