Tag Archives: Scott Bogart

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 – 157th Edition

The Last Cigarette

by Scott Bogart

He took one last drag in the darkness, high above the city, savoring the moment, before flicking the butt and watching it fall. A stiff breeze tousled his hair, causing his cancer riddled body to sway. He gripped the railing. He’d quit years ago, but what good had it done? The bustling streets below were a noisy and glittering reminder of life’s indifference. He smiled at the thought then released his grip on the railing. As he fell back into bed he pondered what laid ahead. Maybe it won’t come tonight. Afterall, there’s still one cigarette left in the pack.


by Rebecca Iden

The trees are washed in morning gold and rain impregnates the air. My skin holds the shadow of his hands and my muscles are hot with blood. Leaves cling to the back of my liver-colored frock and I must hurry. A rabbit freezes on the path, eyes bright like coins.

Night Life

by Natasha Dalley

Dad stands next to the shower holding a library book he will never return. When Mom asks, he swears he is clean. Mom gets stomach aches when she eats grapes but not when drinking them. Dad says if she would stop holding her breath she would feel better. He hands her a glass of wine. Mom belts out “super six pack shower hour” upstairs. The psychic tells her that there will be peanuts in the bathtub tonight. Or penis. Or perhaps a pianist though that is the least likely. When Mom gets out, she will swear she is clean too.