Microfiction Monday – Seventh Edition
Special thanks to Jessica Standifird for her editorial assistance. This week’s artwork is by Marylea Madiman.
Dead Birds
by Gena LeBlanc
The Devil’s in the details. He’s in the cupboards, too, waiting for idle hands to edge inside and prod the prince of darkness into action. He was there the day Judd killed all those roosters. Judd believed that Jesus had commanded him to wring feathered necks until the squawking stopped. Unfortunately for Judd, Christ has no need for dead birds. The Devil, on the other hand, loves a good sacrifice.
The Darkness
by Brian Schaab
I see the tendrils of midnight stretching out towards me. Grasping, groping for me, or are they beckoning, reaching towards me to envelope me in a warm embrace? I keep walking, trying to fight against it. Color has left me. Light has left me. Only a few feet around me resist the growing shadow. Something passes in front of me, it turns, black eyes staring, and smiles. Color and light radiate out of that smile. The darkness is thrown back, driven before that smile. She turns and walks down the street, fading into the New York bustle. The unknowing hero.
Memory
by Dennis E. Thompson
Mornings were quiet now. Carl Saebo had never liked arguing, normally avoided it at all cost, but sitting alone at the table was too much stillness, like a warm summer day when the heat becomes stifling from no air movement. Life was different. His wife had passed before him and that was not how it was supposed to be. He lit another cigarette and drank deeply from his coffee. He wondered where sixty-four years of his life had gone, how each had blended and passed, like rivulets after a hard rain running together and disappearing in sand.
Felled
by Chris Deal
The dying started in the early evening. Nights stretched cold and long and the fire needed wood, sending Llewellyn out to bring down trees. He had become near an expert. The angles were easy, though there were always variables. A railroad spike driven into the old growth, to defend against loggers long gone. The saw’s chain caught and exploded with a high squeal, lashing out and slashing his chest, neck. He weighed his options as he leaned against the unfelled tree. The fading sun left a gash of purple and red across the sky.
Chinese Fire Drill
by C.C. Russell
Red light pulsed through the windshield, the thump of Jenny’s playlist as the Buick stopped, shuddering. “Again!” a voice laughed, yelled and we were out, screaming around the car. I ended up in the backseat. Jill leaned in, kissed me hard, tongue darting. I tingled – less from the kiss than the whiskey kicking in. J.D. was driving now, his eyes wild, warm from the fifth we had split. I grabbed Jill and returned the favor. Harder. And the whole world turned green. I hit J.D. in the shoulder. “Punch it!” I yelled. Jill laughed, pulled my face towards hers.
Microfiction Monday – Sixth Edition
Special thanks to Jessica Standifird for her editorial assistance. This week’s artwork is by Anna Lea Jancewicz.
What with Daddy Gone and All
by Mathew Pereda
She keeps her eyes closed, not caring that she’s got to wear a dress that doesn’t cover her knees enough. Mr. Avery’s here with some papers. She hugs a corner of the house, arms out, gripping, as if that’ll prevent him shirking it right out from under them like a tablecloth—like those men on TV do it—leaving them all stalk-still and leftover, like fine china, she thinks. Her mother’s crying smells like whiskey. Mr. Avery has a face like an owl: a chin and jaws that skip a neck, with eyes that could just swallow her up.
Starving
by Diana Kirk
“You haven’t eaten your peas.” His fist would hit the oak table if my fork didn’t reach my mouth. I had about five seconds to make this happen. Meatloaf, potatoes, peas, meatloaf, potatoes, peas. I must have skipped the peas and he had seen. Scoop, bite, don’t look up, just chew. Thirty times, then swallow. Maybe he won’t throw our plates tonight if I can just remember. If I don’t mess up and look at her. Keep your eyes focused on this plate or he’ll throw her too. Just…chew. 1, 2, 3. Meatloaf, potatoes, peas.
Ninety-Seven
by Alex Sobel
“Who’d want to live to ninety-eight, anyway?” she says, on his lap, six years to her name, sweetness in audacity. “Anyone who’s ninety-seven,” he says, an uncle. I eat pineapple chunks, pastries, drink soda. You’re in the other room, the casket, old stories that can get nothing but older, vaguer. “But she was loved,” he continues, “and she’ll continue to be loved.” I throw away my plate, uneaten pastries. I want to be that girl, have those questions, that lack of limitations. Instead, I leave to find you, wondering how strange it is that some death is worse than others.
Little Timothy
by Nupur Balain
I knew little Timothy had been bullied again. I could tell by his shuffling gait, how he flinched whenever anyone neared him. I pitied little Timothy. His parents didn’t care about his situation; they figured putting him into a wealthy boarding school would make all their problems go away. They left it up to us, the teachers, to care for him. As he passed, I stopped him and asked if he was alright. He looked at me and said, “It’s fine. She said she’s coming for them.”
Needs Change
by Lee L. Krecklow
He asked if she had change for a five, and she said she did not, which was a lie, a small lie, but within it she realized a perverse power. She watched him go from table to table, asking the same and hearing the same, and she reveled in her control, understanding that it was a thing she hadn’t owned for years. It lasted until he found what he was after, from some naive teenage girl. He put his dollar in the machine, received his drink and returned to their table. “It’s not cold,” he said. Good, she thought.
Microfiction Monday – Fifth Edition
Special Thanks to Jessica Standifird for her editorial assistance. This week’s artwork is by Marc D. Regan.
Gabriel, Oh, Gabriel
by Jonathan Oak
She lay on the insertion room table. Her DNA screening had gone well. The GBRL came alive, unfolding as it approached her, wings of light illuminating the workspace between her legs, its arm extending a gently curved duck-billed facilitator. It hummed like Sunday mornings; early, sleepy dawns when her mother moved like a half remembered song, making pancakes, listening to sermons. Then the miracle of modern science happened, the immaculately conceived child, not born of lust, or desire, but in the clean, comforting atmosphere of purpose. They were making the world a better place, one unblemished child at a time.
Without A Song
by Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri
The boy chases after the Chevrolet, rain falling from graying clouds. If he’s fast enough, he can stop Mother before she leaves him at Deerfield Academy. He doesn’t know anyone. Back home, he was Piano Boy, writing compositions about autumn and lonely kingdoms. It was hardly a compliment, but he knew where he fit. He remembers Mother smiling when he wrote his first composition. Rocking him to sleep after nightmares about dung-beetles. Dung-beetles who chased Mother across their favorite ice-skating rink.
The boy stumbles, the car fading into a pebble-sized speck. He cries into flickering shadows in the rainy, wind-swept street.
Every Time I Look
by James Croal Jackson
You sat alone in bed as the others filtered out. You did not inch away when I got close. You said “hey” so quietly I imagined it. Your head was on my shoulder like in a dream. I said, “I’m drunk.” You were, too. I felt the roughness of your jeans. Your fuzzy sweater clung to my arm. Your hairs brustled my cheek. I said, “I like you.” A chill inflicted the room when you told me I should have saved it for another time. From bed I watched the rest of the party dissipate into vast, empty space.
Venus
by Edward Palumbo
She was my Venus, and she had four limbs, although it was rumored that she was missing a toe. I never found out. “Make love to me in the dark” she would say, “and don’t look at my feet.” She painted in reds and umbers, odd, as she was a musician. “Someday I will be the greatest pianist in all Russia,” she promised, “if I ever get out of Milwaukee.” They came for her one spring evening. She called for my help, but I had a face full of shaving gel. Perhaps this is better.
Fear
by Marc D. Regan
Max decided a backdoor might be necessary. Like a dog door. Just in case. Because things don’t always work out. Divorce was huge in those days. The prospect of being left alone terrified him. Thus, without her knowledge, he devised a plan. A series of steps. He could go here or there. He would stash money. Just in case. Because people kept secrets. Media corrupted morals, bred fear. Friends modeled new possibilities. His wife had changed. She radiated independence. He needed a plan. Just in case. When he looked up from his scheming, she was grinning. Which meant what?
Microfiction Monday – Fourth Edition
Special thanks to Marc Corbier and Jessica Standifird for their editorial assistance. This week’s artwork is by Sarah Kayss.
Home
by Stephen Gossett
The old house, standing naked and empty against the world, blank staring windows that cannot see. The door has locked out life. Flowers and shrubs growing and blooming, but for who? My youth peeled and blown away, only remembered as echoes. I had to cry today, standing in the deserted driveway. I am left bleeding and wounded. Through blurry eyes I try to see the old place in its former glory but it is small now. Time won out on its endless pursuit of the future.
Summer Nights
by Luke Strickler
I never had a rocky relationship in my teen years, but I did have a summer job at the mall. I got paid minimum wage. You got paid in whatever weird version of sex teenagers were doing. I stopped finding customers interesting. You stopped finding them interesting. And together we both drove home in separate cars listening to punk rock; me just having let out the last show, and you just having sat through it alone. The only difference is now I don’t like the taste of popcorn and you don’t like the name Alex.
Lost
by Tyler Woodley
If there was a time he wished he had never met that girl, it was now. That girl who haunted his dreams, she danced in his thoughts for him as if she owned his consciousness. So close sometimes, he could smell lilac. The summer dress she wore teased relentlessly; twisting elegantly, eerily silent. Dylan squeezed his eyes shut to envision her face, but it eluded him.
“She has green eyes, green eyes, green as emeralds. Emeralds.”
She gave one final twirl as she reached the very edge of Dylan’s imagination; a faint blue flash, then complete darkness.
A Better Plan
by Diana Kirk
When I was thirteen my mother kept a gun in her bedside drawer. Tears dropped on my arms as I held it, heavy in my hands, loaded with six bullets. The decision would be final. I at least felt that. I had to pull the hammer back but couldn’t decide where I should be found. Why hadn’t I thought this through? Her keys jangled at the door and I panicked, dropping it back in the drawer. It would be there tomorrow. When I’d have a better plan.
Lie Awake
by Nathan Hystad
I got off the sky train at the Omega sector. I looked around at the bleak planet and with a shudder pulled my trench tighter. The rain was ceaseless as I made my way to my new home. I walked around the green space for some time before I found my place. My name was carved in the stone, and I felt a tear mix with the rain on my face. I followed the instructions and laid down on the grass. My body sank into a casket. It has been hours, and I fear I did something wrong. I exist.
Microfiction Monday – Third Edition
Special thanks to Marc Corbier and Jessica Standifird for their editorial assistance. This week’s artwork is by Angela Maracle.
Mother Says
by Amanda Gowin
Your odds are one in three, there are two ugly stepsisters for every Cinderella. Used to be you could find a Prince by a tie, but now they all wear ties and say “ironic.” If you have to choose by tie, pick red not blue – they talk more, but at least think about gold, from the moment they’re born. Princes are weak, so make yourself weaker and smile. My big mouth lost your father to a stepsister. Put your heel in a crack and tumble, and if one of them catches your arm, don’t let go.
Rejects
by Michael DeVito Jr.
There is no badge commemorating your 1000th rejection on yetanotherdatingsite.com. Yet Principal Garcia “strongly suggests” I give all my students false expectations by rewarding them with something.
“Something?”
“Anything!”
“Life doesn’t work that way.”
“Here it does!”
So I make bright red “You Have Yet to Be Rejected” ribbons for every Jake, Josh, and Hannah.
At first grade assembly they stammer like newborn fawns on the stage.
I whisper, “Keep a hand over your heart. Protect your award.”
Don’t let anyone see what will be stripped away until it is absolutely necessary.
Powderpuff
by Trevor Dodge
At halftime my sister pushed me into a stall and made me. She wiggled onto the pressboard toilet seat with grimy brass hinges and didn’t use one of those tissue things to cover it first. She told me to put my lips there. My knees groaned against the tile floor. When she caught the game-winning touchdown 20 minutes later I couldn’t be as happy as Dad so I didn’t even try. The ice cream he bought all us on the car ride home. My sister with her friend in the back seat. Mine just melting. Mom just watching.
Maelstrom
by Nemma Wollenfang
The black waves are pitted with rocks, serrated razors that lacerate flesh from bone. Surf boils in a hectic froth; a maelstrom from which no heads surface. But I hear his cry, I hear his gasp and gurgle, and I wake.
“Is it the dream?” he asks.
Shivers roll through me as I nod.
“It’s not real, you know. I’m here.”
Arms like pythons tighten and I relax into his warm embrace.
The following night, once he has taken to the sea for King and country, I wake for neither thunder nor rain… nor the cries of the lost.
Delivery
by David Sorensen
He’s standing outside my door again. If I looked through the peephole I’d see that sickly, flat-toothed grin, but I’m too chicken-shit to get up off the floor. This is the fourth time he’s come, and I’ve only been here five days. Sometimes it’s a bill through the slot on the door, sometimes a magazine, never a post card or wedding invitation or note from my secret admirer. I hear the flimsy catalogue paper flop on the linoleum and slither into place as his footsteps trail off. I should get a dog. I wonder if I can get one delivered.
Microfiction Monday – Second Edition
I hope you enjoy the second edition of Microfiction Monday Magazine. Thanks once again to my assistant editors, Marc Corbier and Jessica Standifird.
Day of Fathers
by Suzy Vitello
That June day half my life ago, two fathers came to me. The first father, my father, pillowed me from shock. His strong arms, his fuzzy beard against my cheek, warm breath in my ear, “He’s gone.” The other father, my freshly dead husband’s father, stood apart from us, melded to the floorboards of our moist, fecund cabin. His empty hands grabbed for flesh, but could only find the tender skin of his baby grandson. A family, all of us. Sliced and erased of a husband. Of a father. A son. Spirit.
Billy
by Jessica Standifird
Always wanted to be a lawyer. We were poor, though. Mama’d point her knittin’ needle at me and say, “You got big dreams for such a little man. Ain’t never gonna’ see the lawyer’s side of a courthouse.” At school they said justice was blind. Ran home like I was on fire with the Lord. Busted through the door ‘n went straight to Mama’s sewin’ bag. Grabbed that knittin’ needle, plunged it deep into my eye, screamin’ victory. Should have heard the fuss Mama made. Doesn’t fuss about the house I got her in Henderson, though. Wrought-iron gate ‘n all.
The Slide
by Bret Fowler
The mudslide took the yard, the porch, and more. I slip in the mud, filling my boots with brown water and soaking my dress. Another slide could wash me away in a second, but I can’t stop. Not until it’s whole. Until I’m safe. In the gray-brown muck there’s the shine of a garbage bag. A gray withered finger pokes through a hole. I reach for it and pull until it slurps free. I smile. Even after everything, his wedding ring still gleams. It’s the last piece of him. This time I’ll bury the bastard in the desert.
Senior Games
by Paul Beckman
On the porch of Harmony House rocking, and drinking iced tea, Bertram pointed to a shadow across the street and said, “Like clouds, you can see different things in shadows.
“Let’s try the shadow behind that man at the bus stop.”
I said, “Okay,” Mary said, “Kid’s game,” and Tess mocked, “How about hop scotch next?”
Bertram said, “You go first.”
I said, “It’s a man with an arrow in his neck carrying a box.”
Just then the man fell over, an arrow sticking out of his neck.
“Good guess,” Bertram said, backing into the house with his bow.
When Susan’s Daughter Sank
by Caleb J. Ross
When Susan’s daughter sank to the bottom of the swimming pool, she was supposed to stay. I reduced her to a drowned raccoon, like the ones always bobbing in Susan’s pool. But her eye followed me, so I hide. The daughter will be rescued, revived enough to finally kill her mother and me. She hated me for not being her real dad, the dad who taught her to burn and skin animals. She hated her mother, too, for sending him to prison after he tried his flames and flaying on Susan. We’re afraid together, Susan and me. Parenting leaves scars.
Microfiction Monday–First Edition!
It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for: the inaugural edition of Microfiction Monday Magazine! Five incredible stories by five incredible writers. Special thanks to Marc Corbier and Jessica Standifird for their assistance in making some tough choices. Artwork by Marylea Madiman. Enjoy!
Now is the Winter
by Dan Coxon
Outside, the blizzard ebbs and moans. In here it’s simply cold. My nose is numb, my eyeballs ache. I can’t recall the last time I felt the purple ghosts of my feet. I read somewhere that your blood is the last thing to freeze. The heart never stops trying to warm its sticky reservoirs. Like tea. Like a million rivulets of mulled wine. I peel off my gloves and start cutting.
Truth is a Bearded Lady
by Stephen Graham Jones
My husband has two hearts. He told me. When he was a kid, sideshow people were always lurking around to kidnap him into the carnival. But he got away each time, just barely. If he hadn’t, we wouldn’t be together right now. But he only tells me about his second heart. His other wife thinks he’s like everybody else. She thinks he just has one heart, can just love one woman. I know the truth, though. He trusts me with all his secrets. If either of his hearts is bigger, then it’s the one he’s given me.
Romania 1989
by Angela Maracle
The Americans run from crib to crib, looking for children with the whitest skin. I pick up a dark-haired baby, flick away flies.
“No good, he is Gypsy,” my interpreter says.
There are no colors, no toys in the orphanage. Bottles are propped against pillows.
“I want this baby,” I say, clutching him, even though I came for a girl.
I can’t take all of them. Some of them grab my skirt through the bars. We step over broken glass, and a stray dog passes by in the corridor.
The baby twists away from me and cries.
Train
by Jon Gluckman
My uncle took me into the basement to show-off his train set. As he pulled a chain hung from the rafters, a sickly yellow light dissolved the darkness and silenced the crickets, illuminating a world in miniature. He had created hell on a sheet of plywood, where tiny houses on fire simultaneously populated and depopulated tiny towns. When he pushed a small black button screwed in beneath the table, a recording of people screaming began to loop. Bloody half stumps of commuters crawled from a multitude of car accidents toward a lake slicked with oil where they would surely drown.
Darla’s Notebook
by Bob Thurber
After my sister ran away forever, Mom found a notebook filled with crazy drawings and gloomy poems. One poem was titled FUCK and went on pretty much like that for several pages. Another told the story of Red Riding Hood being raped not by the wolf but the woodcutter, and another listed eleven ways you can kill a man so that he will die agonizingly slow. My mother showed the notebook to her boyfriend Carl who tossed it in the washing machine, added bleach, and set the machine on Heavy Load.
Microfiction Monday Magazine 