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Thread: The Microfiction Thread

  1. #41
    Member Odd Greg's Avatar
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    Switching on the light with his travel bag in hand, Jeremy approached the bathroom mirror. There he was - staring back through sleep filled eyes. He recognized the face but just couldn’t place a name to it.

    “Such a familiar face,” he said. “Just another face. Just another nobody in a sea of nobodies.”

    This face seemed to need something. He could see it in the eyes.

    “I wonder what he needs,” he said. “He needs to wash his face and brush his teeth. Yes, that’s it.”

    Jeremy ran warm water into the sink and put his hands in up to the wrists. Warm, loving water caressing him, holding him, promising him it would love him forever and never leave. A tear crept from its hiding place in the corner of his eye. Drawn to the warm water, it fell sweetly and softly into the pool in the sink.

    “Just another tear in a sea of tears,” Jeremy whispered.

    His hands cupped the water and lifted it to his face, then poured it over his forehead, down his nose, and onto the stubble below his lips; a gentle kiss, a sweet reminder of a mother’s undying love.

    Opening his eyes again, he could see his reflection wavering in the warm pool, distorting his features. He stared until the water became calm and his image grew clear.

    “Such a familiar face. Someone I know. Someone needing to brush his teeth,” he whispered. “Yes, Mother,” the reflection said.

    He managed to wash his face and brush his teeth in much the same way as a ferret manages to squeeze through a small hole in a wall, or toothpaste as it is squeezed out of the tube: a wriggle and ooze.

    “Like my life,” Jeremy thought, “More ooze than wriggle.” Is that a telephone ringing?

    Picking the comb from his travel bag, he carefully combed his thinning hair over the bald spot using warm water as Spackle.

    “There,” he said, “that’s better. It won’t fool anyone, but it’s definitely better.”

    He slipped a tie around his neck and deftly built a Windsor knot. Jeremy never used a mirror to help him put on a tie. He believed that that would be cheating. The phone rang.

    “Hello? Yes sir, that would be excellent. I’ll meet you in the Cafe in five. Oh? You called? I was shaving. Sorry about that. I’ll see you in five.” He set the handset down gently.

    Bacon and eggs, he thought, it’s definitely a bacon and eggs morning.

    Jeremy closed the suitcase, locked it, and placed it on the suitcase rack. He moved to the side of the bed, picked up the picture of his mother, and held it in both hands. He kissed it gently.

    “I’m getting stronger, Mother. Every day in every way.”

    He put the picture back on the night table, left the room, and locked the door. As he stepped briskly down the hall, he quietly sang the chorus of Chicago’s Feeling Stronger Every Day.
    Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away. ~ P.K. Dick

  2. #42
    Glynwydd dug her toes into the cold, moist earth on the floor for her family's mud-thatch hut. Outside, dark clouds blown by the cold north wind promised a coming storm. To Glynwydd the soil felt chilling, yet somehow comforting.
    "Glynwydd. Put your shoes on. You'll get sick."
    "They're coming, Grandfather. I can feel them through my feet."
    Her Grandfather paused, and put his tools down on the oak table. His green eyes glowed like precious stones as he reached for his granddaughter, but the crone stayed his hand.
    “Let her be. She has the vision. The babe will be saved, the prophecy will be fulfilled.”
    “The child’s father?”
    “His bones are scattered about the headland, but his deeds are sung around every fire in the kingdom.”
    Glynwydd closed her eyes. She could see the riders in the vision. There were two of them, riding side by side, their battle armor clanking, their swords gleaming in the morning sunlight. Neither wore a helmet. One had long blond hair, gleaming with the color of the burnished dawn. His visage was grim, and as he rocked along the saddle creaked and groaned as if death rode with him. As he rode one hand gripped the reins and the other hand held aloft the blood red flag.

    They come, they come.

    The other man had hair as black as obsidian and he smiled, one hand on his gold-hilted broadsword. His horse was white as the seabirds that soared over distant cliffs. His face was scarred from battle, and his eyes were focused ahead as they rode through the tortured upland.

    They come, they come.

    She saw the steam coming from their horse’s nostrils and the clumps of earth fly as they paced along in like rhythm. And she felt the chill - the cold, biting cold of the rising mist that surrounded the riders like damp rawhide. She smelled the sour, wet odor of fen and moor. She heard the steady, rhythmic beat of horse’s hooves on the soft red earth and she felt the strength of the men's arms around her. She smelled the rank, musky odor of their bodies, and deep within her womb the babe stirred. But their arms were strong, and comforting, and she began to relax and her body began to float above the ground.

    She heard the voice again. It was a voice as the soft beating of falcon's wings, of the far-off whisper of soul-breath and it kept repeating in the language of the old ones.

    “Cuma helio”, the men come.

    “Mikil ubil,” I feel a great evil. Glynwydd saw a great shadow come over the land and the voice became a sad lament.

    "Granddaughter!"

    Glynwydd awoke. Her grandfather grabbed her before she could fall to the earthen floor.
    "What did you see?" Grandfather asked.

    It began to rain, and scent-fouled drops scarred the earth and the waters ran red with blood.

    “It is the tears of the dragon,” the crone said. “We must go. Now.”

  3. #43
    In my waking fevered dream, I float through the main concourse. Is this even real life?

    Mostly.

    I feel confronted, obstructed even, and I pull my wandering conscious back to my vision in curiosity. Stairs. I don't feel like stairs. Fortunately, I remember the elevator to my left.

    My steps draw me in, and the motion replays itself in my mind, but backwards. Someone else occupies this space; I don’t want this. They’re probably going to get whatever I have. I see the expansive futures branching from this point, depending on how I apologize for something that probably won’t happen. I try to stifle my laugh, but a cough beats me to it.

    Where did the person go? Oh, we’re here.

    Outside of the elevator, my imagination walks left while my legs go right; I’m not sure which was habitual. In the left side of my life, I visit a friend manning a desk; neither of us remember the last time we talked. But we don’t exchange words, only ideas.

    Following my legs, I open the big invisible glass door awkwardly, like I have never used such an artifact before. Was it werewolves that can’t use doors, or zombies? My newest fantasy is the contemplation of my battle readiness in the event of werewolf zombies. I could probably win.

    Oh right, I need my boss’s signature. That is why I came here from that place where I was before I came here (from that place where I was before I came here (from that place where I was before... You know the one.

    The first human-shaped thing I see is a poster, but the first human-shaped person I see is someone who is my superior, but my boss’s employee. I ask my demi-boss where my boss is.

    “Out. Until next week.” Next, she says something I don’t remember, but I responded anyway.

    “Loopy. Or looping, I haven’t decided.” It strikes me that my voice catches in my mouth, stuck on my teeth. Soft tissue vibrated unnervingly in the sound’s presence.

    So my imagination casts itself out like a fishing line again, slowly reeling itself in past fish with big, flat eyes. And sharks. By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, I had only gotten nibbles. And I do a bit of a double take when I hop down the last step, because I am so very sure I had planned to use the elevator again.

    Outside, a chilling thought strikes me, or it was the wind. Either way, I am covered in a cold sweat that gets colder, and building up to a fine shiver-slash-muscle-twitch. Every day will be like this, my head tells me. This illness will never end, like an infinite roll of toilet paper.

    Last edited by KindaNice; April 12th, 2014 at 07:48 AM. Reason: heh, tenses

  4. #44
    Between the Shrubs

    This morning I woke up from a dream. It vanished so quickly. Bits and pieces stay in my mind. Something about a girl. The daughter of a neighbor. A friend. In the dream, from what I can remember, I buried her.

    I've had similar dreams. I thought I buried someone between the shrubs in front of the house. Or under the fallen oak in the woods out back. Or in the septic tank. I couldn't remember where. I checked to make sure I hadn't dug up the lid for the septic tank. I hadn't.

    Sometimes, I walk around the house. Just a look-see. Kicking the gravel around under the cantilevered overhang, looking for plastic sheeting, jewelry, clothing, a hand. Nothing. Yet.

    I scan the newspaper daily, looking for something that fits, that makes sense. Something that ties this all together. A missing coed. An abandoned car found on the side of the road, engine still running. The abduction of a child.

    Joan has been talking about selling the house. I’m getting nervous. I need to make sure I don’t have any buried secrets. Moving to a lake house would be nice. . .as long as the lake is deep.

  5. #45
    WOMAN TROUBLES - by Philip James -- My wife will not stop staring at me while I'm sleeping. Every day I go to the spot where I buried her and ask her to stop, but she just won't listen.
    Last edited by kilroy214; April 2nd, 2014 at 04:06 AM.

  6. #46
    I found this story that I wrote (or dictated to Mom) when I was about four. It makes no sense.

    Baby Calil and His Family Send Themselves to Nineveh
    Moyer wanted to go with them. He had a hand to hold and he held a box of Christmas cookies. They were playing a game called Baby Calil and baby Calil was toddler Jonah; and toddler Jonah was baby Calil. Anchor had a box of crystals and he saw baby Calil. He didn’t want to look at baby Calil. And then he said, “Hi, baby Calil,” and then baby Calil said, “Hi, I turned into a triceratops. I am a dinosaur which was a three-horn mixed up with a triceratops.” Captain Crunch had a bag and he got some fruit and he called baby Calil and toddler Jonah to eat. He says, “Ouch!” Because he says “hap” which is short for happy. He is happy! There was a wall that baby Calil and toddler Jonah connected themselves to. They were covered with snow because it was snowtime. They were covered with snow and they wanted to go home. The sky and the grass were walking.


  7. #47
    ​Beginning of a story (or something):
    In time past, there was a great wizard-dragon that accidentally obliterated everything in a certain mountain range, even the air, and non-physical things like love and sadness, and even measurement itself, so that no one could distinguish the breadth or height of the area. People tried to refill it, but nothing would manifest. They tried to blow air into it, but there was really nothing to blow
    into at all, since there was nothing there, and so the air was lost in oblivion. They got wizard-dragons to separate out Fragments from forms, things like the color red, a shy personality, or peace, but these, too, did not manifest because they had nothing to apply themselves to. Eventually they decided to cast as many Fragments as they could into the place, in hopes that these Fragments would order themselves into forms and rebuild the area. So the place was left alone for awhile, and it became known as the Blank.
    But when the people returned to the Blank, they found that the Fragments had not become any kind of distinguishable entities, so that in the Blank there was still no ground to walk upon and still no laws of physics. The Fragments had come together, to be sure, but in a random fashion, just as they were randomly cast into the Blank. The joined-up fragments were called Clusters, and, this time forever, the Blank was left alone.
    One of these Clusters was (well, he wasn’t really, all the Clusters still failed to be) a sweet disposition that sometimes looked like a peppermint-candy and sometimes looked like a mushroom. It, or he, or whatever, (the Cluster was not really a thing or a person at all) had a dry sense of humor that looked like a raisin and even had a voice, and it often went off on its own to make sarcastic remarks.


  8. #48
    WF Veteran Sunny's Avatar
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    They sat on the couch together. Just the two of them. It was a dreary day and an even drearier night. The snow clouds were taking the last piece of fall that remained. It was just like old times. Except they weren't old times. They had never done this before. They've never lived where it was dreary day and night, day after day, night after night.

    They played on their iPads together. They had races to see who could win the game of solitaire first. Then they played some scrabble and argued over their made up words.

    She looked at him with boredom. Stuck in the house, cold out side, nothing to eat, nothing to watch, boredom. "Let's read something," she said. She sat up, enthusiastic as a summers day.

    "Like what?" he said, tapping his finger to a lit up screen, not actually listening to her, yet again.

    "Here, tell me who wrote this," she said and started to read. "There was this haunted house, and once there was a woman with two kids that lived in that house. It was scary..."

    "Oh, that's easy," he replied. "John Firepants wrote that."

    She sighed, "Okay, easy one. Now lets see about..." she flipped through the pages and stopped on the coffee stained page, "okay okay, who wrote this one?" she asked. "If it had been any time of year, except this time of year, he would have gotten out of bed. It was the anniversary. The anniversary of the worst day of his life. The blackness consumed his suicidal ways. He broke down..."

    "Jones Hefferbutt!" he yelled, cutting her off. "Hah. No sweat. No one knows more authors by the sound of their voice than I do," he said, pointing at his chest. He smiled and the dry mustard in the corners of his mouth fell to his black t-shirt.

    She leaned over and swiped at the mustard as if he needed to be clean to lay around all day.

    "What? Is it my dandruff again?" He shook his head to watch the white stuff fly.

    "Gah. No," she yelled, jumping back so she didn't have to wear the room temperature snow that he grew on his head. "Alright, who is this one?" She flipped through the pages again, and wondered how fast it would be for him to guess right. "Eh-hem", she cleared her throat. "Steve pushed her down the hall. He walked so fast, he almost fell and hit his nose off the top of her head. She was in a wheel chair and she screamed as if the baby were poking it's head out, waving the world a fine Hello. He picked up speed and started to run."

    "oh, that's Peter Dyer," he replied, proud of his achievements, still picking at his scalp.

    She didn't look up, just shook her head and kept on reading. "He knew that if he didn't get her to the maternity ward soon, he'd be slipping through her blood and the baby's sac full of fluid any second."

    "Yeah yeah yeah," he droned. "It's come to me now. That was Jesse Krong who wrote that."

    She smirked as she turned away from the book in her hands, holding her finger to the page, showing the authors face above the published page of his work. "Nope," she laughed. "I guess you're not so great at this after all."

    "Well, who is it?" he leaned over to peek into the pages.

    "No way, you said you could guess," She laughed at his half annoyed, half angered expression.

    He stared at her, like he thought he could see the images of that author name tattooed into her irises. Finally, he grimaced. "Fine, you win. I'm not that good. Who wrote it?" He asked.

    She turned the book over, and laughed when his eyes made contact with the page she had been reading. It was himself. He was the author and he didn't know his own voice.

    "Freak!" she yelled, jumping up and running for the door, buck naked. "Wanna run around the house, see who wins?" She didn't wait for an answer as the door slammed shut behind her.
    for kyle: Freel Barter Braby Hidden Content

  9. #49

    The Heterochrony Paradox - (Warning - references to female anatomy)

    ‘Can I speak to Doctor Alsterm please. Thank you. Ah doctor, I haven’t had your report on that body of a young woman that we found in an alleyway two days ago. We’ve had some trouble discovering her identity and I’m hoping that it won’t be a difficult case. I have quite a workload at present. Do you have the cause of death yet?’

    ‘No Inspector, and I think you’d better find time for this one. I haven’t even started thinking about her death yet. There’s another complication that’s occupying my time at present. I suggest that you come to view the body and you’ll understand the problem.’

    ‘Oh, that’s a bit inconvenient but if you’re sure that it’s necessary. Can’t you just tell me the nature of this complication for now?’

    ‘Okay then. She has an umbilical cord projecting from her uterus.’

    ‘Good heavens! Do you mean that there’s a missing newborn baby somewhere that we need to find? Why didn’t you tell us straight away?’

    ‘No, there isn’t any missing baby. In fact I don’t know what to tell you, which is why I haven’t made out any form of report yet.’

    ‘Well you must be able to tell me something. What have you found that’s causing you such a problem?’

    ‘It’s the cord Inspector. It’s still attached at the other end – to her own navel!’
    'Sharing an experience creates a reality.' Create a new reality today.
    'There has to be some give and take.' If I can take my time I'm willing to give it.
    'The most difficult criticism that a writer has to comprehend is silence.' So speak up.

  10. #50
    My maternal grandmother was a woman of vast skills. She was an excellent cook and baker, could refinish, repair and restore just about any piece of furniture, put down several types of flooring, play the violin and garden like nobody's business.


    Not a perfect woman by any means, but when it came to her and said skills, her biggest flaw was hating when she wasn't good at something right out of the gate. There in is a quick story.


    When she was a newlywed she tried to make homemade bread for the first time. She did everything right, or so she thought, but the dough refused to rise. Just lay there like a lump of, well, dough that wouldn't rise, I guess. She was so embarrassed by her failure she decided to get rid of the evidence of her shame. She buried the dough in the back yard.


    The rest of the day went on, seemingly uneventful. Until the afternoon sun moved to hit the mound of dirt that hid her secret. The rays hit the spot and caused the ground to warm up just enough to activate the yeast in the dough. As day slid into evening, the cooling air spread a low hanging mist in the yard and the concoction began to rise, pushing its way out of the ground.


    It was Night of the Living Bread.

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