Tag: Flash Fiction

All That Shimmers Is Not Gold

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/
Category:Nathaniel_Hawthorne

He had the touch. Austin got in on crypto early. In college, he mined instead of studying. Hey, why not; the internet was free. He didn’t graduate.

No matter, he struck it rich and moved to a penthouse in Manhattan where he lived like a king. Austin had it made until he didn’t. A whiz kid, yes; a mensch, not so much.

He only knew crypto, which meant nothing to the women he met in bars. It got old with his drinking buddies; the world moved on to other things. Drowning in data, he’d no hope of getting a date.

Bring a Smile Wherever You Go

Photo by Torsten Dettlaff on Pexels.com

A prince and a commoner competed to cadge a smile from a princess. The prize: marriage and half the kingdom. The prince claimed the right to go first. Noob mistake.

“Look at him. Sad excuse for a man.”

Cruel, not funny, the prince was struck dumb by his own vanity.

The commoner called his posse. All kinds, all sizes of butterflies cavorted around the princess, a cloud of color. Her aroused senses softened her lips.

The commoner entreated the winged creatures. “Best beauties, brush against her ears, her nose, titillate her love of wonder.” They did just that. She smiled.

Gnome Migration to Points North

Photo by Tove Liu on Pexels.com

The gnomes stayed ahead of the snow melt, seeking higher ground to escape the heat wave. Sweat dripped from under red brimmed caps. Seven months pregnant, Svena raised her hand above her head. She stopped and sipped from a nearly empty animal skin. “It’s no good,” she said. “The forest’s been cleared. You see the stumps.”

The leader said, “We’ll go over the pass to the other side.”

“Dry and dead.” A murmur rose to the point of rebellion. They believed a full womb confers second sight.

“So where?” The man sat. He filled a pipe and lit it.

“North.”

Runaway

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

Rigor mortis didn’t set in. Snow lay in front of the open door, a box of apples scattered beside her. She’d said nothing about her past, but the quality of her thick wool cape suggested she came from a good family. She told them fear had made her run away. 

When the doorbell rang she wanted to hide. When she realized that no one but her was home, she felt obliged to answer. Someone needed to take the Amazon delivery. In slo-mo, Wicked Stepmother brushed an apple against Snow’s lips. Snow’s last wish countered the poison, but not the spell.

What the Mirror Said

Photo by Nataliya Vaitkevich on Pexels.com

Madge looked in the mirror. With all the money she’d spent on age-defying creams, she’d expected fewer wrinkles; soft, supple skin; and rose red lips, plump and full.

“Young lady,” Madge checked her watch. How annoying. It was so busy. “I’ve been waiting.” 

“So sorry, ma’am. Just a sec.” 

Madge watched the girl ring up a sale. The lines in the customer’s face told a story of many smiles. The girl’s skin was unblemished, smooth like a baby’s bottom. I’d kill for that face.

Madge checked the mirror again and it said, “No. Look deeper. Make-up won’t change your heart.”

SweePea

Photo by Yusuf u00c7elik on Pexels.com

She flounced up to the desk, leaned on it with her elbows out, her fingers leaved together, and in a honeyed voice said, “My bed is unacceptable.”

The clerk handed a new arrival keys and turned to her. “I’m so sorry ma’am.”

“I want a new room, not a sniveling apology.”

“Sorry about that, too. We’re full.”

A gentleman approached, “I overheard and I’d like to offer my room.”

“Mr. Prince,” said the clerk. “How kind.”

SweePea liked what she saw when she looked at Prince. “I’ll try the bed. No point moving otherwise.”

Prince offered his arm. “C’mon honey.”

What If It Was the Mattress and Not the Pea?

Scullery Maid by Edme Bouchardon is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

Cook observed that the less than princess would fail the test the Queen had set. The sous chef nodded.

The scullery maid said, “Only a corpse could sleep on those lumps.”

“You and your airs. Anyone but a true princess could.”

“Then I tell you, I’m a princess.”

Cook pinched the maid’s cheek. “You’re not meant to nap.”

“Not on that mattress pile. I’d rather sleep under a tree.”

Cook’s nose flared. “Tell the Queen. Maybe she’ll find you a husband.”

With a cheeky grin, the scullery girl said, “Or maybe if I complain enough I’ll win my prince.”

The Riding Hood Brigade

Photo by Cu00e9line on Pexels.com

The cool air stank down the dark steps into the underground. She pushed through a turnstile, onto the platform and hopped the subway at Prospect, intending to walk through Central Park to Fifth Avenue where her grandmother lived. Her mouth watered at the thought of Grandma’s gingerbread.

He winked at her and rubbed his crotch. She pulled her red hoodie up. Her thumbs flew over the keyboard on her phone, cycling through numbers, texting the others from her friend group. He followed her off the train. Her posse was there waiting. Watching. They made certain that there were no surprises.

It Takes a Princess to be a Queen

Photo by Edward Eyer on Pexels.com

Poor little thing, feet bare, bedraggled dress, beleaguered, and common. The prince says to me, “I’ve found a wife.”

More like a wet kit.

I could say, “She’s a sly one.” He would never listen. He has too good a heart.

So, I tell my maid, “Find her a gown. Let her sup in the kitchen. And lastly, make up the softest bed with the hardest pebbles inside as a test.” Maid’s done this many times.

The ungrateful girl eats nothing. The satin is not fine enough, the slippers too stiff. By morning, I know she’s a princess most uncommon.

A Stormy Night Atop a Pea

Edmund Dulac, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

She rushed along a lightening illuminated path. Mud sucked one satin slipper off, the other she tossed away calling it useless, like she had the cooks whose roast meat was not bloody enough, their bread not crusty enough. Torrential tears fell. Rain streamed from her hair, her clothes, and the tip of her nose.

A man and his unruly mare pulled up, clods flying.

“Fool, do you know who I am,” she asked.

Eyebrow raised, he said, “A woman in need of dry clothes.” The lord carried her to his castle, grand as her father’s.

She didn’t sleep a wink.