I realize that it’s actually 2015, but this feels like the last fiction post of 2014 to me. Calendars be damned, I always think of the first Monday of a new year as the true start. Fresh week, fresh year. Until then, it’s 2014 in my head.
I’m closing out 2014 with a short fiction post, in part because I’m still on holiday break, myself, and in part because it sounded like fun. Once again, I’m rolling with a prompt from The Prediction:
100 words maximum, excluding the title, of flash fiction or poetry using all of the three words above (‘mound’, ‘powder’ and ‘cider’) in the genres of horror, fantasy or science fiction.
This story plays on an old concept. Like leprechauns, some alchemists simply shouldn’t be trusted. If one doesn’t specify the desired outcome with painful accuracy, the end result could easily satisfy the request while simultaneously leaving the recipient surprised and disappointed. Or, said another way, be careful what you wish for.
Happy new year.
“Apple cider vinegar?” she asked.
“And that?” She pointed to a small mound of powder. He added two pinches and tentatively sniffed the concoction.
“You don’t want to know.”
“This will work, though? You’re not bullshitting me?”
He smiled. “This potion will fulfill your requirements. Drink it, and you will age no more.”
Her eyes got big. She snatched the cup and gulped, only stopping when she started to choke.
“After all,” he said as she clawed at her neck, the skin turning blue. “When was the last time you went to a birthday party for a corpse?”