Microfiction Monday – 158th Edition
A Halloween Encounter
by David Henson
I’m raking leaves on a blustery Halloween morning when a green-skinned warlock appears. He tells me I can eliminate my life’s regrets with his magic rifle. With a wink and a hand wave, feathery things fill a bare tree in our yard. “I don’t want to shoot a bird,” I say.
“Not birds. They’re your regrets.”
Relieved, I fire. One of the creatures chirps and falls to the ground. Guilt engulfs me. “I should feel better, not worse. Was it truly a regret?”
The warlock flashes a wicked smile. “No. And now you have one more.”
Judgement
by David M Wallace
After the stoning, no one could say for certain who had delivered the fatal blow. Sara was an adulteress. She had it coming. No one felt any guilt. As she lay bleeding, the men recalled her beauty. That night, the remembrance of the curve of her breasts fueled their fantasies.
Dirty Word
by A. Zaykova
“Keep your eyes on that door,” Jim says.
Freddie, his new partner, looks green and nervous.
“First time?” Jim asks and bites down on a hotdog.
Freddie nods.
“Just do as I say and you’ll be alright.” Jim takes another bite and a splat of ketchup lands on his good pants. “Shoot!”
Freddie cocks his rifle and pulls the trigger. Some poor bugger falls to the ground with a red flower blooming between his eyes. Their target darts into the crowd and disappears.
Maybe Judith was right in saying there’s something off about a hitman who doesn’t use cuss words.
Microfiction Monday – 157th Edition
The Last Cigarette
by Scott Bogart
He took one last drag in the darkness, high above the city, savoring the moment, before flicking the butt and watching it fall. A stiff breeze tousled his hair, causing his cancer riddled body to sway. He gripped the railing. He’d quit years ago, but what good had it done? The bustling streets below were a noisy and glittering reminder of life’s indifference. He smiled at the thought then released his grip on the railing. As he fell back into bed he pondered what laid ahead. Maybe it won’t come tonight. Afterall, there’s still one cigarette left in the pack.
Purity
by Rebecca Iden
The trees are washed in morning gold and rain impregnates the air. My skin holds the shadow of his hands and my muscles are hot with blood. Leaves cling to the back of my liver-colored frock and I must hurry. A rabbit freezes on the path, eyes bright like coins.
Night Life
by Natasha Dalley
Dad stands next to the shower holding a library book he will never return. When Mom asks, he swears he is clean. Mom gets stomach aches when she eats grapes but not when drinking them. Dad says if she would stop holding her breath she would feel better. He hands her a glass of wine. Mom belts out “super six pack shower hour” upstairs. The psychic tells her that there will be peanuts in the bathtub tonight. Or penis. Or perhaps a pianist though that is the least likely. When Mom gets out, she will swear she is clean too.
Microfiction Monday – 156th Edition
The Lie of Diving Down
by Frederick Charles Melancon
Those days, we believed the reef called just to us. The rocks and coral speckled with wave-cut light drove us to swim down. We even harassed the divers about their suits because they carried their air. Clearly, forsaking breath after plunging under was the only way. One time, we swam out to the deep. Down there on the bottom, an old ventilation duct lay on the sand. No one spoke of the game we played, but I was the only one to swim through it. The rest cheered when we got back up above as if touching bottom meant something.
Blood, Sweat, and Tears
by A. Zaykova
Gym-Bunny-Gill posts a picture of her butt on the internet. The caption says it took blood sweat and tears to get this look, but hard work always pays off.
Miri works hard to keep the lights on. She bled too when Dad, fighting his whiskey demons, broke her lip. She sure as heck sweated, washing dishes at the restaurant all summer because rent was due. She didn’t cry when they lowered her mother into the ground. Not until later, when there was nobody to witness the deluge. Now Miri feels cheated because she’s got no picture to show for it.
Escape
by Saaiqa Malik
Brown-hued leaves crunched underfoot like stolen crisps in her mouth, the crackle of secretly opened snacks in the dark.
Chill wind tendrils slithered down her neck and up her sleeves. The tingle of fear as the cupboard light flashed on.
The ragged gasping breaths persisted, except only one set now. Her feet pounded out the beat of the drum in her chest.
Spindly dark trees waved an enthusiastic hello, welcoming her away from the angry voices floating behind.
A friendly root tipped her into the warm embrace of forest debris. Burrowing quickly, she left the cold and horror behind.
Microfiction Monday – 155th Edition
Life
by Raydon Barrow
The creature was bipedal and moved on stubby legs. Dr. Martin watched from a stool, his pen inches from his notebook, eager to record unusual activity as it bumbled around the lab, occasionally fixating on smoking vials or dissection charts. Once, it tried to vocalize, but he could not decipher the jumbled mess of sounds.
“This isn’t what I meant when I said to watch her.”
Dr. Martin jumped and spun to face the woman in the doorway. “It’s marvelous, Julia. We’ve created life!” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and smiled.
Julia rolled her eyes.
Stumbling
by Jean Buie
We moved to the farm when I was nine. To keep Dad from the taverns. Mom drove the school bus while he looked for work.
At first, Dad was really trying. But then, he just wasn’t.
He showed up at Little League. I heard the snickering from the stands when he came onto the diamond.
“I’ll show you how it’s done.”
His arms around me, his hands over mine. He tapped the bat and lifted it into position.
‘C’mon pitcher!”
He took a practice swing. Stumbled. Fell. He took me down with him.
He always took us down with him.
Prometheus
by Michael Harper
The writer sells his soul in a Faustian treaty for the perfect book. A book which the power to change the world. Words pour out of him with the scaly tingle of the devil still lingering on his skin. As The End falls onto the page, he weeps, regretting nothing. Like Prometheus, his suffering will be for humankind.
Finding a publisher is easy. Not big five, but reputable. They generate buzz. Get decent reviews. Sales don’t soar and the book disappears without a whisper.
“Try again,” says his agent.
“I poured my whole self into that book.”
“Try adding dragons.”
Microfiction Monday – 154th Edition
Wash
by Benjamin Marr
I married my dishwashing machine and we had triplets. These half-machine, half-human babies had a dishwasher with a door latch instead of a stomach. They had hoses for arms, but their heads and legs were human. At first, they could only wash one plate, but they grew to accommodate more. All three of them together could wash the same amount as their mother and they would whenever we needed a date night
One day, I opened their bedroom door and caught them with their friends’ heads in their dishwashers.
“We are washing away traumatic memories,” one said, “so many memories…”
On Commissary Consumptions (and Cautions)
by Jen Schneider
Penelope was a good neighbor. Sweet to greet. Quick to tidy trash. Perfect, but for her perpetual musk. Her owner was reserved. Stayed mostly inside their RV. Penelope viewed soaps through the window. Attentive from dawn to dusk. During commercials, she’d barter for sustenance. Closed exchanges with a snort. Her fears were relatable – commissaries often came up short. The RV Park was as safe as any. Skies heavy of robins and larks. Each of us woven in the year-round flock. I wonder if Penelope ever contemplated the differences amongst us. Born and bred a piglet, on sublet she’d always be.
Blancmange
The blancmange was electrified, had joss sticks wafted over it, was shoved through a scented cheese grater, was surreptitiously attached to a Rastafarian’s dreadlocks, had a bucket of whey poured on it from a height of thirteen feet and nine inches, was subjected to loops of bagpipe music simultaneously with having the silhouettes of Jim Bowen and the Nolan sisters projected onto it, and then photographed and put on a poster offering a reward for its safe return after being smeared on the inside of a mouldy pair of tartan trousers.
Before I lost interest in experimenting with it.
Microfiction Monday – 153rd Edition
Haunting
by Ken Poyner
He has been told of the potential danger in buying antiques. No one warned him when he was just buying old furniture; but antiques, being more expensive, had their own exaggerations. Sometimes, previous owners do not want to give up their possessions, attach their ghosts to challenge anyone who might repurpose the piece. There could be multiple ghosts in the construction, contending no matter who currently owns the piece. How could he know before purchase? Quibble moves each recent acquisition into his mother’s home, waits a week, calls to see if she is sleeping well and without newly minted nightmares.
There Is A Light, But It Will Go Out In Flames
St. Andrews, 2001, winter’s night céilidh: she blazed a furnace burning peat from Scotland’s earth. Bright hair swirled, tinged hottest fire, point-and-click camera flash, faceless smiling, bright eyes, she singed the ballroom with American heat. Sheathed in a body-hugging, glowing-orange gown, train scooped up in her fist, she danced out heartbreak. Peeling her body from sweetest sweat and joyful dress, she disembarked from that fragrant train. For one night, ticket punched, her porcelain shoulders gleamed against film’s negative dark, sharp-edged bones long buried under now middle-aged still-pale softness, aching feet. Then—a torch, a neon sign: Do Not Touch.
Tea for Two
by Pamela S. Kelso
Enid sat on sagging steps of a bedraggled farmhouse. Her hair pin- curled and wrapped in a chiffon scarf. She painted her lips with an old Tangee lipstick bought at Woolworth’s in 1960.
Enid and Edna shared that lipstick. They wore it on special occasions. They turned 100 today.
Ezekiel, their mailman, would arrive at the same time as always, he would check. He’d tell the others.
Dressed in her calico dress that matched Enid’s, Edna was on the broken bed in their ramshackle room off the kitchen.
Enid quickly drank from Edna’s teacup and joined her twin.
Microfiction Monday – 152nd Edition
Self-Portrait
by G.J. Williams
Like the Buddha, I’m held together by the forces of electromagnetism.
Like Queen Nefertiti, I take approximately 20,000 breaths of air every single day.
Like Florence Nightingale, I talk at the rate of about 180 words a minute.
I walk like Shakespeare and make the same sound as Jesus when I laugh.
Who am I?
300 Miles of Obligation
I rush to your bedside, secretly lamenting the things I will have to cancel. Important meetings, a long overdue haircut, a weekend away.
All it took was a call from the doctor. I probably would not have answered if it had come from you.
“I’m at work! Why are you calling?” I’ve complained countless times. Only blood and societal pressures compel us to come together. Christmas festivities have become quieter over the years as we have both chosen to endure endless silence to avoid any drama.
I rush to your bedside, not because I want to, but because I should.
So That’s Who You Are
by Mel Fawcett
There’s a young woman sitting next to me on the park bench. She’s been talking to me for ages, but I haven’t been listening to what she’s saying–I’ve been too busy wondering who she is. I’m getting annoyed by her incessant chatter.
I’ve been annoyed a lot lately. One day last week, when I went to the corner shop, I couldn’t remember how to get home and started haranguing passers-by until someone showed me the way.
Now, finally unable to take any more, I stand up to leave. The woman leans forward and says, “Where’re you going, Dad?”
Microfiction Monday – 151st Edition
Blossoms
by Ege Gurdeniz
A linden tree watched over our house when I was a kid. Honey. A hint of citrus. A bouquet so sweet you could taste it on humid days. It paired well with Mom’s mint lemonade. The Beatles on Dad’s radio. My sister splashing around in the pool. Daisy barking at some cardinals conspiring on a branch.
That’s the thing about smells – they turn into memories if you’re not careful.
30 years later. I am back to say goodbye. This time to Dad.
It’s a humid one. The house is quiet, but I can hear Paul singing it’s alright, little darling.
Blue
by Kris Faatz
One morning, your skin is the color of peacock feathers. It glitters in sunlight, diamond-dusted.
You’ve always folded your soul up small and tucked it away. Now you tug your shirtsleeves over your hands. Smother your face with makeup. You needn’t: your husband only sees your shape. He kisses you goodbye, not noticing when your blue fingertips pluck lint from his collar.
In the empty house, silence coils around your feet and legs, your chest and face.
You strip off your clothes. Flick on the lamps. When he comes home, that’s how he finds you: naked, breathtaking, covered in light.
Old Man River
by David Henson
He becomes a river to provide respite from job and family but, enjoying wandering, loses track of time.
After years of silt and drought reduce him to a trickle, he seeks human reconciliation, returns to find his wife has died. His daughter, now adult, damns him from her family’s life.
Can one stalk with love? Grandson to school at eight. His daughter to work by nine. Lights out at ten p.m. One Saturday the father takes the boy fishing. When his grandson whoops with glee, the man who was once a river feels the hook set in his heart.
Microfiction Monday – 150th Edition
The Little Mermaid
It was the little things. The way she was always at the water tray in nursery, her pockets full of stolen pebbles and seashells.
She spent hours watching Ponyo, hands pressed against the screen, puckered mouth blowing spit-bubbles.
When she was quiet, I knew where to find her: sitting naked on a pillow, brushing her hair with a silver comb, my mother’s pearls draped around her neck.
She was happiest on her stomach in the bath, legs kicking, toes flicking, head submerged like there was something only she could see.
And then, one day, we took her to the ocean.
Out Forever
Xavier Lee Martin Jr.’s mother swore that he could unhinge his jaw to finish dinner before the six o’clock news opening theme song. He idolized Lead Anchorman Perry Williamson down to the argyle bowtie. Xavier’s clipped on.
Perry’s tone was electric. “Good evening. In the biggest drug sting in Montgomery County history, police apprehended Xavier Lee Martin, Sr. who smuggled 6,000 pounds of . . .”
Live on air, officers escorted Xavier Sr. and Bruno who helped manage their “produce warehouse.”
###
The next day, a tieless Junior called his favorite teacher, Miss Tracy, a fucking bitch for the first time.
The Smiths Spice Things Up
by David Henson
“How would you like a pet snake, dear?” pops out of Mr. Smith and the blue one day even though snakes tremble him. Turning from her burners, Mrs. Smith says “Fine” as a shiver slithers up her spine. They surround a deadly coral with glass, bring home Saturday sacks of milk, butter, eggs, toads, and mice. One evening the cage is blank. A broom searches under the sofa, behind drapes, dangles galoshes. Finding nothing, the Smiths crawl into bed, pull the covers to their chins, and stare at each other wild-eyed. Smiling.
Microfiction Monday – 149th Edition
Heart
Jack kept the cigarettes he stole from his dad at the bottom of his vinyl school bag underneath virgin textbooks and teenage boy detritus. We smoked them in the paddock that marked the halfway point between our houses. In an untamed hedge and using grass clippings from the paddock’s slashing we made that autumn’s cubby house where we perfected smoke rings and discussed girls. After he finished his cigarette, one name always made Jack unknowingly tie the fresh green stalk of a weed’s regrowth into a knot after making a big heart-shaped loop. I never told him that I noticed.
The Crater
by G.J. Williams
As for the smoking crater at the centre of your being, it’s lost among foreign wars, localised tumours; divorces, evictions. That it still smoulders is testament enough; whatever was there must have taken some destroying. But we know, don’t we? We know what was there and how much it took to destroy it. So very little it ought to be sad. But it’s not sad, is it? Too few losses for it to be deemed sad. The cigarettes in your coat pocket were soaked, and there’s no accounting for your neighbour’s taste in music, loud and piercing as it is.
Blind Date
by Adam Conner
“Look,” she tells me, sitting here in a cafe we’d never been to before, in clothes that she no doubt wore the night before, thumbing her purse strap she’d yet to take off, circling the straw in her water (the only thing she ordered), checking her phone as if she received a message she’d been waiting for this entire time, still wearing her sunglasses as if she didn’t want to see me, she tells me, “We need to talk,” but we already have.
Microfiction Monday Magazine 