Microfiction: Dance the North Wind

From a prompt sent in by actress Anna Lambe. Her request was for something mundane and something magical, possibly with Elves.




Every morning I shower and dress, jam feet into sensible shoes and bemoan the fact  that I loathe coffee, as I head to my job as a barista at the local coffee shop. Ironic, right? It pays the bills… just, but doesn’t leave me enough to travel or party. My entire existence revolves around work.

We’re heading to that part of the year where mornings are dark, the temperature lingers in single digits and everything is ‘pumpkin spice’ flavour. Swaddled against the chill, as I am, it’s not likely that I will see the wonder that others appreciate at this time of the year. I don’t see pedestrians either and plough straight into the stranger in the street.

He is a vision in a dark burgundy suit. I can see it because his coat is open like the cold doesn’t matter. I’m captivated by his scent. A blooming combination of cinnamon and amber, it is intoxicating.

“I’m sorry.” The scarf wrapped around my face catches the sound, but he hears.

“No problem.” He smiles, dazzling white, and all I can think is ‘why isn’t he cold?’

A blast of sleet filled arctic gale lifts his white blonde hair, and where it plasters mine to my scalp, it makes his shimmer with snowflakes. Perhaps I am delusional, but I swear his ears are pointed.

“I have to go to work.” I mumble.

“Or you could come with me and never want for anything ever again.” He is obviously a madman I think as I take his pale hand. “I will give you the world,” He promises, “but you will never be warm again.”

Words: 274

Image by Maria Eduard Tavares via pexels