Lady Macbeth

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

Life had become so boring, so beige boring. Every day it was hound the maids, light the candles, greet the guests. Then along came prophecy! What’s not to believe about a witch, let alone three? Once again, my world oozed with possibility.

What came to pass? Life in red, gushing red. There was blood in the soup, blood in the stew, blood on the hands of my husband. I thought about the plagues in Egypt, the Pharaoh who knew about miracles turned against him. I thought about science. That what flows, surely ebbs? While the old king’s blood ran blue.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda Lowe's poems and stories have appeared in Gone Lawn, Crack the Spine, What Rough Beast, New Verse News, Tiny Molecules and others.

Miracles

Steve wasn't one to believe in miracles. He understood too well the depravities of the human heart. More often than not he was victim to the world's machinations. That's how fate had led him to the streets.

So when the woman offered a hot meal, he expected some sort of catch, likely in the form of a lengthy sermon. When she offered a warm bed, he called to mind images of harvested organs and sexual servitude. When she claimed through phony tears to be his mother, he fled at the first opportunity, certain it was another conspiracy plotting against him.

Stardust

In the fairy tales, people go chasing after stardust because of its supposed magical properties. Legends are passed down of heroes anointed with the stuff and of diseases cured. There was one tale that my mother used to tell of a unicorn who had never tasted anything but stardust and you could ride her into magical realms. Stardust is the tears of angels, the remains of miracles.

Maybe there is some stardust in the universe that's like that, but I have found it's nothing but radiation and horrific burning. Leastways, it's the stardust that gave me all these awful scars.

The Thaumaturge

Every morning, the dirty children that wandered the streets in search of easily obtained coin and crumb gathered. They did their best to stay out of sight, hiding behind shadows and around corners in the nearly empty lane. The neighborhood denizens prized the hour as the quietest of the day.

Griffin used the mornings to fashion that day's inventions. Afterwards, when the hard work at his forge was complete, and he had only to worry about entertaining his customers, the shop bustled, and the street outside resembled any other.

It was a dangerous thing, to watch a miracle being wrought.