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Valhalla

by Geoffrey Hart

Previously published as: Hart, G. 2020. Valhalla. Flash in a Flash Episode 42 [31 January 2020] Reprinted p. 82-83 in: J. Brick and D.J. Caile (eds.) Worth 1,000 Words: A Flash Fiction Anthology. [no publisher information listed]

More than anything, I’d wanted to make an impact in my life, but the only thing I was good at was swinging a blade. The reward for courage and dying a good death was Valhalla. Here, we fight every day, then drink ourselves senseless and do it all over again next morning.

No matter where I started, my fight always ended with Eirik. He was big as me, maybe a little bigger. Sometimes I won; sometimes he won. The loser fetched the drinks. The next morning? Once more with gusto.

After a century or so, it began to stale. I felt we were just going through the motions.

One day, waiting for him to cut his way through the line of spearcarriers to reach me, I found myself admiring his economy of motion, the smooth flow of his muscles under that bearskin cape. And I found myself wondering: What would happen if, the next time we grappled, I crushed him to my chest and stuck my tongue in his mouth instead of sticking a dagger in his ribs?

What did happen was that he recoiled in horror and stuck a dagger in my ribs. Repeatedly. But after a few dozen repetitions, I noticed his heart wasn’t in it anymore. And then came the day he sighed into my mouth, dropped his dagger, and kissed me like he meant it.

The other warriors were horrified, but fuck ’em. When Eirik and I stood back to back, they kept their distance. Eventually, they got tired of dying and figured, “live and let live”. The Valkyries were another story. Most of them seemed to be quite turned on by our increasingly shameless display. One or two began casting sidewise glances at their sisters. Eirik laughed himself silly when I pointed this out.

Impact that, Odin!

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