Hooray for Microfiction!

images.jpegI sat down to write today, but I didn’t know what to write.  I wanted to put something together for the blog, but the Idea Fairy gifted me with exactly zero ideas for a post…

Hey, wait, I know — I’ll write a microfiction piece!  Yeah, that’s it, a quick-and-dirty little story!

But…wait…what the hell should that story be about?

I still got nothin’!

Well, crap…screw it.  I guess it’s time to throw it all to the wind and just write.  So, here we go…one hour on the clock, please, to conceive and write…

Workin’ Overtime

His mind was working overtime. The ideas were there, the characters were there. Most importantly, the words were there.

They were there, like a class of sugared-up fifth graders are there. The ideas and characters, the words themselves, were jumping and falling all over themselves. The big words were beating up the little words, while the cute words were causing havoc among the ugly ones…

The cursor blinked at him and the blank screen stared accusingly. He had to write something.

For all the emotion and thought pent up inside, the blinking and staring continued.

“It was a dark and stormy night…”

Okay, that’s no way to start a story. Even he knew that. Almost as bad as starting with your character waking from a deep sleep.

“Call me Ishmael..”


Type…delete. Type…delete. Type…delete.

He stared back, thinking “Fuck you, screen!” On his feet, then, and he didn’t sit again until he had a full drink in his hand. Maybe the whiskey would help.


He searched his past, his present and his future. He thought of all the words he had written over the years…and of all the words yet to come. He wrestled and fought his thoughts even as he forced his fingers once again onto the keys.

This time…this time the words would come. He would make them come!

“His mind was working overtime…”

By the way, I succeeded(ish).  42 minutes.

Wait…shit…should I edit it?!?!

Microfiction Thanksgiving: “Is This Heaven?”

Is This Heaven?

A sharp note, the glass shattering.  A deeper note, then, the screech of metal.  The smell of rubber, a hint of engine fluids, the smell of blood…

The delicate tinkle of all the little bits and pieces falling to the ground around me.

No time for even a blink, then it all changed.  The colors were gone, the reds and blacks and greens replaced by blacks and whites.  

I stood, on legs that shouldn’t have been able to stand.  I stood and looked to the door to my right, the door that was opening with just the barest hint of a creak.  No other sound in that place, not even my heart.  Just the creak of the door.

He was my height, the one that stepped through that door.  My height, and the hint of my features in his face.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, a sad note under that voice.  “I’ve been waiting, but I never thought it would this soon.”

Confusion, then.  Worse than any drink, than any drug, my mind spun and wandered and refused to focus.

“Who…?  What…?” I stuttered.

He smiled, and I could see…something.  Love?  Peace?  Fulfillment?  It was all there.  It wasn’t mine, but it was there, and I could feel the edges of it.  I should know that face, I thought.  It was the memory of a friend, lost in time.  It was family, long forgotten.

“Come with me,” he said, holding out his hand, “and I’ll explain everything.”

“What the hell is this?” I hesitated, my voice faltering and failing.

I stood unmoving, frozen and afraid.  Unable to move, to be honest.  I didn’t understand the feelings that were coming, the feelings I hadn’t felt for…decades.

“Come with me,” he replied.  “It’s time to come home, Dad.”



I’m not going to get into where this story came from, it’s too complicated…and too personal.  The only genesis I’ll offer is an old-ish movie titled What Dreams May Come.  The rest, however…the rest is mine, not yours.  As ever, however, there is a song for that.  Although it didn’t inspire or drive the story above, it certainly fits:

Microfiction: “A Good Nap, Ruined”

Okay, so this one is far more the side of pointless whimsy than emotion and meaning, but sometimes you just gotta go with the flow…

”A Good Nap, Ruined”

The meal was exactly what he wanted…what he needed.  Oh, it had been far too much work to get it all ready — not to mention the godawful mess it had left that he was pretty sure would never come clean — but sometimes you just had to spoil yourself.  Others he knew, they preferred to always eat what was neat and easy, but where was the fun and satisfaction in that?

 A nap, he wanted.  An hour or two just to let the summer sun and that big meal work their magic on him.  There had been a lot of walking that morning; a lot of clambering over downed trees, a lot of hills and valleys, a lot of wandering and exploring in that special place.

His nap, however, just would not come.  There was too much noise, too much activity.  What the hell happening over there?  Naps were the best part of the day, and now his was being ruined by the thoughtless and careless.

A stretch and a curse, then, and a pause for a last bite from the scattered remains of his lunch, then he began to walk, and to investigate.

Shit, more noise…yelling and chaos, now.

Drowsiness turned to irritation, and to impatience, and he began to yell at the rude bastards who wouldn’t let him relax, who wouldn’t afford him the simple courtesy of some peace and quiet.

The one in the flowered dress — the big one who looked so soft and sweet — turned to the one next to her, asked, “Can’t you stop him eating that?  It was just a baby!”

The other, the one in green, just shook his head, even as he continued to stare, “Bears have to eat, too.”

Microfiction Monday: “A Night Like This”

Umm…this one got some inspiration from a song — as usual — but it came also from my own life.  Err … umm … did I forget to mention that I may just happen to have attended a few raves in my younger days?  Ahem.

“A Night Like This”

The music was deafening, the room chaos.  The bodies were sweaty and heaving, pressed into intimacy on every side.  Blue hair, brown eyes, barely clad in just the right ways, the girl in his arms was a beautiful stranger.

He had no business with her, not in any world he understood.  Not on any night…except this night, this carnival of light and sound and lust.  On a night like this, outside lives — normal lives — died with barely a whimper, and many sins were born.

Dances and kisses, that was their language.  Words, even whispered ones, were pointless.  Caresses and passion said more than words ever could, anyway.  More booze, even a few pills, as the night developed, and the carnival of light and sound turned into a full-blown riot.

He’d had far too many nights predictable and boring.  But not this night, he vowed.  On this night he would finally live.  This was one night that would not end like all the others.  A night like this would end only in fire.

In the restroom, then, packed tightly into a single stall.  For once his surroundings meant nothing.  For once — for this night, at least — he had life itself in his arms.  His life — his real life, his “wonderful” life — meant nothing in the fire of that embrace.  

“How was your weekend?” his friends asked, on Monday, in their cubicles grey and drab and oh-so-normal.

“Oh, you know,” he replied, “the usual.”