Author: Járnviðr

Vincenzo swayed unsteadily, swallowing bile. This was a blasphemy. He could understand why someone would oppose the garden, but to do this! He waved his hand over the dying plants on the ground. Surely there was something he could do?

Nothing. They were trapped in limbo. Each plant drew life from another. The perfume that filled the air was a symptom of the parasitic monsters that had been created. He could cut them down, stop their growth, and be done with it, but his patroness would be devastated enough by the news. He would not add to her burden.

He waved his arm again, this time drinking in the sun. It warmed his skin gently. The sun here was a comforting one. His arm began to stiffen as the skin cracked and peeled. A slender, thorny vine rose slowly from underneath, curling through the air as it entwined with the other plants. His skin itched and burned as the vine poked and prodded its brethren. He wiped his arm of sap and blood using his handkerchief. Soon he would undo this pointless destruction of her great work. All of his countrymen would have the chance to join his lady’s garden.

Week 27: Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner

“It was grandmother’s. We could still reconstruct it, with a bit of work.”

“That’s work that we don’t need to do. We should give up. Things have changed since then. The world is different. Why fix the quilt?”

“Is it really that different? We made an oath.”

“I don’t remember making any oaths, do you?”

“Our duty goes beyond just us. This is for everyone.”

“And if I want a normal life? Something where I can participate instead of just observe forever?”

“Then that’s your choice, not mine.”

“What if nothing comes to me?”

“I know you’ll be inspired.”

Prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about something frayed. It could be fabric, like a flag or garment. It could also be nerves or temper. What is it to be frayed?

Smile. Smile. Smile.

The high priestess raises the cup to his lips and he smiles. He drinks from the cup as if it brims with life-giving water, though he has to fight to choke down the bitter juices. This is an honor. He has been raised above his station. Today is- he listens to her voice. She says it with such conviction he can almost believe it.

“Today is your crowning achievement. You have been selected from a throng of indistinguishable warriors to serve. You alone have the tenacity, the courage, and the vigor to act rightly. You have been given the rarest of gifts: a purpose. Drink, and ready yourself.”

He drinks. He drinks enough of the foul drink that he wishes he would become sick and ruin her gown. It must have taken years to dye, sew, and cut every piece of fabric that went into this one day. He looks to his peers, stepping down from the dais slowly, with a final bow. They huddle together, quaking fearfully. There is nothing to fear, brothers, not for you, he thinks, but does not say. Their fear will serve them well.  He touches the horn around his neck; a remnant of one of the fallen. There is a cheer from the crowd. It begins.

(Photo by Alex Blăjan @ Unsplash)

He circles the arena. Two guards bring in their arms a scrawny man, barely a day over sixteen, and toss him down. The man lands with a thump, and begins to rise slowly. He growls at this display. What cowardice. He ducks his head, tossing his horns. He wonders why the change. The previous duels were all among their kind, not with men. That was what the men of wealth wanted to see.

He turned around, flapping his wings. The crowd screamed, in equal parts fearful shock and ecstatic pleasure. He ignored them. The man cowered in one corner, clutching his hair. It was longer than most men, reaching down to his waist. The man also had an unusual distribution of fat. Instead of mostly in his abdomen, it was stored exclusively in the upper chest. He lacked confidence in the basic design (how did such men stay upright?), but it was hardly his place. And it was hardly the time. He clutches his own belly, shaking it and roaring. The audience, as usual, found this amusing. They were quite easily amused.

“Please,” said the young man, his eyes welling with tears.

“Mother said they wouldn’t, she said they only take boys. Please don’t kill me.”

He ignored the man’s pleas. He had always known what he would do. This was his one chance at fame. This was his one chance to make the men pay attention.

In one swift motion, he pressed his necklace into the center of his chest with all his might. 

Weekly Writing Prompt #95: Sick, bitter, fight, smile, fame

You remember how it is in Georgia, we do things different. Now you’re used to boys with no facial hair, body mods, and piercings everywhere you can pierce, but we don’t do that here. Maybe you go to the station for school and an asteroid for the culture, but no Georgia peach wants to live out in the cold, black void. You want a little bit of homegrown Southern comfort.

Oh, uh, sorry, not interested. I thought you were organic.

Prompt: Peach

When he wakes up, the red light of morning streaming through his window, his heart skips a beat. The sun? Natural sunlight! He rushes out of bed greet it.

When she logs in, she responds to emails in order of panic. No, she assures the recepients of her comforting lies. No, there is nothing to fear. It will hold. Their arcology is the best on Io.

When they crouch down, underneath the sparking and burning wreckage of their glass and plastic castle, they look at each other with undeniable hatred. His dream lives, hers died. Simple. She kills him.

Prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that involves a dream.