best.
They give me a pill, a tiny white thing. It feels heavier than it should.
I’m nervous. I don’t want to take it.
Mom smiles at me and ruffles my hair.
I choke it down with cold water.
It’s the last time I dance with faeries in the woods; the last day I tell jokes to the Mushroom King.
I stop the pills. It’s too late.
I can never get my magic back.
Fear and Superstition
They betrayed her.
They threw rocks and spat curses at her as she was bound and dragged to the pyre. She had healed them, birthed their babes and sewn their wounds.
Bad weather. Poor crops. Fear shone in their eyes. They turned on her, forgetting all the good she had done.
They thought she was a monster. She would show them a monster. As the flames licked her feet, she laughed. She cut her ties to Gaia, breaking her vows. She swore new ones… to the Enemy. To Fire.
Screams echoed in her ears, so sweet.
Let it all burn.
The Other Side of the Mirror
I am a broken thing.
She looks at me and I show her a beautiful face. She sees only lines and wrinkles.
I show her a body in the glory of womanhood. She doesn’t see the graceful curves, only stretch marks.
Her hair is a drape of chocolate silk, yet she frets only over silver threads.
I’ve failed.
She’s a fragile thing, too. So fragile.
She shatters me, weeping bitter tears.
I’ve failed.
She cuts herself on the fragments, the lies.
I’ve failed.
We’re both broken, lying on the floor.
Before the end, she sees my truth.
It’s too late.
A Wish Granted
“I’ve existed for millenia. Every few hundred years, one of you mortal things finds my lamp, begging me for wealth and power. Tell me, tiny human, what is it you wish for?”
The little girl fidgeted with her doll and shuffled bare feet.
“My village is sick. I wish everyone was better.”
The djinn blinked. “So pure. It is done, little one.”
She looked up, eyes wide. “Really? Do you want to be my friend? I wish you were my friend!”
Bound to a doll, he existed seven thousand more years; he only truly lived the next fifty.
Faith and Logic
“We've studied two dozen religions in the past four years. How do you know which one is right?” the monk asked.
His master smiled. “The Armanites call fire by the name of rhuse. It means devouring one. The Sanesi call it seshi, or bringer of new life. Neither wrong, neither right. It is our place to wonder at these things and understand that we cannot possibly see the shape of something so large when we are such a tiny part of it.”
The young monk wondered constantly if the master was indeed wise or completely insane.
Homesick
I walked through a memory.
I heard mom humming in the kitchen, smelled supper on the stove. I would make the same meal a thousand times trying to make something that tasted like hers. It never did. It was always missing something.
Dad rocked in his recliner, the familiar creak of wood making me drowsy. He laughed at something on television, a rumbling warmth that rolled through the house like thunder. I’d sit in his chair, the smell of leather and Old Spice reminding me of him.
I blinked.
The house was empty, cold.
They were gone.
Gone.
Author’s Note
Writing short stories and flash fiction has been a great learning experience for me. The act of limiting your words and making them count really forces you to focus on your prose. With two books in progress, I find myself drawn more and more into short fiction. It may take me longer to finish the books that are forever bouncing around in my head, but when they’re done I have confidence they’ll be better off for it.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. If you liked what you read, you can check out my blog at https://justwritenow.net and my micro fiction collection at https://medium.com/one-minute-reads.
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