When the Wolfsbane Blooms


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When the Wolfsbane Blooms

I am, again, at the mercy of Maximilian Rolfe, who, let’s face it, has none. I want the goblet. He’s filled it with poison. Tells me to drink. As if.

I tend to think: what would Indiana do? That’s not much help because we know that good timing and coincidence work for him. For me? Not so much.

“So what’s my poison?” I ask. The question sounds cooler in the movies maybe because there it’s not really poison.

“Aconite. Swift acting to get rid of your meddlesome self.”

“Tell me again, why do you have to kill me?”

He doesn’t bother answering. He edges closer, the goblet outthrust, his icy blue eyes impassive. I note bloodied wounds on his torso showing that my pathetic attempts at fighting did damage his body.

“Aconite?” I repeat. A factoid rousing my brain. “There’s no other way?”

“Just drink so I don’t have to hear your tiresome voice anymore.”

He stumbles. The liquid sloshes but doesn’t fall. I eye the goblet’s skeletal face and then Rolfe’s.

Too cavalier. Too assured. Too murderous. Too easy.

I remove the goblet from his hands. It’s heavier than I expect as I launch the liquid toward his open wounds.

end 1/21/2017 (200 words)

S. Darlington

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