Flash Fiction - Hob's Choice

    My favourite mug was a stark warning. Left safe to dry by the sink overnight, now found in the morning as ceramic dust and curled shards. The saucer of soya milk still full on the table.

    Of course, hobs prefer cream, I thought, and trotted off to the shop.

    The next morning, a finger-lake of soya cream spread out across the kitchen table from the upturned ramekin. A long-suffering spider plant offshoot I’d been nursing in a jam jar of greening water had shattered at the end of its journey from windowsill to floor.

    At a loss, I left no offering the third night and woke to a flooded cottage, gentle waterfall tumbling from the blocked sink.

    For nights after that, I guarded my kitchen. Fighting not to doze in the one high-backed wooden chair with arms. I didn’t dare meddle with a protection spell. My tender nudges of the universe were nothing in the face of an ancient creature of this land.

    So, I sipped strong, dark coffee, and crocheted until my arms ached, fighting through moonlit hours to keep my eyes open. My efforts spared the space any more mishaps, but I couldn’t continue for more than a week.

    One evening, having fallen soundly asleep at my post, I woke to find a fox had been let in to forage. The mischievous hob was on the table not far from my hand, conducting an orchestra of enchantment over the hungry beast as it snuffled through a cupboard. Both too distracted to notice me, I seized the moment, snatching the scrawny creature from its performance. The startled fox turned tail and vanished out the open back door into the safety of the wild garden and wood beyond.

    Wriggling in my tightening fist, the hob grumbled something about gratitude in the fox’s wake, before turning to me with a glare.

    “Well, what now then?”

    My hob was no more than the size of a newborn kitten – bare skin just as soft with wrinkles. Heart warming to its surly scowl instantly, I squared my shoulders and stood my ground.

    “I want you to stop destroying my kitchen at night.” The hob huffed and looked away, bony arms crossing pointedly. I pushed my luck and added a threat. “It is true green witches are known for their kindness and patience, but there is only so much abuse my good nature will tolerate.”

    Spying room for a bargain, the hob’s attention was regained. Its posture loosened a touch, but the fight in its eyes held fast as it gestured towards tonight’s small saucer of oat milk.

    “Kindness, you say? Kind enough to repay hard work with a trap.”

    “You haven’t even tried it.”

    “Is it milk?”

    I hesitated, and the hob snorted triumph. “It’s a kind of milk,” I said, more question than statement.

    “And my nightly help is a kind of help,” it replied with a sneer.

    Slipping from my stronghold, I was left with nothing save honesty.

    “Then we are at an impasse, as I will not buy cow’s milk in any form. It is this or nothing or you take yourself next door from now on.”

    The hob clicked its tongue. “There is a cat. We are not friends.”

    I shrugged, and the hob’s expression settled to a frown as it considered its options. Having searched deeper for some middle ground myself, I made a suggestion.

    “They have flavours. Vanilla, chocolate. Perhaps a caramel or pumpkin spice around the holidays?”

    This gave it pause. “Vanilla may do.”

    “Tomorrow then,” I said, setting the creature down on the table.

    It brushed its skin like rumpled clothing and replied in kind. “Tomorrow.”