Microfiction
Itchimekilieloo
I listened to her feet treading upstairs. She nudged the half open door as she walked in a haste. She intrigued me skillfully ,which in turn, made me probe her most perennially. Simply reinforcing this status quo, I followed her around with drift quickness. And so on and so forth, I got nicknamed as a “digger,” and she got celebrated well as a “tripper ,” most candidly for her brisk movements.
By Madhu Goteti 3 years ago in Fiction
Thump
Gail was sitting home alone, reading a book. It was late at night, and her parents were still at a dinner party thrown by the dowager widow Belk. She usually enjoyed staying home alone, but tonight was different. There was no moon or stars out tonight; clouds covered them. All the servants had gone home already and left her home completely alone. To top it off, she had just started the latest Edgar Allen Poe book.
By Mother Combs (Sharon)3 years ago in Fiction
She Showed Me Thalassonorous
I've always loved the sea. Mama says it's because she named me Mariana. It was my destiny. "'Mar' means 'sea', you see, and the rest is history", she'd say. I suppose she was right. From the first clumsy flaps in floaties to my great strides in salt water, my journey with the ocean was a labor of love.
By E.K. Daniels3 years ago in Fiction
Dithereen
What did Tyler want to be when he grew up? What a question for a fetus! He had enough on his plate, certainly, such as navigating that time tunnel into life outside the womb; to cutting the umbilical cord where he must make his own breaths; to how to pay for college.
By Gerard DiLeo3 years ago in Fiction
Purrfectionism
Bobby had been dreaming of The Sphinx. Its completion with a human head was seen as heretical by the cat community and had remained a sore spot for millennia, though he could scarcely blame the clumsy, oafish humans, who were obviously jealous of the feline form, and sought perfection through imitation. Bobby loved his human servants and considered himself a benevolent master, but felt it was important to remain cognizant of their foibles and inadequacies. Case in point: he was hungry and they were all still asleep.
By J. Otis Haas3 years ago in Fiction
Tombette
After my mother died, I began to bury things in small places. I folded her hand-written recipe for cornbread and oyster stuffing deep inside the oil-stained pages of my cookbook. I recorded old spiritual songs she used to sing in the strings of the out-of-tune piano in our front room. I tucked an empty glass bottle of Poison, her favorite perfume, in the corner of my sock drawer. But most of all I buried memories in my mind. Of baking Christmas cookies while the snow drifted down outside the kitchen window. Of running my hands through the rich black soil of the garden as we planted cucumber seeds. Of her fingers stroking my temples as I listened to her read the Harry Potter series out loud to me.
By Rae Fairchild (MRB)3 years ago in Fiction
