Tag Archives: Jeannette Connors

Microfiction Monday – 159th Edition


by Thomas Henry Newell

The house smells of new paint, but the stain remains. It’s all too much for the director of a cleaning company.

The employees he demanded come out on the weekend are running late. So, he stares at that blasphemous spot.

What if he bleaches it?

He pours chemicals into a rag and dabs at the darkness coming through the whitewash. His fingers start to burn and blacken.

The workers resent the boss. When they enter the house through the open door that was not answered when knocked, they find there is no work for them. Just nothing.

Fire in the Hole

by Jeannette Connors

Stanley lined them up for epic battles. Some pointed broken rifles, some had smooth nubby helmets, others were headless but fought anyway. A cracked bazooka balanced precariously on a saluting private. A water canteen sat in the grass just out of reach of a footless soldier. “Where’d you get all this crap?” a friend once asked. “A special place,” Stanley said. Each evening Stanley’s father came home with barely a chance to remove his scrubs before his son begged him for the day’s booty.

Snowball Fight

by Scott Bogart

She ducked behind the car. I snuck up and got her good. She nailed me in the groin. Reeling, I retreated, packing another snowball. I let it fly as she rounded the corner, striking her boob. She screamed and fled towards the house. Believing it was over, I limped into the garage. The shovel made a loud thwack against my back and down I went. I took out her shins with the skateboard. Back into the snow we rolled, with neighbors aghast, turning the yard into strawberry shortcake before exhaustion forced an amicable stalemate. Never argue before a snowball fight.

Microfiction Monday – 107th Edition

Hanging Words

by David Henson

His words hang above the kitchen table even after he leaves for work. 

She stands on a chair, grips one of the letters, pulls it loose. 

She finds a toolbox. His odor spews from the letter as she files it to a point.

That evening when her husband walks in, she plunges the makeshift weapon into his chest, then calls the police. 

One officer examines the husband’s body while the other takes her statement in the kitchen. He notices the hanging words—STUP  D  COW—and asks about the missing letter. The I couldn’t take it anymore, she says.

The Cure

by Jeannette Connors

Iris routinely sought out seemingly happy people for advice on fixing her mental health disorder. Remedies ranged from a simple ice cream cone to an extravagant African safari. Iris thought those were clearly lactose tolerant people with no fears of a spontaneous wildebeest attack. She always went back to what worked for her though in seeking the comfort of her pet iguana, who neither offered advice nor any inkling he cared about such things.

Boundary Story

by Liz Betz

In the past she’s listened to her friends, a group of women who are always in crisis mode. From their viewpoint they label my behavior as overbearing and narcissistic and place her unhappiness on my doorstep.   

Now my wife has discovered she’s an empath that needs special care. She says she has a tendency to put others ahead of herself and that she’s wearing out because of it. It’s draining her energy. From now on she’ll state her needs and there will be accountability for those who ignore them. 

Thank you. State your boundaries. I’ve been flying blind. 

When Grandpa Stopped Babysitting

by Teresa Pham-Carsillo

It wasn’t when he taught the boy to piss upright and straight-backed in the front yard, staring down disapproving neighbors as they crossed the street. It wasn’t when he wrapped up an airsoft rifle for shooting birds, and gave it to the boy on his eight birthday. It wasn’t even when he taught him how to drive the station wagon, though the boy could only reach the pedals standing up. It was later, when his own name escaped him, when he saw the boy and could only ask, “who are you?” and “why are you here?”

Dear Ophilia

by G.J. Williams

Rue is a strong-scented Mediterranean plant with yellowy-green flowers and pinnately divided leaves. A bouquet of rue, rightly held, will signify sorrows endured, depths of loss untold. Marigolds and fennel won’t do. Violets daisies carnations ditto. And forget roses. But scatter petals of rue as you go and the world smiles wanly with you. True, there’ll be a curtain-twitching aspect to contend with but, all in all, your going hence will be accorded the flourish of a dance. Strew those petals, mutter those barbs, give what lives the finger. Rue the day, the very sunlight’s touch.

Hands of Time

by James Dupree

She holds his hand in hers and wonders how something so extraordinary can be so small. Growth is slow, but time is slippery. Years feel like moments to her, and his hand begins to fill her palm, threatening to break their bond.

Fingers continue to extend, and muscles grow stronger, and before she can ready herself for this inevitable change, his hand matches hers in size. She watches her own hand shrink till the skin sags around the bones. His hand begins to overtake. He holds her hand in his and wonders how someone so extraordinary can become so small.