Flash Fiction Horror: Nectar of the Gods

The following is my entry for this week’s Macabre Monday prompt (cosmic horror). If you’re not familiar, check them out for more short horror. Thanks to Shaina Read, Jon T, John Coon, and EJ Trask.

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Photo by Marios Gkortsilas on Unsplash

Nectar of the Gods

Nigel had a thirst that could never be quenched. It was neither a thirst for knowledge nor blood, but for the nectar of the gods. He visited the finest lounges, the smokiest bars, and the private cellars of the rich and famous, but had yet to taste anything sublime.

Trading gold for whispers, Nigel heard rumors that what he sought was hidden among the ruins in Greece. Masked and naked, but cloaked in night’s darkness, he visited the once-great Temple of Dionysus with a bottle of wine and a handful of dried mushrooms. He swallowed the mushrooms, gagging at their bitterness, and imbibed the inferior wine. Then he danced in a circle, spinning around and around, until rainbow swirls rose from the marble and he could dance no more.

Nigel fell to his knees, then crawled around seeking the object. He had no idea what it would be, only that it would fit in his palm. When he spotted the small glass flask in the center of the temple’s ruins, he knew it was for him. He crawled toward it, grabbing before it could disappear.

The flask, though empty, weighed far heavier in Nigel’s palm than expected. Then a golden, shimmering liquid filled the container. His hands shook as he unscrewed the flask, but he was careful not to spill a drop. He stood on unsteady legs and toasted the sky. “To the great god Dionysus,” he proclaimed, then raised the flask to his lips. The drink smelled of narcissus and iris.

Ecstasy! Nigel guzzled and gulped, but the flask did not empty. He could finally drink his fill. His eyes rolled back. Nectar was sunlight, an ocean breeze, a fresh snowfall. It was every happy memory and the feeling of being loved.

It was the drink of gods, and Nigel was no god.

His lips began to burn, then his tongue, then his throat, until a fire reached his belly. It burned like Hestia’s fires, yet he did not stop drinking. Every taste was agony; every taste a blessing. He drank until his stomach burst and the nectar poured from inside him. Finally, Nigel’s thirst was quenched.

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