Tag Archives: Amber Weinar

Microfiction Monday – 183rd Edition


by Jeeya Balwani

I could see her reflection in the rippling waves or were they just her tears?
The water gathered around her or was it the hurt drowning her?
I wiped her tears or was it the sand soaking it?
I hugged her tight wrapping us in a promise or did we just spot the water do the same to the sand?

Murder Gone Wrong 

by Onyinyechi Ndukaire

The cops are knocking and trying to break the door. I have to think. Odin’s body is at my feet and there’s a chandelier above, so I climb. My heart thumps as they brush in. Up above the chandelier, I watch as they examine the body. Then, the rope cuts and I fall on his body with the gun in my hand. The cops laugh. “Well, that wasn’t so hard.”

The Writer

by Ian Willey

“Before I send you back,” says the attendant, “please be aware that in your next life you’ll be a writer.”
“Wow,” says the soul. “Sounds great.”
“Not quite,” says the attendant. “Though it will consume most of your time and impinge upon your every relationship, your writing will remain unrecognized in your lifetime and all lifetimes to follow.”
“Oh,” says the soul. “So it won’t be any good.”
“No!” says the attendant. “It will be beautiful. It will scintillate like the stars.”
“I see,” says the soul. “Well, what choice do I have?”
“Exactly,” says the attendant, pressing the button.

The Lifecycle of a White Shirt

by Amber Weinar

Day one: I am born from my packaging. Looking at my mother’s face, she’s ecstatic, already dreaming of my future.
Day two: She takes me out to see the world, cautious not to let anything happen.
Day ten: We go out again, but there’s an accident. Coffee drips down her face, and onto me.
Day eleven: My first bath; I’m in critical condition as my mother looks up various treatment options.
Day twelve: My second bath; I’m on life support, but hopeful.
Day thirteen: I’m laid to rest, buried in the back of her closet, never to be worn again.

Microfiction Monday – 178th Edition


by Ken Poyner

He imagines silk and the coo of caged birds. Rose petals and a mist of lavender. She would pause at the threshold, one hand and one eye twisting beyond, tentatively, as though the decision to enter had yet to be made. A candle lit, wavering on the dresser. Quibble sits electrically and smooths the edge of the bed. His wife, sealed in her ten-year-old housecoat, ceases spinning her hair into its sleeping station. Thinking a moment, she notes this would be the second attempt this week. Silently she admires his persistence, but still longs to tell him it is unnecessary.

Recipe for Redemption

by Amber Weinar

“Wish for whatever you’d like”, I tell my daughter. In the background, I hear the Cowboys get a touchdown, reminding me of the time I wished for a cupcake after my father rushed to get back to the game. My daughter has his smile, my smile. A half-smirk appears as she bites her lip, thinking of all the possibilities.
“I got it,” hugging me; she says, “I’d like a KitchenAid stand mixer.”
“Are you sure?” I say.
“Yeah, it’ll make Muffin Mondays easier. Can we get a pink one?”
“Of course we can,” I say, reclaiming my wish in hers.

Eternal Rest

by Ben Nance

The caretaker found the man asleep on his wife’s grave again. It was the third time this month. His robe was damp, hair disheveled, and somewhere along his three mile trek to the cemetery, the man had lost a slipper. The couple had been married 12 years, and she was now three months deceased.
The caretaker phoned the police.
“Lock him up this time, officer,” the caretaker said as he turned away.
The officer guided the bereaved to the patrol car and took the man home.
“Wear your jacket tomorrow,” the officer told him. “I’ll bring coffee.”
The man nodded.


by E. H. Warrington

You are blue brine, the smell of burnt driftwood on the sand, beneath stars. I am the lap of water at your feet. You arrive like a coyote out of the fog, into my world of tents and harmonicas, harmonies. Howl with me. Together we birth the morning sun, bright, brilliant. She glitters, rainfall in the wakening Spring on chamomile. She speaks nectar and gold. Then I slip into the undercurrent, cold, your blurred shadow on the surface above me. Abandoned on the shore, shivers a burl of burnt charcoal. You become a crescent of white salt in the sedge.