Tag Archives: JJ Collins

Microfiction Monday – 184th Edition

The Elf and The Bull

by Bradford Ellington

Your leg must come off. I can do it; let’s rest on these rocks, before we reach the sands.
The minotaur winced, extending his grotesque limb.
I’m scared.
I know; don’t look. I possess wizardry – you will not die.
Will I bleed?
Some. I can stop it.
The work began. The setting sun flared. The knife flashed, sunk. Old Elfin incantations erupted among dry desert winds.
He left the bull slumbering, returning at nightfall with a carven crutch.
I still feel…
You will forever. But it isn’t there; it can’t hurt you. So let’s move on.
And they did.

Juliet Picks Up the Dagger

by Lily King

Juliet awakens to Romeo’s body against hers. The blood from the dagger drips onto her lap.

Romeo is still breathing. He looks at Juliet as she opens her eyes and stares back at him.

She picks up the dagger.

Romeo is buried and the Montagues and Capulets both weep. Lord Capulet beams as Juliet weds a new Paris. They’re all the same.

Juliet keeps the dagger and begs for Romeo to know she was only trying to set him free. Her prayers always end with pitiful apologies to Rosaline.

She thinks Paris will live forever.

Queen and Goddess

by Paul Negri

The Queen’s first victim was her mother, who did not survive her birth. Was that bloody passage made lethal by those little fists pounding so furiously in her prison of flesh and the gnashing of prodigious teeth which lined her infant gums? Or (as legend has it) the full grown nails of the she-wolf at her fingertips?

As inauspicious as was this beginning, it in no way gave adequate warning to the subjects of her kingdom, who watched in horror as she grew, year by year, into the malevolent ruler of their unfortunate world.


Mrs. Duff’s Icebox

by Ruth Brown

One morning Mrs. Duff vowed to clean her ancient icebox.

“Better wear gloves,” her husband admonished, “could be nasty things growing in there.”

In the icebox was a small village. Lumberjacks felled matchbox trees, smoke rose from chimneys, trout leapt from a nimble trickle of water. She looked closer, sniffed bitter woodsmoke and sweet baking.

One doll’s house was her own. Same missing shingles, same weather-worn shutters. Out stepped her miniature, mug in hand. The little Mrs. Duff blinked up. The big Mrs. Duff blinked down.

“They’ve started sprouting,” she said to her husband, on her way to the broom-closet.


by JJ Collins

The god woke with an urge to create.
He dipped brushes in a palette of swirling eddies, laid paint to canvas hungry for inspiration.
None came.
Charcoal was smeared artfully across pages, but the greasy residue lacked dimension.
He kneaded clay, but it would not yield to his practiced touch.
His workshop had grown cold, hearth devoid the spark of devotion.
Perhaps I am dead, he mused.
He reconsidered. Today, he would simply take what he needed, appropriate the inspiration of another. Call it his own.
Not stealing; repurposing. Greater vision, greater scale.
A greater lie. But who would notice?

Microfiction Monday – 72nd Edition


by Jake Woods

The solitary dandelion grips life in the midst of this asphalt prison, growing sideways out of the curb like an intrepid, windswept conifer rooted to a concrete mountainside. The shade of yellow is not unlike the solid yellow line, arrow straight, that leads to freedom, or the fiery yellow orb that holds me captive. The wizened panhandler with scraggly beard, shuffles, yellow eyes downcast, defeated. Hope: yellow flower; yellow eyes. As I ponder, he stops, peers at the flower, considers. He staggers a bit as he opens his fly, and I look away as he pisses on my yellow daydream.

by JJ Collins

Far from home, away from his wife and kids, Harvey McGarvin decided to die.
It wasn’t quite as simple as that; no, Harvey loved his family very much. But Harvey had a secret, and secrets eventually flee the hearts of the impulsive.
Harvey could see the future.
Angst and worry consumed him, robbed him of sleep and forced him along a path he once believed to be his own. Finally, under the weight of false autonomy, he rode his motorcycle deep into the Nevada desert, and put a pistol in his mouth.
As he’d always known he would.

by Mark Burnash

As long as you blinkin’, they’ll leave ya ‘lone. Oh they’ll hangout and they’ll circle around, but as long as they see dem eyelids keep comin’ up, they’ll jus’ wait. And you MAKE ’em wait! You hear? Don’t be givin’ them sons of bitches an easy meal. Make ’em EARN their dinner; make ’em wonder if they jus’ wasting their time. They just might be. If you strong enough to throw a rock, try’n kill one of dem bastards, but whatever you do keep them eyes BLINKIN’, so-as even if they git ye, you be more trouble than you worth.

by Ethelia Pope

Water has become dark and viscous, slithering serpentine through streets, expanding, impeding. Daily hustle and hurry is stolen, compressed into infinitesimal spaces. Never sunlight, never air to breathe deep enough into lungs to satisfy. The whole world is shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow on shrinking islands, looking skyward at the haze.