 A few pieces of microfiction written by Lyn Thorne-Alder Sweater Wendigo Heartbreak Many Loves 900 Milihelens Reminisce Um... Whoops Sweater “You forgot your sweater,” he said, as if even the densely-twisted wool could keep me safe where I was going, but I took the gesture as I wanted him to mean it, and slipped the sweater on. “Thank you,” I murmured, checking the straps on my pack one last time, trying not to look him in the eyes. “Your bootlace,” he offered, and I gave him a gently amused smile, showing no exasperation, as I straightened the lace in question. “I love you,” he finally said, his voice cracking at the edges. And that's when I stepped through the portal... Wendigo Heartbreak The bloody teeth of the monster ripped into my chest again. I sobbed, caught between pain and stolen breath. Prometheus-like, I recover too quickly. There is always more flesh for the angry north wind to consume. Many Loves On the moonlit beach under the wavering shadows of the trees With the waves reaching softly onto the sand, I believe. I believe (with my arms around her waist and my face in her hair) in love in shades of red and purple Love that moves the heart like a storm Like tectonic plates moving. I believe (with our toes touching under the sand) In friendships that last through all these things. I believe (as her hand entwines with his and he smiles peacefully at me) That many loves can coexist. I believe in the magic we make for ourselves. 900 Milihelens Look at her. She’s fragile and lovely, like a butterfly’s wings, like a peacock feather (the eyes of a jealous goddess). She will break in your hand if you’re not careful; she’ll fly away if you’re not patient. You are drawn like a (dull, drab) moth to those lovely colors, the brilliant blue of her eyes and the clear gold of her hair. If you were a more clever predator, you’d realize that (as with many pretty little things) those bright hues signify “poison.” This is what they mean when they say “she’ll leave a bad taste in your mouth.” Reminisce She had red hair like a phoenix tail, denim overalls over a tight white shirt, and her neck in front of me was why Solomon had sung. I was nervous, eager; she was coy, nervous. She had already begun breaking my friends' hearts as coolly as a cook breaks eggs. Um... He’d gone Underhill, seen wonders and horrors most couldn’t imagine, and did his time as Consort to their Queen. He’d awoken to the human world when she grew bored with him, and spent his days writings his memoirs, which he had already sold the rights to (as a fantasy novel) for a fabulous sum. He’d been back for three months when an imp appeared, struggling with an iridescent egg nearly as big as it. “Her Majesty,” it said, “says this is yours, and that your should care for it tenderly until it’s big enough. “But what is it?” “Your son.” Whoops! “I’m not a virgin!” the sacrifice protested, struggling futilely against the rusted manacles. “Not by a long shot!” While the village elders hadn’t believed her, she continued in the vain hope that the monster understood English. “I’m not a dragon,” Chimera answered, and stilled her annoying protests with a chomp. |
|
Home
Short Works Poetry Microfiction Ongoing Serials Addergoole Wild Ones' Blood Short Stories Coming Soon |