The Diamond Axe

You know her--hair as black as night, skin as white as snow, and lips as red as blood--but you don't know the dwarf in love with her. 

My hair's peppery-blond, my skin's calloused as the mountainside, and my lips stretch wide and thin as an oil spill. I never thought myself ugly 'til she woke up, sprawled across our seven beds, and smiled.

None of my brothers know who cracked the mirror, but I think she does.

She taught me to cook; I taught her medicinal herbology. I fashioned her a diamond-axe so she can smash rocks; she wove me a magical cloak so  I can blend with night. She doesn't talk much; I talk all the time.

And sometimes, when I shut up, she leans in and smiles like that again, and I forget the Prince for a second. The 6-foot Prince. Who's known her since she was ten. I try not to give up. I try to balance between wooing her and respecting her decisions; I wake every day hoping today she sees past my height, my race.

Today's a panel of colors, like the sunlight reflecting through the diamond axe, with changing patterns and possibilities depending on your angle. Maybe today the queen finds her, and I die, because Snow White can't die while I'm alive. Or maybe today the axe leans against the foot of his bed, diffracting light onto the floor as she sighs in his arms.

Maybe today she falls for a dwarf.

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Just like this one story, and don't want anything else from me? Well, this was my contest entry for Lascaux Flash Fiction back in 2012. You can comment on it at the Lascaux site, here: http://www.lascauxflash.com/2012/09/139-diamond-axe.html Or below.

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