Welcome to our first Micro Monday!… Have we got a bumper crop of great microfiction for you!
Each Monday, we’ll publish an omnibus selection of microfiction from our Micro123 submissions, and publish them here on our website. (Or, if you subscribe to the site you’ll get them emailed directly into your inbox.)
So – let’s get straight into it, with our our first batch of #MicroMonday stories. Enjoy!…
I’ll Mourn My Way
by Linda Fawke
The vicar asked me to speak at Mum’s funeral.
‘What should I say?’
‘Oh, you know. Something about how you’ll miss her.’
I nodded.
He smiled and patted my shoulder; job done.
It was an old-style funeral. The few people there wore black clothes and grey faces, sang sad hymns out of tune.
I faced them and took a deep breath.
‘I hated my mother. She stole my boyfriend. Said he was too old for me. We had a fierce row. She forbade me from seeing him. One day, I arrived home unexpectedly and found him in her bed. She divorced my father and married him.’
A brutal silence hit me.
‘Will I miss her? No. You don’t mourn hatred.’
Bio: I write fiction and non-fiction, have been published in various magazines, have self-published two novels and recently a light-hearted nonfiction book about life in the French Alps. My current passion is writing short fiction.
Follow the author on X/Twitter.
A Storm Brewing
by Tim Kirton
The meeting had left him numb, overwhelmed by the decisions he would have to make.
Absent-mindedly, he found himself walking into the country park. The gravel footpath sucked at him like quicksand, such was the weight of his new burden.
Magnificent forked lightning illuminated the sky above the pine trees. Repeated thunderous booms sounded to him like the approaching footsteps of giants.
The supercharged storm was upon him. He hoped it would wash away his present predicament.
Seeking refuge in the old bandstand, a sudden wall of impenetrable glass rods surrounded him.
He knew he shouldn’t move but he felt pulled towards the spectacle.
With outstretched arms and his head held high, he walked into it.
Other powers would decide his fate.
Tim Kirton is a semi-retired Physical Education and English teacher who lives in the Peak District, England. His work can be seen published in Black Ink Fiction, Trembling with Fear, Doug Weller’s six-word anthologies, Didcot Writers, Glittery Literary, The Paul Cave Prize, and Free Flash Fiction amongst others.
Boudica of the Lunch Break
by R D Brown
Maybe she was Boudica.
Maybe I was a Roman soldier.
Star-crossed lovers on the battlefield.
A love story for the ancients.
Then that whistle blows and it’s back to work and her not knowing I exist.
R.D. Brown is finally getting round to writing again. He acknowledges the organisers.
Follow the Author on X/Twitter.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
Dead End
by Ros Levenson
End of the Central Line, last train soon leaving. The young couple jump on and sit across from an old man.
‘Look, he’s asleep. Must’ve missed his stop,’ she says, alarmed.
Her boyfriend prods his knee to wake him and recoils.
The old man’s pallor and indigo lips tell the story.
The couple tell the Guard, ‘Poor man’s dead.’
He responds with disbelief. ‘Nah, he’s drunk. Not touching ‘im, They always fight back.’
‘This one won’t,’ the young man says. ‘Look.’
The Guard looks, sighs and heaves the corpse onto the platform. He’s seen it all before. Dammit, all those forms to fill in. He’ll be home late again.
‘You’d better go now. Train’s departing,’ he tells us, stifling a yawn.
Ros is retired. She is a keen writer, proud grandmother, and Londoner.
Bullies
by Fizle Sagar
We’re just a group of friends. We aren’t bullies. We might roll our eyes at Luki for example, but that’s not bullying, is it? We let her join our group and we only talk about her after she’s gone.
Janet is our leader. She has four sisters, all with similar-sounding names; Joan, Jean, Jane, Janet. She pronounces it Genet as in Jean Genet… pretentious or what? Sarcastic and charming, we want her to love us but Luki tells us she only loves herself, that she’s the bully and mocks us when we’re gone.
We turn to Luki hoping she might lead us but she heard us sniggering. She’s found a more interesting group to join, Genet has joined them too. We’re not invited.
Fizle is a creative writer of historical fiction. His first book ‘As the World Spins’ in its final edit before approaching agents/publishers etc.
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One Last Chance
by Roz Kendall
In the early morning gloom Edwin Warner strolled to his shop. Although pleased with its profits, it was past its best. His son – a City stockbroker – saw himself above running a cobbler’s emporium, his simple minded daughter incapable of taking over, and his assistant, Bill Oates, hadn’t a farthing to his name.
Having survived two world wars Edwin was cheered that life had treated him well. Death did not do so. One minute later his skull was shattered by a heavy metal object and £5 stolen from his pocket.
Lucy Warner was also past her best but, as heiress to a fortune, Bill made allowances and they married. Wisely, he never took the dark alley to his thriving establishment.
Bio: I began writing in late middle age. It was the best thing I ever did, becoming a member of Leeds Writers’ Circle gave me confidence from their advice and encouragement. I am also attempting to write novels as well as short stories and flash fiction.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
Puddings
by Gay Anderson
‘It’s your birthday, little sugar plum, little fairy girl! What will you have for tea?’
‘Puddings!’ she cried.
‘Yes!’ they laughed. ‘Puddings, Cook!’
In the bowels of the castle, Cook crooned. ‘My little fondant! You shall have the Ultimate Pudding!’
Cook used the darkest oftreacles, the thickest of creams, the richest of chocolates, a pillowy meringue, a tickle of lemon .
‘Clean plate!’ they shouted.
Eyes agleam, silver spoon at the ready, Birthday Girl could not drag her eyes from the delicious, sticky depths of the Amazing Pudding. First her eyes, then her mouth… her whole head… her neck, her shoulders! All, all were sucked in and consumed by the Terrible Pudding.
Her plate was clean. Her chair was empty.
Bio: I write for fun, with friends . We sit round a table, here in Fort William; or, with other friends from afar, we take turns to give a writing stimulus, then share our efforts by email.
Poor Jacob
by Heather Hawk
Each day at seven in the morning, I walk past a homeless shelter. Poor Jacob stands on the northeast corner holding a cardboard sign with painted words: “No Food. Please Help.” or “Hungry. Please One Dollar.”
I give one dollar each day, except one day I offer him a coffee. We chat for a few minutes. He smiles, “Thank you. Today marks my third full year on the corner.”
Poor Jacob.
The next day, I missed him.
I drank my coffee and read the news. In a city park, a half block from the shelter, his clothed body was found with his backpack on. Filled with exactly 1,094 dollar bills.
Heather enjoys writing the long and the short of it. She is working on an expanded personal life storybook, including many of the adventures she has lived through.
I Am Amazed By Your Cheek
by J P Coakley
I am amazed by your cheek. I would love to stroke it. From below ground your eyes stare up and into the sky. It is time you were buried.
6 miles away your funeral is happening. A good turnout, perhaps as many as 300. They are drawn by the tragedy (or comedy) of a funeral without a corpse. I’ll be there soon. You won’t.
The shovel scrapes the slab under the gravel piles beside our water feature. Deep into our flower beds I throw the first of many layers. They bounce off your face and hands.
The priest will talk of your loss at sea. Contrariwise I don’t know it yet, but my extravagant purchase of quicklime will ruin an otherwise perfect plan.
JP Coakley lives in South Dublin with his family and pets. He works in media and enjoys writing and songwriting outside the day job.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
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