MICROFICTION BY J. B MULLIGAN
Blut, the Wentle and the Trigolath
Blut was married, evidently happily, to a willowy wentle, with
ice-cool lime-green skin and long orange hair all over. She was beautiful,
and every other body told Blut that, and he agreed, and it was even true.
But he had fallen in love with a trigolath, short and scaly, somewhat sweet
but dim as a total eclipse. In season, when he made love to the wanton
wentle, Blut thought of his little trigolath, whom he had only smelled once.
He treated the wentle well, gave her what she needed and wanted, and fed her
properly, and when he was dying, and she leaned over him all tearful of
love, with the family circled about like a wall against the inescapable
pain, Blut whispered, I love you, and died. They all thought he had uttered
his utterly love to the weeping wentle, but in the glaze on his drying eyes
there was the image of the trigolath, which had long since forgotten poor
Mortlemer was many different people indeed. He was kind, cruel,
smart, stupid, rich, poor, tall: in short, everything a girl could good and
bad dream about. Different Mortlemers loved and married and cheated on and
were faithful to different women. Sometimes Mortlemer would even cuckold
himself, which enraged him. Sometimes he hated a wife whom another he had
married and loved intensibly. His girlfriends, wives and lovers were, by
and large and small, very understanding, if understandably more than a
little confused. They could not tell the difference among the different
Mortlemers, oblivious though it was. In fact or fancy, some could not see
that Mortlemer was different from any other man they knew or didn’t know.
Eventually, these things catch up to you, as things have a habit of doing,
and Mortlemer caught himself with one of his other self’s wives, with whom he
had also been having a thing or three, and in his blindly focused jealousy,
shot himself flush in the ubiquitous.
J. B. Mulligan