Genevieve stepped down from her jeep at the lonely fueling station, according to the sign the last chance for services for 200 miles, and smoked a cigarette under the half-dead oak tree. A litany of lizards scurried away as she approached.

The old man working the pump had skin as weathered as the geckos’ from too much sun. She decided to tip him an extra twenty.

We pelt through the underbrush, giddy and squealing, following a trail too small for adult passage. Fronds of yellow broom lash our way with petals; it is early spring and the mud has only freshly set beneath our footfalls. The wooden knuckles of roots provide easy grapple holds for our pudgy hands, and we push on undaunted.

Noble and patient, our grandfather’s oak tree welcomes us. A bird’s nest awaits as our reward.

From Guest Contributor Violetta Buono

London-based introvert Violetta Buono (@ViolettaBuono on Twitter) lives in a fantasy land of her own making. She graduated in Classical Studies, and is currently a freelance writer. Between writing poetry, flash fiction, and pretending to work on a novel, she sometimes submits her work but has yet to be published. This is her first piece appearing to the public.

The wind blew hot. Nat, backing up against the giant oak, fumbled for his sword. The goblins surrounded him, sneering.

He reached inside a dark cavity, and pulled out a parchment. It was a map. Revenge would be his after all.

Genre: High Fantasy