Flash Fiction

The Chosen One

Yeah, it got to be quite the last couple weeks at work again. Plus, my asthma started acting up, which landed me on a bunch of steroids for a while. So, yeah, not much writing got done for a bit. Thanks to this week’s #SwiftFicFriday, though, I’m back at it with a fun little scene I’m thinking I need to expand on into the rest of the story. I’d love to hear what you think and please be sure to stop by Trials & Tribulations of Writing Fiction to see other great answers to this week’s prompt!

The Chosen One

Two men rode through the rain into the village. The village, more of a wide spot in the road, comprised ten small cottages and a tavern. A blacksmith’s shop sat on the far edge, as if it was not quite part of the village.

“Mordecai, are you certain The Chosen One is here?”

The older man glanced at his heavily armed companion. “Yes, Norris. As I have already explained, the portents pointed to this village. The Chosen One will be in a house with white flowers.”

They reined in and looked around for a house with flowers, which just one in the cluster had.

Norris arched an eyebrow at Mordecai as the older man shrugged and dismounted, Norris trailing him to the door. The two men froze. A woman’s voice carried through the mud-chinked walls as young children shouted and cried. With a worried look and a shrug, Mordecai rapped his staff against the door. The commotion inside ceased, and the door flew open. A dark-haired girl blinked up at them.

After a pause, the girl called back inside. “Two strange men are here!”

“Yes, I can see that, Lorali. Come help with dinner and I’ll be right there.”

The girl spun from the door and disappeared inside. Mordecai and Norris again exchanged concerned glances. Then a woman in her mid-forties appeared at the door, her slightly gray-streaked dark hair pulled into a bun and flour on her apron.


A scar on her cheek, an off-kilter star, drew Mordecai’s attention, just as the portents told. “Madam, we need your help; you have a great destiny calling you.”

Mother Esmae put her hands on her hips. “I have dinner and four children calling me. Now, may I help you or are we done?”

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