Mesopotamian Flash Fiction

Gilgamesh in a Gift Shop

The gaudy aging door to the gift shop swung open, slamming against the opposite wall so hard it cracked the window set there. An imposing torso was visible through the threshold, wrapped in gray linens, dripping with gold accoutrements. The man on the other side reached a massive fist through the door and gripped the upper doorway. As he bent to enter, his face became visible. It was dark, covered in curling black hair. His beard was braided intricately and laced with shimmering beads, gold-dust plated tie-ins and dust.

Stooped, he entered the gift shop with a scowl, his undeniable presence froze Farah in place in her spot behind the counter, littered with dolls of a similar depiction to the stranger. He threw a magazine stand over in his rush to the cashier’s desk. Farah grabbed the small gun safe from under the counter. She tapped the code into it as she walked rapidly backward, maintaining a 10 foot distance from the pursuing stranger.

The case clicked open and she grabbed the pistol that fell from it, pushing the safety off in the same smooth movement. With both hands, she aimed the gun as her body hit the opposite wall behind the counter. The figure looked through the barrel, into her eyes. He seemed disinterested in the firearm, as if it were a child’s toy.

“Farah.” He said in a growl so deep it resonated in her chest.

The man grabbed one of the Gilgamesh dolls and squeezed it with one hand until the plastic splintered, then he slammed it back onto the counter. Farah maintained her aim. She didn’t look at the toy, she didn’t shudder at the loud cracks of it splintering, she paid no mind to the counter glass shattering under his force. She only concerned herself with the sight, held perfectly at the level of his chest. At this range, she couldn’t miss.

“Enough toys.” He said.

He turned dark eyes toward her. His pupils appeared nearly black against the harsh fluorescents, buzzing with age in their ballasts above him.

“Leave or die.” Farah said. No emotion, no emphasis.

“A weapon?” He scoffed, the word devolved into a heavy laugh. “Show me.” He challenged.

“If you try to get behind this counter, I will.” She responded. Still even, calm.

He jumped, in a moment of unreality. His dark form nearly blotted out the light from the ceiling. The floor complained as his massive legs pushed against it to enter the air. Where his hand had been resting on the counter over cracked glass, shattered completely. For a terrible moment his enormous body was suspended in the air, bounding over the remnants of the counter. His beard was stiff with curls and decoration, only swaying slightly. His eyes grew wild with the exertion of his leap, his hands were out at both sides, a leaping lion’s claws. The next moment, he landed in a furious earthquake. The carpet tore under his weight. Farah’s body was thrown off-balance. All of the floor seemed to move as if a raging sea of stone and tile. Though her body moved in every direction during the rebounding vibrations, she managed to maintain her sights by compensating.

Without another word, she fired. Through the sights, she was sure the shot connected, right at the heart. There was a slight warping of the impacted area, a wisp, a vortex, a reformation. Like a ghastly wind, the bullet passed through him. Farah lowered the weapon, eyeing the height of the counter next to her, calculating whether she could out run him based on the huge display of physicality. He began to laugh so egregiously he had to hold his belly.

“Yes, you are of my blood indeed.” He managed through uproarious guffaws. “Now, put that down. It won’t help us retake the empire.” He crossed his arms to indicate a sudden seriousness.