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 – 208th Edition
The Quick
by G.J. Williams
Being lifeless, Cyrus strove to sound the exuberant note in all that he said, and, having little to say, loudly doubling the number of words required to say it. Was what little he had to say worth hearing? Sadly it was not. Was Cyrus aware of this? Sadly he was. Did he succumb to the knowledge? By the sounds of it he did not. Yet who knows the 3 a.m. of anyone’s soul. Cyrus surely clocked his. What there was of it. Life as lip-service was still life, still service. Did Cyrus believe this? Sadly, he did.
Accident
by John Szamosi
He runs over a dog and doesn’t even flinch. When I ask him if we should go back, he shakes his head. “No worries, mate, let the sleeping dog lie.”
Driving back an hour later we find a crowd at the site. It can’t be good. Getting closer we see the villagers butchering the dog and distributing the meat among themselves. I reflexively cover my eyes. No use, I can tell I’m going to be sick.
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “No worries, mate, it’s a man-eat-dog world here. We’ll be like that, too, just question of time.”
Busy Week
On Monday Alicia arrived to leave me, bringing her mother and two sisters for moral support. They sneered and helped her gather clothes.
On Tuesday her attorney contacted me and suggested I hire my own.
On Thursday Alicia returned, this time only with her mother. They hauled away more. She said papers would arrive by day’s end.
On Friday she called and said she was sorry it had come to this. “Can I keep the television?” I asked. It was a 4K smart TV that I’d grabbed last year in a Black Friday sale.
“Oh, Andrew. Just sign the papers.”
Disco 2000
by Mileva Anastasiadou
If you were a fruit, you’d be the sourest lemon, the way you shake my hand, like we didn’t once share our deepest secrets, and if you were a notebook, you’d be a diary, you only have to pat my back and I spit it all out, and if you were a party, you’d be a cozy gathering, you listen carefully, you nod in sympathy, and if you were a song, you’d be Disco 2000 but for a friendship lost, and if you were anything at all, you wouldn’t have left, not then, not now, you’d stay and hold me
The Shed
Thunder rumbled distantly.
From our window, we saw Dad enter the shed near the corral.
Excited to check on our rescued bunnies, Roberta and I slunk into the kitchen, peering into their box, warmed by the stove’s pilot light.
A clap of thunder startled us, made the bunnies squeak, so Roberta peeked into our parents’ bedroom to make certain Mom was still asleep.
She motioned me over, pointing.
Next to Mom was Dad, snoring.
Roberta dragged me to our bedroom. We knelt beside the window, staring into the night.
“That wasn’t Dad we saw, was it?” she whispered.
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