microfiction, March 27 - April 2
It wasn’t the right key or the right chords, the right tuning or the right time. Two violins playing, discordant, one on each side of a Door. One day they will harmonize and the Door will unlock, and the worlds will break wide open to a beautiful, terrible duet.
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On the bus ride home to an empty apartment, she daydreamed about family dinners at Baba’s, complete with handmade pierogi, topped with caramelized onions and a dollop of sour cream. Sometimes homesickness is just hunger, salted with grief, dredged in distance.
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The birds on my grave sing me back to life whenever someone decides to try and cheat Death. No one asked if I wanted to be a Reaper, but here I am—walking down Main Street fifty years past my death-day, about to ruin some wannabe immortal’s day.
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The bridge they crossed was made of troll bones, stronger than stone and time. It was built in the era when trees still spoke and walked the earth, and spanned a ravine so deep it was said to lead to the underworld. That was not their destination, however. Not today.
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He woke to buttery sunshine and the sounds of someone working in a kitchen not their own. He stumbled downstairs to find her deftly flipping a pancake. Her hair was damp and she wore one of his shirts. “You don’t have a coffee machine,” she said, playfully accusing.
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There is something in the cradle, but it is not my child. The eyes are wrong, and the teeth, and the way the shadows gather in that corner. My husband thinks I’m crazy. Maybe he’s also been replaced by the house—maybe I should burn it all down—
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The machine turned on in the middle of the night, making such a racket even the neighbours came to see what all the fuss was about. It was loud enough to wake the dead—the next morning, several ghosts wandered the streets, looking confused.
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She arrived too early. The castle is quiet and dark, the grounds covered in frost. The pomegranate seeds in her mouth are bitter instead of summer sweet. The gardens remain lifeless; nothing grows in her footprints. The magic is still sleeping, too deeply.
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The soothsayer shuffles the cards, surrounded by smoke, shadow, and a ring of salt. A snarl announces her guest. She draws three cards, speaks in a language long dead. Gold coins appear at the edge of the circle. She waits until dawn to collect them.
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“Wasn’t the baby crying?” his wife asked sleepily. The husband jolted—he had only come back to bed because a figure was by the cradle—his wife, he thought, because of the lullaby— He ran down the hall. The crying had stopped. The nursery was empty and cold.
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“I thought her lovely and kind,” cried the doomed prince, “all dressed in white, with peach blossoms in her hair. But she was a liar, a witch, a snake—the venom in her kiss has cursed me to never sleep, to wander the twilight world evermore as a wraith.”
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The snow doesn’t stop. Bryan’s been staring into space for an hour, firelight reflecting off his glasses. I bring him hot apple cider and his favorite book of poetry. “Read me a verse?” I ask, and he comes back to himself. “Of course, my love,” he says.
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Something ancient is buried in the valley. The night is full of howling, though all the dogs have run away. The women dream of smoke. One brave child tries to leave an offering at the stone cairn, only to hear a terrible voice shake the earth: No bargains.
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“What’s that? You saw two little girls carrying skulls around? Must be Tilda and Marnie…No, those two have always been a little strange. Don’t worry about it too much—they’ll put the skulls back when they’re finished. Their mother raised them very polite like that.”
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A dragon flying at maximum velocity can cause plenty of damage. It can summon winds strong enough to uproot a forest, to flatten crops into dust, to knock over a full grown man—even to cause a tidal wave, if it flies over water. A newly forged dragon is even worse—with a flap of its wings, one can topple a stone tower. Such happened to the Sect of Disgardia, who tend the All-God’s Sacred Flame. They did not pay the blacksmith who made the beast, and paid the price for their pride.
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On the first day of spring, she gives away small baskets of charmed treats, to bring sweet dreams and good luck: A peddler eats one and finds his true love. A prince is freed from his nightmares. A boy is lost in the woods overnight, and comes out without a scratch.
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“Our prime suspect is the ambassador from Mars. We found the same poison that killed the victim among their personal effects.” The Captain frowned. “Not good enough. Rumor has it they dose themselves with the poison to build up immunity.”
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The pilgrim walks alone, travel worn and weary and mud spattered. The farmers and townsfolk ignore him as he passes through. The birds and beasts know him for what he truly is, however, and even the trees whisper: All Hail, All Hail the Lost King.
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They made an odd sight, a witch and a priest, travelling together through the cemetery. He led her to the headstone, blackened and cracked in two. Things always get restless around the last harvest. At least this year the bones haven’t been disturbed…yet.
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