This last week, during the AWP conference in Minneapolis, the Blue Skirt Productions team asked participants to submit microfiction on post-it notes for a chance to be published the following Monday online. Below are the chosen entries. Enjoy!
by Sam Snoek-Brown
When the storm piled in the Gulf, my father gathered eggs. He filled the basket with carrots and pawpaws and the last of our biscuits, and my sisters and I hid in the attic where my father sang songs above the flood. In the morning we headed north, but the townsfolk found us. My father whispered for us to run before they beat him in the road. We wept over him, but as we watched them pass our food among themselves, our stomachs knotted. So we left my father in the mud and joined the townsfolk for supper.
by Sierra Lomprey
I Would Have Settled for Cheese, but…
Feeling good, I picked up the mozzarella stick. A long, unruly black hair was stuck to it. “Fuck it,” I said and pulled the hair off. “I’m drunk and it’s half off appetizers tonight at Applebees.”
*Based on a true story.*
Feet off the Floor
by Tia Clark
Chrisette puts her feet up on the coffee table to avoid the floor, though she knows, intellectually, that it’s not made of lava. Her brother is years and miles away, too far to yell at her to jump from couch to couch to save her life. And her girlfriend’s at work, too far and too busy to yell at her to get her feet off the goddamn table, stop texting at dinner, not that bra, etc. And Chrisette’s toes are just the right pink. And at this vantage point, this distance, her legs look almost completely straight.
by Casey Kimberly
If you think people attend conferences for “best practices” and networking, you’re a fool. If you attend conferences thinking it’s for career development, you’re fooling yourself.
Sure, there may be standout breakouts. You may snap pics of a speaker’s revealing slides. But the screen you’ll scan most during the sessions will be the one in your hand.
Certainly you’ll meet people. But millions don’t flock to conferences for networking alone. The truth is they flock to fuck.
At night hotels become hotbeds for hedonism. A brief escape. No kids, no spouses, no strings attached.
Shocked? Interested? I’m in Room 603.