Dwarves. I not be talking the human-born sort that find their way to a hearth and home from time to time. No, I speak of the legendary kind, with antlers and dew claws. The kind they haven’t had in these parts since the Daisy Age.
But the earthen cups, the wooden platters, the bubbling grobpot over the fire told a different story. I lifted a cup, still warm from morning break, tipped it to my face and breathed. Tamsen and jiminy-root. These were Gilded Dwarves. “Men,” I say to the ones inside. “Out to the woods. Find cover and wait.”
This has been an edition of the fabulous Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, this week’s photo courtesy Piya Singh. To read more flash fiction or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button: