Microfiction: Medusa’s Lament

“It would be nice to take it all back, don’t you think?” she mused at the stone figure of a woman in a slip-on dress. “I mean—I didn’t quite mean for it to go so far.”

She swiveled her head toward a man with his face in a perpetual scream.

“And, you, I really did not mean for you to die. I was trying to be careful.”

She glanced up, at the buildings, at the skyscrapers. The city was so quiet. She looked at her own image, there on the big screen, and sighed. Her hair tried to calm her, whispering and nuzzling her cheeks—but it would not do much. She was too depressed.

“Is it such a crime I wanted to see the show?” she asked another statue. This one of a fatter man, carrying a massive camera on his once meat shoulders. “All of the world was excited—I just wanted to be part of all the world.”

She flicked out her hands, and then rubbed her brow. “I guess not, though. I guess not.”

A sigh and she dusted herself off. “But, it’s not worth dwelling on—I’ll just move forward.”

The maze of people: men, women, children, they stood and were nigh-immovable. She could have pushed one over, with great effort, but the domino effect might have been a real problem—so she squeezed, pushed, and prodded her way as gently as possible.

Breaking up her slight pants of exhaustion after a few hundred feet of this, a slight sound came from somewhere. She spied a helicopter, extremely far away, still working and spinning—even if the driver was likely dead.

She sighed again. “I really hope at least one person wasn’t looking at the video?”

No answer came from any of the statues.

Special thanks to: Bob GerkinCollin PearmanDylan AlexanderJerry Banfield, and Michael The Comic Nerd. 

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