Microfiction Monday – 184th Edition
The Elf and The Bull
by Bradford Ellington
Your leg must come off. I can do it; let’s rest on these rocks, before we reach the sands.
The minotaur winced, extending his grotesque limb.
I know; don’t look. I possess wizardry – you will not die.
Will I bleed?
Some. I can stop it.
The work began. The setting sun flared. The knife flashed, sunk. Old Elfin incantations erupted among dry desert winds.
He left the bull slumbering, returning at nightfall with a carven crutch.
I still feel…
You will forever. But it isn’t there; it can’t hurt you. So let’s move on.
And they did.
Juliet Picks Up the Dagger
by Lily King
Juliet awakens to Romeo’s body against hers. The blood from the dagger drips onto her lap.
Romeo is still breathing. He looks at Juliet as she opens her eyes and stares back at him.
She picks up the dagger.
Romeo is buried and the Montagues and Capulets both weep. Lord Capulet beams as Juliet weds a new Paris. They’re all the same.
Juliet keeps the dagger and begs for Romeo to know she was only trying to set him free. Her prayers always end with pitiful apologies to Rosaline.
She thinks Paris will live forever.
Queen and Goddess
by Paul Negri
The Queen’s first victim was her mother, who did not survive her birth. Was that bloody passage made lethal by those little fists pounding so furiously in her prison of flesh and the gnashing of prodigious teeth which lined her infant gums? Or (as legend has it) the full grown nails of the she-wolf at her fingertips?
As inauspicious as was this beginning, it in no way gave adequate warning to the subjects of her kingdom, who watched in horror as she grew, year by year, into the malevolent ruler of their unfortunate world.
Mrs. Duff’s Icebox
by Ruth Brown
One morning Mrs. Duff vowed to clean her ancient icebox.
“Better wear gloves,” her husband admonished, “could be nasty things growing in there.”
In the icebox was a small village. Lumberjacks felled matchbox trees, smoke rose from chimneys, trout leapt from a nimble trickle of water. She looked closer, sniffed bitter woodsmoke and sweet baking.
One doll’s house was her own. Same missing shingles, same weather-worn shutters. Out stepped her miniature, mug in hand. The little Mrs. Duff blinked up. The big Mrs. Duff blinked down.
“They’ve started sprouting,” she said to her husband, on her way to the broom-closet.
by JJ Collins
The god woke with an urge to create.
He dipped brushes in a palette of swirling eddies, laid paint to canvas hungry for inspiration.
Charcoal was smeared artfully across pages, but the greasy residue lacked dimension.
He kneaded clay, but it would not yield to his practiced touch.
His workshop had grown cold, hearth devoid the spark of devotion.
Perhaps I am dead, he mused.
He reconsidered. Today, he would simply take what he needed, appropriate the inspiration of another. Call it his own.
Not stealing; repurposing. Greater vision, greater scale.
A greater lie. But who would notice?