Microfiction Monday – 183rd Edition
Natured
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 – 177th Edition
Steam Heat
by J. Harley McIlrath
The window slid open, and she crawled through. I never bothered locking it. I never imagined anyone coming in through it. It opened onto the roof. “Do you have heat?” she said. “Mine’s off.” She was already stepping out of her sweatpants. “It’s steam heat,” I said. “The boiler breaks down all the time.” She lifted the covers and crawled in beside me.
I made sure the window was not locked after that. I kept the shade up. I slept with the light on. But the landlord fixed the boiler, and the heat stayed on all winter.
The Adversary
by James Watt
The court was waiting for Jeremy to begin questioning the witness. Clinging to the lectern, he glanced at the opposing counsel, an experienced trial lawyer with a formidable reputation. Head bowed and breathing deeply he stared at his notes. He looked up, coughed, and then sipped some water. The awkward silence continued.
His co-counsel scribbled a note and handed it to him: ‘lack of preparation is your only foe.’ A few moments later Jeremy’s voice reverberated around the courtroom.
“You were drunk when you struck my client with your car, weren’t you?”
Now his focus was on litigating the case.
Exercise in Futility
by Ian Willey
When I asked what he did for a living he said I’ve spent the last thirty years trying to improve the Oreo. It’s no easy task. Change the cookie and it no longer goes with the cream; change the cream and it no longer goes with the cookie. Maybe, I said, the Oreo is evolutionarily perfect, like the cockroach or the horseshoe crab. It can stay as it is for millions of years and be fine. I wish I hadn’t said it. He spent the rest of the night crumbling. I offered him some milk, but it was no use.
Flyover Tale
by Pratik Mitra
The flyover* was inaugurated days ago. Shreya was maddened by the deafening noise vehicles made rushing through that flyover. Unlike her, Anil liked the hustle-bustle. In fact he felt its proximity was cool. It’s like they could shake hands with the passengers if they wanted. Soon reading, films, sex, and money were replaced by that flyover as their favourite hobby horse. They were obsessed with what to do with a flyover that so filthily symbolized urbanity. They were tossed up between committing suicide by jumping at it or making love on rooftops. Only breezy drizzle was needed.
*note: in British English, a flyover is an overpass
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