The Prince Doesn't Win
Microfiction (500 words or less)
Archimedes took the long way around.
Minerva was waiting somewhere below at the base of the mountain—but he sat in front of his fire with his tools and a pipe while he smoked the dreams of his ancestors.
“Good riddance,” he told his mother.
“Sorry I didn’t live up to your standards,” he told his father.
“My apologies that I’m not the mage you wanted me to be,” he told his sister who was the most recently deceased.
Then he counted back from five on his fingers and blew pink powder into the air. The crystalline particles made soft shapes of varying sizes before they blew away on the wind.
Then he was alone, for once, just thinking.
His thoughts curled as smoke from his pipe.
Then he settled back, cross-legged, wishing he could change worlds but knew he had only the two hands in front of him.
That would have to be enough.
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