Tag Archives: David M Wallace

Microfiction Monday – 121st Edition

Blossom

by David M Wallace

In August were buttercups, lady slippers, snapdragons. Bluebells, cockleshells, eevy, ivy, over. Hopscotch and skipping rope. All around the mulberry bush and the ice cream truck. Then September and polka dots and am I pretty? All those tears and scattered leaves.

Anaglypta Dresses

by Justin Rulton

I watch them through the jockeying parade, merging with the walls, pinned like prisoners awaiting execution. Hidden in plain sight, hoping without precedence for something good to happen.

They just want to be asked, “Would you care to dance?”

Instead it’s more likely to be, “Wanna go to my place?”

The corpse of romance trampled underfoot, bleeding out under the pulsing lights.

Desperately numb, they aren’t even considered. Buttressed by my own wall on the other side of the hall, all I can offer is my empathy.

Leftovers go cold if they’re abandoned for too long.

I know.

I am.

The Empty Cupboard

by Jim Latham

His pantry held two kilos of chocolate, two kilos of coffee, two bottles of mezcal.

The chocolate ground with almonds, cinnamon, and sugar and pressed into discs the size of silver dollars.

The coffee grown in the shade by people who preferred the language of their ancestors to that of the Spanish invaders.

The mezcal distilled from wild magueys in small batches by gray-haired masters in villages beyond the reach of paved roads.

He’d eat and drink little else in his few remaining days. Life had been sweet. He wanted to leave it with his favorite tastes in his mouth.

Microfiction Monday – 115th Edition

Feathers

by David M Wallace

Little Amy picked up the head from where it lay in the dust near the axe. It was as soft and weightless as a marigold.

“Come back! I’ll fix you!” she cried, running in frantic circles.

Feathers flew everywhere.

Nocturne

by Carrie Lynn Hawthorne

I sleep on a cot and the cat can’t see, cross-eyed from catnip. He misses his box, sprays my bed, and showers my daughter’s blankie. The laundromat is across 12th, so I lug the week’s clothes on my back. My daughter follows, sucks her fingers, wanders out into traffic. I bite through my tongue; I taste blood. Our underwear strewn across Vermont. The bow of the violin doesn’t care, not one bit. The hand of the clock kills again and again, just like that.

Growing Up

by Natalie Schriefer

Elaine hadn’t meant to start reading, but she’d found a book in the attic, crammed into one of her bins. Sitting on her knees, she’d uncreased the cover and opened it. She would read until she remembered the plot.

That had been hours ago. Book finished, Elaine settled against the plastic bin. Dust spindled in the light. Mom would be in Sarasota by Christmas. Elaine would have to fly down. That seemed the task of someone else. Someone older. A real adult.

In the attic light, the cover of the book shone. What else would she forget, over time?