flashfic

Occasionally Yoon will write a shorter piece that evokes a mood or offers a glimpse into a strange life, a strange world. These are available online in full for your enjoyment.

Out of the Sky

It isn’t an angel that falls out of the sky, or a ship with tesseract wings, or a broken-eyed bit of star.  Like apples and ashes it lands where temptation meets you with sweet stinging kisses, where treachery greets you with soft scouring caresses.  But your heart is a sword and your heart knows its north, and steadfast you stand through the night of nights as the candles in the universe burn down.  Then, warmed by your purpose, the seed-thing stirs and cracks open, uncoiling to grow a new sky.

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The Mathematician’s Blessing

The mathematician had had some peculiar guests in her time: astrologer-queens with comet-shaped birthmarks on their faces, sages who spoke a different language each day, blind generals who had never lost a battle.  But she had not expected a visitor from the steppes, wearing undyed leather, a shortbow at her back.  The visitor appeared to be an unremarkable woman of wiry build, with black hair braided tightly back and deeply tanned skin.

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The Lens of the Sky

It is not true that the hawk maidens of the moors have no hearts.  Although they come down from the moors only rarely to trade and to find fathers for their daughters, they wear their hearts on silver chains.  Hawk maidens are deadly hunters and far-seers, and to become an adult, each one must grind her glass heart with sand of her own choosing.

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The Last Angel

In the streets of a city at the edge of hell, the last angel traces out every dead end in soft, measured footsteps.  In her hand is a shard of star, with which she marks boarded-up windows and decaying walls.  She writes fragments of poetry in gutter cant and half-formed creoles, draws crude stick figures of lovers coupling and cats curled by leaking radiators.

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Jira Dark-Hands

In the city of Softly-Shining-Moon, during the hot summers when the breezes murmur of languorous courtships and loving caresses, a woman named Jira Dark-Hands sits and waits for her suitors.  She is neither young nor old, but the sweet curve of her mouth makes her beautiful.  Troubadors sing of her smile; hearing them, she laughs, not unkindly.

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Ink

The ink comes in a small glass jar with a black lid, and it sloshes pleasantly when the jar is tilted back and forth.  The ink itself smells like earth, like ash, like the world’s patient breath.

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How the Andan Court

Actually, I cannot offer you roses.  Roses that taste like crystallized desire when you try to smell them.  Roses whose buds are softer than the hands of the morning mist.  Roses pierced through by the needles of nightfall.

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Hibernation

Dormice know nothing of Charlemagne or Orlando Furioso, but they, too, have their paladins.  Every winter, when the sun ebbs in the smoke-colored sky and the frost scribes farewells to flowers and butterflies on the fallen leaves, the quiet, plump dormice huddle next to each other, lulled by the keening song of the woodland winds.  They dream of springtime buds and summer blossoms, spindrift seeds and the slow-blinking eyes of hungry birds.

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Harvesting Shadows

They say the mountains in this land are so numerous that the smallest of them have no names.  This is not true; it is just that mountains are circumspect about the people they tell their names to.

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The Godsforge

The godsforge lies at the center of the earth, and there are as many paths to it as there are ways for steel to break.  Some paths pass through caverns where crystals unfed by unsunlight glow in unchanging gardens, and fungus feasts on the bones of forgotten heroes.  Others have driven people mad with the sourceless sound of water ever dripping in a monotonous beat, or so mazed them with darkness that their useless eyes were sewn shut.

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