Micro Fiction Monday: Fragile

I should have known it would end here. I tried so hard to stop it. Knowing the future, it seems, does nothing but turn you into a constant state of denial.

Here’s the thing that no one knew about time travel: the time-space continuum is not a fragile thing. There is no butterfly effect; squashing a bug will never destroy the entire human race. Rather, it’s self repairing. Kill a cricket ten, twenty years ago, and you’ll return to your own, unaltered timeline. It’s like throwing a pebble in the ocean—the ripples only go so far.

There’s an event horizon in the continuum, and once you reach it, there’s no going back. Nothing can be changed, because any attempts at alteration will be smoothed out in the rough current of the time stream. No one knew this—not even me.

So I stood on the brink of it all, rewinding and replaying, twisting and turning the events that had set the greatest tragedy of my life into motion. But with every attempt I made, the laws of the universe followed suit, and nothing brought me any closer to my goal.

I returned to my own time, numb with the pain of having watched death perform a hundred times over.

Micro Fiction Monday: Nightmare

She knew of the palace chef before she met him. To eat what he made was like a dream come true—he was famous around the world for his wonderful pies. She didn't ask a single question, didn't think to wonder what the ingredients might be, before gracefully shoving a forkful into her mouth.

It was apple.

Immediately, she was back in that cottage, being tempted by everything she had ever hoped for. She could taste the bittersweet juice, that vague twinge of pain at the back of her throat, before the poison took control and sent her tumbling to the ground. Her last thought was of him—her wish, her dream, her biggest desire.

She awoke to the soft brush of his lips against hers. He gave her his breath, renewed her life, brought her back from the dead. In the end, she had gotten all she had ever wanted. The apple, it seems, had done everything the witch said it would.

But that twinge remained every time she took a bite, and that fear of eternal sleep kept her awake for far longer than it should have. Her new life, her dream, was now a living nightmare.

Death was not the witch’s punishment—it was waking up after.

Hate (Micro-Fiction Monday)

I hate the colour black. Actually, that’s not true—he hated the colour black. But since he’s not here to complain about the atmosphere of the room, I’ll hate it on his behalf.

         

Nobody’s commented on my pink sundress yet. Maybe it’s because they don’t want to be rude.  It can’t be because they understand, or they know why I chose this outfit. Nobody knew him better than I did.

                

Maybe it’s because they’re too lost in their own grief to try and understand the thought process behind mine. Maybe they hate the colour black, too—but that’s unlikely. Nobody else has made an effort to break this tradition like I have.

                

It could be because they just don’t care. I don’t recognize half of the people here—to them, I’m just some girl. Why would they care how I dress? They’re hurting just as much as I am.

                

I think the real reason, though, is because they’re too preoccupied with their whispers, and the not-so-secret glances they steal at the ring on my left hand. The one that I showed to no one, the one that didn’t appear until after he was gone. The one I found tucked safely into his jacket pocket, too late to give him my answer.

                

He’d hate this, all of it. Not because of the atmosphere, or the whispers, or the way total strangers talk about him like they were his best friend. He’d hate it because I’m crying.

                

He wouldn’t want me to cry. But that’s something I can’t fix on his behalf.

~~

Until later,

- Justyne