Microfiction Monday – 213th Edition
The Not So Merry Men
by David Sydney
“We’ve got problems.”
“What’d you mean?”
“It’s not working.” Little John explained that the men weren’t merry.
First, they robbed from the rich, as Robin had instructed. They gave to the poor. But, then, they robbed from the newly-rich to give to the poor who formally were well-off. It was not only repetitively confusing but also exhausting after a while. It was too much.
Robin was at a loss. He turned from Little John to the Friar.
“What’d you think, Tuck?”
“I’d use the religious solution.”
“You mean?”
“We have one last robbery. And, then, keep everything for ourselves.”
“Exactly.”
Transitional Pains
by Adam Snider
On a park bench, he wallows in boredom. Three weeks after the bar exam, the immediate unshackling freedom dissipated, he sits in a hole dug with obsessive studying, refusing calls, and ignoring texts. For months, he hadn’t watched a movie, checked social media, or listened to music.
He absentmindedly watches a child wind up a toy robot and let it run. Her mother calls, and she abandons it. Its key slows and stops, and it falls over. Its eyes point at him. They stare at each other. Motionless.
He blinks, winds himself up, and speeds off to apply for jobs.
Mansion at the Beach or Cabin at the Lake
by Brandy Reinke
Eight years before me a person convinced you your insides should not show on the outside.
You agreed. When you tell me I think of your shoulders so broad, so beautiful how they curve, how precisely they fit under my palms. I thought you made them so I could anchor myself to you. I guess in a way they did. When you tell me ‘No, in fact, they were made out of survival,’ I no longer want to drape myself across them. They no longer seem like they can bear my weight.
Mutations
by Becky Neher
“You do not have cancer,” she said.
My heart sank.
She had been my biggest supporter for twenty years. Down-to-earth, whip smart, kind-hearted. Lately, though, diseases were “states of mind” stemming from “modern culture’s toxicity.” Remedies were only a juice cleanse and several ImmuNature pills away.
I exhaled, wondering how I’d cope through the chemo.
Philosophy
by John Szamosi
The past is only what’s in our recollection; what we’ve forgotten might as well have never happened. The part of future that’s predictable is only a continuation of the present, and the rest is complete surprise, delightful or devastating. The present is happening to us, that is, it’s not our doing, and by the time we understand what’s going on, it’s too late. Another opportunity missed, another error made.
There’s always confusion.
That’s why people, especially in big cities and in Alaska, keep muttering to themselves.
Microfiction Monday – 182nd Edition
Lifesaving
by David Sydney
In the advertisement, an elderly woman thanks the lifesaving device company. Having fallen, she was able to use the device to call for help. She is now alive. But…
“I can’t stand that device.”
“How do you mean, Harriet?”
We are now dealing with Harriet and Gertrude. Real people, not advertisements.
“George is still alive, Gertrude.”
Harriet had been married to George for 57 years when he fell and successfully used the device.
“Damn, Harriet. That reminds me of Frank.”
Gertrude, too, had been married for 57 years, in her case to Frank, who had one of the devices also.
Largesse
by G.J. Williams
Just think of the music you’ll not have to face tomorrow, the gauntlet you’ll not have to run, the saliva you’ll not have to wipe off, the hundred piercing voices you’ll not have to close your ears to, the funeral you’ll not have to attend, the laughter you’ll not have to endure, the fortune you’ll not have to lose, the case you’ll not have to fight, the morsel you’ll not have to reach for, the glare you’ll not have to withstand, and the corridor down which you’ll not have to shuffle. Think on these things. Regard them as windfall.
Threads
by Dorcas Wilson
They say we make a strange pair; you untidy and tattooed, me immaculate, not a hair or stitch out of place.
You stride through life, grabbing opportunities as they arise. I walk with precision, every step planned.
You shout and swear. I talk with quiet eloquence.
You screech into the night. I sing in the shower.
You love stories. I love facts.
They whisper about us as if we can’t hear them.
They will never know what makes us two, one. They will never see the thread that binds us. The thread that one day will snap, tearing us asunder.
Harbinger of Death
Before she became a vulture, with a wingspan stretching six feet, she was a child, with no wingspan at all, disciplined with ridicule, told to stand straight and smile, to never bend, to never give in to whimsy. To never dream. In order to survive, the other vultures told her.
Before she became a vulture, she thought she could be anything, maybe even a brightly-colored macaw.
Microfiction Monday – 181st Edition
Space Became Distance
by Akmal Hafizi
You needed space, and I gave some. But before I knew it, space had become distance, and time became a while. As I had expected, you eventually reached the event horizon—a point from which there is no return. I was really reaching for the stars, except that they were redshifting away—you were.
I flung myself bound for you, and engraved longing into words and texts—wishing there would be a slightest echo where I would hear the same “come back”.
All the while I failed to recall that space is a vacuum—lacking of sound and indefinitely gloom.
The Girl Who Cried Gardens
by David Henson
When her mother died, the girl cried a garden of flowers to comfort her father. When he passed from grief anyway, she sobbed a garden of vegetables so she and her brother wouldn’t starve. When her brother ran off and left her alone, she wept a garden of angry thistle. When she became ill and was on her deathbed, she cried an empty garden for the life she would never know. After she was laid to rest in a place with no markers, a rock garden appeared on her grave.
The Last Letter
by Caleb White
She gripped the pen, her heart heaving with sorrow. She expressed her emotions and all the things she wished she had spoken to him before he went. She expressed her love for him, her longing, and her desire that he would return to her. She gave him a kissy-signature, sealed the letter in the envelope, and set it on the mantle next to his picture. I love you too, my dear, she heard faintly as she turned to exit the room.
Ouroboros’ Chain
by Sam Anderson
Martine sits alone on the park bench, tears streaming down her face. This is where he first said, “I love you.” But now, she sits alone and clutches the necklace he gave her, the thin chain tight around knuckles. A hand touches her shoulder. She turns and sees him smiling. “I’m back.” She jumps up, wrapping her arms around him. But his skin feels wrong, cold like misty leaves. His kiss on her forehead holds no warmth. Only the memory of something missing, now forgotten. And so, she sits once more, uncertain why she weeps but struggling to remember.
On Board
by David Sydney
Brutus and Rattus were on board the Ark, Brutus representing the Brown rats and Rattus the Black rats. The heavens were about to open up, with 40 days of rain to follow. It was getting dark and dangerous. Brutus used the words ‘ominous’ and ‘foreboding’, typical of a Brown rat.
Two platypus ducks boarded. Then, two cassowaries. Two hyenas. Then, two weasels.
Rattus frowned. “Everyone dislikes weasels,” Brutus agreed.
“HURRY UP,” the extremely long-lived patriarch, Noah, bellowed. “CAN’T YOU SEE THE WEATHER?”
Two Chihuahuas boarded, representing dogs.
“Can you believe who they’re letting aboard this thing?” said Brutus to Rattus.
Microfiction Monday – 174th Edition
The Dignity of Work
by Peter Cherches
My job is a simple yet important one. It entails my standing up to my neck in shit for eight hours a day, with a half hour break for lunch; bathroom breaks are considered superfluous. But it’s a job, and I can hold my head up high. I have to.
Once Upon Some Time or Another
by Mercedes Lawry
What’s that, floating on a raft of pencils? A mouse! Is there historical precedent? A sail puffed out with bon mots. A cheery breeze and perhaps, whistling. Inevitably one must have conflict, usually garbed as a villain. Let us pray. Risk and derring-do and a hefty dose of lesson-learned and all can return to the point of origin – shabby flat where several dictionaries vie for attention on the west shelf. And the la-di-da of the neighbor can be heard through the thin walls during her occasional bouts with the kitchen. Invite the mouse in and we begin a novel.
Mel’s Cheeseburger
by David Sydney
Mel looked forward to his meal but lost his appetite. He called the waiter over.
Are you sure this restaurant’s okay?
What’d you mean?
I just saw two flies by my plate.
You ordered the cheeseburger, right?
Yes, but…
That’s why I recommended the chili dog. I told you I thought it was better.
But there were flies. I had to shoo them away.
I heard; two of them.
I just brushed them away.
Okay. But there were a dozen flies by that guy over there who ordered a chili dog.
What?
Exactly. And can a dozen flies be wrong?
They Came in Peace
When I saw the flashing lights I threw the spray paint can into a hedge and straightened my tinfoil hat. I checked to make sure there were no matches in my pockets. Didn’t want to be blamed for last week’s debacle. They got out of the spaceship and walked towards me. I held up my hands, said, “I only paint.” My voice was calm because of the hat, it worked just like Big Bird said it would. The younger one came closer, his hands nowhere near the taser on his belt. “It’s okay, you’re okay, I won’t take your hat.
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