Microfiction
The Old School bus
One day when passing by the old city junk yard there sits an old school bus just rusting away. But when I was walking past it today, I thought I heard laughing and yelling like you do when a working school bus goes down the road, again there was no one around. The laughing and yelling continued. I slowly walked up to the bus and the door opened; no driver but there was a sense of I don't know. I walked down the aisle and heard "Have a seat." I could feel eyes on me. Uh, I opened the door.
By Mark Graham2 years ago in Fiction
The Typewriter
On the desk in the corner of the library sat an old typewriter that no one seems to even notice. But, one day I decided to walk up to it, sit down, placed my fingers on the home row of this old machine. It felt good. I lifted my fingers off the keys, brushed the dust away. I couldn't resist for I put a piece of paper around the platen and just began to type and type and type. I do not what I typed, but it just kind of felt good to hear the clickety clack of this machine.
By Mark Graham2 years ago in Fiction
defenestration. Top Story - October 2024.
Defenestration: throwing a person or object out a window * Connection to me: Many decades ago, when the earth was green… Italian was one of my High School subjects. Note, I never claimed to have learnt Italian! Sadly, I was least proficient in it, out of all my subjects However, for some bizarre reason, finestra is one of the few Italian words I still recall. Apparently finestra originated from a similar Latin word fenestra. From there, it’s just a tiny skip to defenestration! Whilst clearly not a wise or kind action, it certainly makes for a dramatic scene in a book or movie!
By Angie the Archivist 📚🪶2 years ago in Fiction
Getting closer...
Dave Bethan's following me. She doesn't know that I've seen her. Or at least, I don't think she has. I knew she wouldn't leave it alone. I thought that I could block her out but I should have known that when it came to Laney, she wouldn't let it go.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
Don't Open the Door
There was only one rule: don't open the door. It's an appealing door, yet also a deceiving one . It reads "the road to freedom". But beyond it is a dark desolate desert road. It has barreling winds that whisper broken promises. Those winds cause blinding sandstorms of the ashes of the blameless to rise. Also, running along the road are trails of tears that flow like streams that form ravines of guilt, regret, sorrow, and deep disdain so raw, so hollow, that cries of its victims are tattooed on your soul.
By Jennifer David2 years ago in Fiction
A Spot of Cream
She reaches on tippy toes to kiss his lying lips. She has no idea. Debra is a good girlfriend to Sean. She took classes to learn massage when he started football. Likes his mother. Buys little gifts "just because" on her way home. Trusts him completely. He goes where he wants, when he likes, no questions asked. A smile, a kiss, a "have fun, babe". For his part, he's big on Health. Macros. Meal-prepping. He does all the cooking, three meals a day. Brings her coffee in the mornings, just how she likes it: half a sugar, and a spot of cream. He gets back into bed, gazes over the rim of the mug into her eyes, and smiles. Where were we? Ah, yes. Lying lips. Hear the smooch; smell the strong coffee not quite obliterated by toothpaste. The car door slams, the engine turns over, she drives away. Count: one... two... three... four... Ah, here he is! His hair's darker and shorter, and he has designer stubble frosting his jaw, but they share a "look". Like they've been cut from the same plasticky cloth. Sean opens the door and they disappear inside. Look, they're in the kitchen, kissing. Sean pulls away and squats down to rummage at the back of a cupboard. He stands, grinning, holding something. "Got it," he says. There's more kissing, and they get rather handsy with one another, pulling at clothes, and unbuckling belts. Yesterday, a scrawny looking blonde fella stopped by, and last week it was a black gentleman at a club. Sean doesn't appear too fussy where he empties himself, (mouths, chests, hands, faces, bottoms...) but he's especially particular about where his buddies finish. Thanks to Time Dilation, Sean is surely almost done with this one. We'll take the grunting as read; this isn't HBO. He's panting, eyes shining. That was a good one. Perhaps it's a shame we missed it. "Ready?" he says, holding out the little plastic beaker. He uses his lips and then his hands to milk the gentleman into the container, and then sends him on his merry way. He sets to meal prepping, mixing some of the Secret Sauce with the pasta. He adds a little to the milk as well.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
One Rule
There was only one rule: don't open the door. Leah had been repeating this in her mind ever since she moved into the small, creaky house. The landlord’s instructions were clear: everything was hers to use, except for the room at the end of the narrow hallway. The door was locked, the key nowhere to be found. The rule was simple enough.
By Kristin Young2 years ago in Fiction
Music
The rhythm of the music that was heard coming from the house down the street was erratic. The house at the end of the block was known to the townspeople as being a bit odd at times, but not this odd. The music that the townspeople were hearing was a little bit country and little bit rock and roll. All of the sudden the town changed, and it seemed to go back in time to the mid to late 1970's. Everyone was groovin' and singin'. It lasted for a few minutes and then we seemed to become aware of life.
By Mark Graham2 years ago in Fiction
