We got home from the funeral and there was a Facebook post from Uncle Stanley. Whose funeral we had just come from. The post read, Thanks for coming to my funeral. Really enjoyed the music.
Category: Short Stories Page 2 of 3
Blue fire burns in my hand and I know I have the magic again. After all this time, hiking across the barren desert, watching those sent with me die along the way.
Well. We can fix that.
Sometimes, they even finished each other’s—
—sentences. At least in the beginning, when they were young and new. The world named them Twins, and kept them together, one unit, sharing clothes and beds and hearts. As they grew they named themselves individuals, sisters, plural. Still close, so close. Sometimes, they even finished each other’s—
Normally when I’m anxious I calm myself by feeding the ducks at the park at the end of the street. So when I found I couldn’t sleep, I went to the park. The only problem was that there are no ducks to feed at 2am, so I just sat on a bench and watched the lake. It was a calming sight, the smooth surface reflecting the starry sky.
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Mother had told her not to talk to strangers. It was what she told Red Riding Hood every time she sent her into the woods. The creature looked so very hurt, though. It could barely move, using what little energy it had to clutch at its wounded side. Red crept closer. “Are you all right?”
It was mostly curiosity that brought us here. Really. Okay, we were bored too, and maybe a bit tipsy. Well, I definitely was, and Macey seemed to be. Don’t judge. Benny had just dumped me, and Macey was nearly a year out of work. I’d heard she was probably going to lose the flat. So we both had our reasons for having a few drinks in us at three in the afternoon.
The priest did not greet Mirenna when he opened the door to her room. Not that she minded. She was more concerned with looking past him into the grand hall beyond, which she had only seen once. All she glimpsed now was a stained glass rose, framed in gold, one of many that had been set in the walls. Her room was tiny in comparison, and so dull – bare walls, a plain chair and table, a wooden shelf she could not reach. She waited until the priest had shut the door and sat himself down before she spoke.
“New dreams have come to me,” she told him.
The note read: An official from the company is on their way to your establishment. We trust you will be sufficiently prepared to receive him and show him around.
These words were enough to sent the entire place into a panic.
The old god sat in a corner of his workshop and regarded his creation. It was nearly done. He’d laid the foundations of fire and clay, he’d shaped the mountains and the seas, he’d planted the seeds that would grow into grasses and trees. He had spent the last several hours painting each grain of sand just the right shade of gold, each wave in the ocean the right shade of blue, and each cloud just the right shade of silver-grey. This world was his masterpiece. It was lighter than the ones he’d made before, but heavier than the airy worlds his brothers and sisters made. It needed only a few finishing touches: balancing the poles, stoking the fires within to just the right heat, giving the mountaintops one final polish. Once he was done, this world would outshine all the others.