Monday, April 29, 2013

Micro Fiction

So you can decide if this is any good. Have fun kids. It's for a project. 

Movement ceased. Reverently, his dogtags removed.

“Son, I was young once too.”

The wedding ceremony began. A young couple sat in the back, the woman filled with emotion. She watched as the past ended and an undesirable future was sealed with empty promises.

Regret weighed heavily on his chest as his friends celebrated their first drink. He could never warn them against the sorrows that could swallow them whole.

Laughter gently warmed the melancholy hotel stairway and the young man reveled in her brief moment of light hearted youth. He caressed the curves of her smile to remove her tears and for a moment the world was warm again. Love was renewed.

The cold vacant room was still filled with the young man’s belongings. Pictures of his grin plastered the walls. His mother sat beside her memories and wept.

“I said get out! O-U-T, out!’
“I wanna stay in! O-U-T, in!”
She may not have been able to spell, but she understood the importance of tone.

The old town drunkard proudly walked a straight line out of the parlor completely sober. A new man emerged without the stench of whiskey and gin.

No Sleep tonight. The taranchula escaped.   

Have you ever taught a cat to swim? I tried once, but the ocean was probably a bad place to start.

“When a promise to eternity is broken, a guarantee to uncertainty is made.” “I paid 25 dollars for this? What a rip off.” The cheating man walked away, then shamefully placed his wedding band back on his hand.

Honor. That was the promise he made himself as the observed the velvet pastel petals cascade from the familiar, elderly cherry blossoms. He polished his katana with pride and solemnity, then left. Never to return.

Anna adjusted Charles’s bowtie innocently. “This is for ol’ papa Charlie! Mama says we won’t see him for a long while. But she said you could come if you dressed nice!” She squeezed her bear and looked out to see the rain pouring down on the black herse outside.

And so with a bottle of india ink, a soft bristle brush, 3 sketchbooks and 43 dollars in his pocket, he stepped into the boiling New Delhi street alone for the first time.

Over 400 handwritten notes to be remembered by carefully placed at the bottom of each page. None of them were ever seen by him.

Her stubborn silence and private suffering lead to the tarnished ring in it’s new home- collecting debris at on the filthy ocean floor for the rest of eternity.

Wet beach hair- a beauty trademark- and salty skin in the summer sun. Sand sticks to her slender legs and a warm smile completes her.  

Wiping noses and calming nerves- the thankless mother deserves her nap. But the cries of an infant demand more love.

“I bought this awesome music box! The lady who sold it to me said it was cursed or haunted or something, but I think it’s got charm” “What were you thinking? And where’s your car?” “Oh, I totaled it on the way home. But the music box was fine.”

Thousands gathered as the concert began. A young man in a tuxedo spotted an elderly woman who seemed in need of company. “Incredible, isn’t it? So many people are here!” he enthused. “I only wish his father was here to enjoy it with me.” she said as she held back tears.

At 24, Mark looked under the coffee table he grew up with. His awful handwriting and uncoordinated drawings brought back memories of childhood rebellion.

The lure of vacancy called to her. She left alone and let her mind escape in the ecstasy of absence.

In the attic, a letter explaining betrayal grew crisp and dusty with age.

His body ached for her affection, but neglect and rage ran through her veins. Her lifeblood was sustained by the thought of his suffering. He would never love her again.

“Access to nearly limitless knowledge has been achieved sir, and connection has reached a new potential. We will commence the download to your device immediately” “Hold on, let me finish this game of Angry Birds.”

The phone rang at 3:17 am. Disoriented, she rose from the warm sheets to find her phone on her dresser. Sluggishly she answered. “Mrs. Broadshaw?” “Yes? This is her” “We found your husband.”

Vacations are great! Except when you wake up in your brother’s vomit. Then not so much.

An angsty teenage girl was enveloped in her self pity on a lonely Valentine’s day, until a knock at the door ended with a plate of cupcakes and a thank you note from the 4 year old up the street.

No comments: