Microfiction
A Thing about Sight
Maya, the jumping spider had a problem with seeing too much. The ultraviolet showed her things other spiders couldn't see, which sounds useful but mostly meant she knew when bad things were coming and couldn't do anything about them. Like how she watched the tree dying for weeks before the others noticed. Like how she saw the pattern of decay spreading through the bark in colors that didn't exist, beautiful in a way that meant death.
By Jacob Isaac Abrahamabout a year ago in Fiction
A Letter from the Third State
Dear Teresa Whatever you do—don't look behind you! I know you won't. Sorry, I've probably scared you, but all you need to know is that I love you. Really love you, like the wind loves space. Ah space. I'll come back to that, but for now, just remember my touch. Didn't I always envelop you in my arms and say I'd never let you go? Your tears of joy at those times gripped me with immeasurable emotion. And desire. I know it's difficult for you now.
By Teresa Rentonabout a year ago in Fiction
Courtesy Kills
Nobody likes lifts. It's an enclosed space, isn't it? Mind you, I've never been one to suffer with claustrophobia or anything like that. Call me lazy if you like, but I prefer to arrive at work not sweaty and gross from clattering up a billion stairs. It dings, and I step inside. There's no one else in there. I turn, press the number 5, and the doors start sliding shut. That's when I see him. A neat, fussy little man, wearing a workaday suit, like me, and carrying a briefcase, like me. He looks a bit panicked, like he's running late. I wonder which floor he works on, since I can't remember seeing him before. Maybe he has an interview today. Or it could be his first day. I dismiss both ideas; he isn't dressed smartly enough. With a little sigh, I reach out to prevent the doors from closing, and keep my arm there until he huffs and puffs his way into the lift with me. "Thank you," he says, sagging with relief, "You’re a lifesaver." I smile, and make the usual noises. Polite. Dismissive. "No problem." "Any time." Something like that. The lift seals shut, and begins its ascent. Silence. Except for the whirring of machinery. My guts lurch. Are we about to get stuck? Is that why I felt so uneasy? It's a lift. As I say, lots of people don't like lifts. Another lurch, this time from the little man in his plain suit. There's a flash of metal and a sharp pain. Blood blooms over my shirt, worryingly fast, but in slow motion at the same time. I stagger back in shock. Another chirpy ding and the doors open again. My attacker runs a hand through his hair, straightens his tie, picks up his briefcase, and strides away. It takes a moment for anyone to realise there's a man bleeding out in the lift. It takes a few more for them to unfreeze, and more still for them to stop dithering and milling. I can hear their voices as if through a long tunnel. Hands paw at me; a similar, distant sensation. My consciousness ebbs gently away. My last thoughts, chasing each other like droplets round a drain: What did he do that for? and Should have let him take the stairs.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
