Microfiction: “instinct”

Always, instinctively, aware of nearby shelter. Baseboard holes, convenient cracks in plaster just large enough for it to fit. It lacks the capacity to admit. If it could it still would not, so terrifying was the notion. But in the depths of its consciousness, though its legs tensed and were ready to move in reflexive action, it felt the truth of it. The mouse awaits the inevitable cat.

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Microfiction: “built quiet worlds”

The editor diligently marked the texts. Semicolons for periods, commas for clauses. Over time he learned to look for parentheses, focused on them with undue attention and great care. When he would reconstruct them, he found hidden worlds. The afterthoughts consumed him, told new stories; and his narratives wove themselves anew, between their lines – the murmuring of sleepers, the breathing of unseen spirits.

Microfiction: “victimless crime”

They found the teddy bear at the bottom of a dumpster. Arms twisted, stuffing burst from torn seams. A plastic bag that read “Thank You” in red block letters had wrapped itself around the bear’s head, gently. No-one investigated the crime.

Microfiction: “frayed.”

“Tell me a story,” she would say. She would lean over him, click off the lights, lay her head into the soft curve of his neck; felt his pulse against hers. “Tell me a story, spin me a yarn.” And he would unravel.