Gaslamp Fiction

Never trust a sprite. It’s been said so many times in my village that it started going in one ear and out the other—exactly what I did. My father would box my ears if he were alive to see me now. That is, if I weren’t on my way to the gallows at the moment. “Any regrets?” the guard escorting me asked, his tone light and easy. He would be going home to his wife and children after all this was done. Unlike my dumb ass. “Never trust a sprite,” I said through gritted teeth. The g

After I lit the wick, the flame bounced around as if it were debating whether or not to go out. I glared at the wayward flame; it recovered quickly, obeyed and began to sway to its own rhythm within the lamp. I closed the lamp feeling proud of myself, and wiped my hands on the apron of my dress. The apron was a recent addition to my wardrobe. If I came home with a soiled dress, Mother would forbid me from accompanying Father again. The thought of what that would do to our inc