Tag Archives: Nick T. Johnson

Microfiction Monday – 77th Edition

The Field
by Susan Sabry

Pumpkins fell from the sky, and managed to hit everything but a small girl in the middle of a field. There were no witnesses. In fact, every man driving by could only see a small scarecrow. A scarecrow with a summer dress and a mouth stitched in a circle letting out a silent scream.

Moby Dick: The Abridged Version
by Marc Simon

He is above. I am below. He is air. I am water. He is black. I am white. He lives to hunt. I hunt to live. He has steel. I have tooth. He’s drawn my blood. I’ve tasted his flesh. He wants my life. I want to live. Come noon the third day we will meet on the in between, and once and for all, decide.

Children
by Alexis Nau

This tiny creature is getting larger and harder to feed. She whines out for more of me, cry like a ravaged beast. Sometimes I wonder if she only plays at being small, for I’m certain on my down-low days she could grind me into dust under her smudged heel. Her brother is golden, my sunshine-boy who likes to hide under snow drifts in winter. Sometimes I forget his name amidst the clamor of her wailing. I set him on his feet and he bobbles away, frightened by the sound of her again.

A Single Cloud
by Henry Bladon

It can’t be that bad, he said. I looked out of the hospital window. A single cloud means something bad, I said. You’ll be fine, he said. He didn’t look convincing I gestured to the tubes sprouting from my arm, the bag above my head. That’s nothing, he said. You’re a winner. You always win. I said that sounded tautological. He shrugged. Anyway, I said: You know what they say in all the films? He looked at me hopefully. Tell me it’s something good. I shook my head. So tell me, he said. I put him out of his misery. They say: ‘Let’s get out of here’.

Bucket List
by Nick T. Johnson

The narrow piece of paper, tacked to a bulletin board, loomed in the room like an ominous hourglass. Among the many markings of accomplishment upon it, there remained, for the last ten years, only one unadulterated item. When reached by the aging man, the implications of finishing the final task, Learn to play the Piano, had become paralyzing. Awoken, revelation from his mother’s past words consumed him, “Only God knows when it’s your time; he doesn’t bargain.” Drawn to the dusty fixture, he struck an unknown key, praying it was his first of many.

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