Here’s the third in our series of ‘Micro Monday’, where we publish a bumper crop of micros from our 1-2-3 submissions, here on our website. (Or direct to your inbox if you subscribe to our site.)
Meanwhile, don’t forget our Flash Fiction Competition, to win cash prizes and publication – the next deadline is coming up at the end of this month.
But for now, enjoy these mini marvels – and please spread the word if you enjoy them, by sharing the page or talking about them on your social media…
Ironing His Shirt
by Linda Fawke
She smoothed the creases across his shoulders. Then over his back. She felt the man beneath. Silk on silk. A gentle satisfaction. That’s how it was once.
‘Get a move on. I need to leave.’
She pressed his sleeves, felt the embrace of his arms about her, their violent strength.
‘And turn that crap off the radio.’
#One in twelve women experience violence of some kind – a forty percent rise in recent years. The statistics on domestic abuse of women are grim and probably under-reported#
Before she put the shirt on the hanger, she scorched the collar. A small revenge, a mark on his neck for the bigger one on hers.
She thought about the packed suitcase she had hidden. Perhaps tomorrow.
Linda Fawke has published two novels (women’s fiction) and a non-fiction book about retirement in the French Alps but she is now addicted to Flash Fiction. She has been published in various magazines including Mslexia and ‘Writing magazine’.
Follow the author on X/Twitter.
Mushrooms on Toast
by Mikki Aronoff
“I foraged for those suckers! And don’t burn the bread,” he growls. I’d do anything for this cranky, Vandyked curmudgeon, this demanding director — my mushrump. I limp from our lovemaking into his chilly kitchen, squint at the stove. Where’s Alexa when you need her, I think, as I slice the brioche and my thumb. “Mind the morels! They’re fancy!” he yells. “So’s your mother,” I holler back, hoping she can’t hear. She was, of late, my acting coach. I hear her gargling in the bathroom. Today won’t be easy, I suspect, deglazing the pan. Wondering where I’d misplaced the script.
Mikki Aronoff writes tiny stories in New Mexico. Her writing has received Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories, and Best Microfiction nominations.
Thesaurus Entry For Bow
by Anne Howkins
Play
To begin he was legato lazy, smooth, soft and easy. Her guard lowered, she let him lead, forgot about the staccato of her life. Left excitement behind.
Bend
There’s an arc to her that exceeds the curves his hands and lips trace. A mind beyond a man’s reach. Wildness to be tamed.
Submit
She will not, she’s too wilful. Too long without a hand to keep her straight.
Knot
He binds her wrists, covers her eyes with scarlet silk, hiding her scowled ugliness. She’s to be wrapped and discarded.
Weapon
He pulls back, lips caressing the feathery fletch, wanting flesh. Stills himself, waits for her head to lift.
Acquiesce
Another pair of dead brown eyes stare back at him. Another lesson taught.
Anne loves the challenge of writing a lot in a few words. After a bit of a break she’s flexing her writing muscles again.
Follow the author on X/Twitter.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
While We Sleep, They Guard
by Tom Leaf
‘Hey, what are you doing back there, in the dark, where no-one can see you?’
It uncurled itself before her, filling the dark space, fleshing out the room.
‘I’m Pip. What’s your name?’
Half horse, half spider loomed over her.
‘You’re really big, aren’t you? I’m only small. But that’s ok.’
One and a half tonne of horn and scale, suspended on eight thickly jointed legs creaked into position, unfolding over the puppy. It’s dark star eye regarded her with hunger. And venomous envy.
‘You’re really grumpy,’ Pip whispered.
A paw flick, a crackling splash and the creature was dispatched to the four winds.
‘I’m done here.’ Pip yawned to no-one else in the room.Young pup warriors need sleep. And cuddles. Always.
Tom Leaf lives in an unpleasant basement, has no pets and practises his smile every day. He tries to write stories he would like to read.
Beneath The Ancient Tree
by Brenda Cox
Girik led Sirisha by hand deep inside the forest. Sitting beneath the shade of an ancient banyan tree, its branches reached to the ground and embraced her. A serene expression fluttered across her face, and then she was gone.
No one in his village believed Girik when he said, “The tree took her peacefully.”
They suspected and convicted him instead. Years passed. When Girik was set free, he returned to the forest to sit below the banyan tree. He listened to the ethereal voices of the Chosen crescendo and heard Sirisha’s bell-like voice singing among them. The ancient tree whispered to him the name of another.
Girik was loath to leave the forest, but when he did, he promised, “I will find her.”
Brenda Cox grew up in the US, but she has lived most of her adult life in Asia, where she served as a humanitarian aid worker. She is now retired and enjoys writing fiction, often with a bit of magic mixed in.
Self-Storage
by Ros Levenson
Agnes runs her hand across the brown velour, leaving tracks on the arm of the chair. She rubs her sleeve on the mahogany surface of the dining table where a damp glass once left its mark. No sunlight insinuates itself into this small room but the walnut framed mirror glints coldly in the fluorescent light. Agnes wonders if it’s true that the frame once surrounded a precious painting that her grandmother ripped out, unaware of its value. Probably. No-one in her family ever had much luck.
She leaves the room, punches in the code. The security guard says, “See you again next month.”
Agnes shakes her head and smiles. “Oh no, I’ll have my own home again by then.”
“Right,” says the guard.
Ros is retired, after a lifetime of writing factual reports. She now enjoys making things up.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
Imagine If You Died In Your Sleep Tonight
by Barry Mason
Who would care?
Friends?
Family?
Probably for those two ‘we’ve got such a lot to sort out’ weeks. Right up to the funeral where people vow to meet up more regularly rather than, ‘Just at these things’.
They would probably care as sweaty bodies under ill-fitting suits compete with sweaty snacks under cling film and as tears turn to beers. Beers that lubricate the same stories told by the same people with the same false enthusiasm.
Then they depart, leaving behind empty glasses and false promises. Crumpled orders of service, quickly forgotten, will sit in darkened corners a few hours after you have been put in the ground or burned.
Then what?
Who would care?
Barry hasn’t won any awards for writing or anything worth mentioning, apart from a mini golf tournament when he was five. He continues to dine out on that accomplishment whilst avoiding talk of house prices.
It’s The Thought That Counts
by Jane Broughton
Gloria shoved a stick into the sun. She buried it deep, deftly twisted then pulled the fiery ball out of the sky with an audible ‘pop’. It soon cooled, gaseous flames subsiding until it melted to resemble a well-sucked barley sugar.
The earth turned cold and dark and, finally, silent. Gloria kicked it away and watched it powder into atoms. Neighbouring galaxies woke up and eyed the vacant space. Constellations started to expand and planets to jostle.
Gloria presented the sun to Rosy with a flourish. Rosy sniffed and turned her head away.
“Nice, but you promised me the moon.”
Jane won Beaconlit’s flash fiction prize in 2019 and this success prompted her to start writing in her sixties. Her stories have been published in magazines and online by Free Flash Fiction, Reflex Press, Full House, Paragraph Planet, The Wondrous Real and she’s been a LISP and Edinburgh Flash Fiction finalist.
Follow the author on X/Twitter.
It’ll End In Tears
by Fizle Sagar
‘It’ll end in tears.’
Said as a threat, my mother made sure of that.
My eighth birthday party. I had never had so many friends altogether in my house. I was so happy, hysterically excited, laughing enough to wet myself. For once I was the centre of attention amongst the food, the games, and the presents.
I could never play with my cousins because they were the wrong religion. I could never play ‘dress up’ or learn to ride a bike. So that day I was delirious, screaming with laughter. Then those four words. Without warning, a slap then tears. The party was over.
I’ve never had a party since. But enough is enough, mother is dead. My 60th birthday will be different.
Fizle Sagar is a writer and a painter. The two things might be connected, I aim to make them so.
Follow the author on X/Twitter.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
Rucksack
by Tim Kirton
It was pitch black when his headlights swung around the empty car park. He pulled into a space numbered 77 and switched off the engine.
It was 9.55pm; exactly five minutes before the pre-arranged ‘meet’.
He hadn’t hesitated to answer the call earlier; despite knowing what the demands might be. He was in too deep. He was committed.
He glanced at the bulging rucksack resting on the passenger seat and patted it reassuringly.
He checked its contents one more time.
Soon a menacing, dark figure strode across the lot towards him. He powered down the window and passed out the sack.
“It’s all in there; everything you asked for.”
“Thanks, Dad. I really must get more organised when I stay at Mum’s.”
Tim Kirton is a semi-retired Physical Education and English teacher who is a successful children’s novelist and prize-winning flash and short fiction writer. 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, Free Flash Fiction, and Tortive Lit, amongst others.
I Haven’t Seen Anything
by Sreelekha Chatterjee
“Counting the stars?” my boyfriend asks, his head pillowed on my lap.
“Stars? During daytime? In this garden?”
A young couple’s squabble interrupts our mood. Within a split second, they vanish like white clouds on a clear day.
Soon, a group of four men carrying a bier, humming some mantra, march towards us. The same woman on it, but motionless. A knife buried deep inside her stomach, ensanguined with life’s-lost-battle-blood.
The guy seen with the woman points a pistol at us, eyes fostering icy grimness.
We shake our heads in denial, hearts racing like wild horses.
Unscathed at home, I startle to espy my clothes sopping red in the looking glass.
For how long will I keep telling myself I haven’t seen anything?
Sreelekha Chatterjee lives in New Delhi, India, and writes about her quest to discover the unseen realities in the mundane day-to-day activities. She loves to sing and spend time cooking.
Follow the author on X/Twitter.
Death Came In The Year Of The Frog
by Rob Younger
I
Three land successfully: the Mendra, the Valiant, the Condor. The Hermes came apart during descent. Condori pilgrims will locate its wreckage in Year Eighty.
I – Month VI
The new planet’s first child is born. They are called ‘Hermes’, in honour of the lost ship. The name quickly spreads.
XXIV
A decade’s conflict between the Bold and the Mendranites ends in stalemate.
The unsteady peace endures, then collapses.
CLXXXXI
King Hermes V liberates all Mendranites in bondage under Bold rule, prompting schism in the Valour Church.
CCXXXII
Condori scholar-priests update their calendar to better match the planet’s synodic period, each year belonging to a Beast Sacred.
CCCLIX
War.
Ships and cities burn. Irreparably.
[Before Takeoff]
Specimens are loaded aboard Hermes.
Turtles, mice.
Frogs.
Rob Younger is a weird-fiction author, playwright & ESL teacher from London, UK. He lives in Pamplona, Spain.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
The Diner’s Ghost
by Christian Emecheta
The last customer left. Sarah locked the diner’s door, her trembling hands betraying her exhaustion. Fourteen hours on her feet, but rent was due.
A soft knock startled her. Through the glass, an elderly man smiled apologetically. “Please, miss. I’m lost.”
Sarah hesitated, then unlocked the door. “Come in. I’ll call you a cab.”
As she dialed, the man’s reflection vanished from the chrome napkin dispenser. Sarah whirled around, heart pounding.
He stood there, younger now, in a soldier’s uniform. “You were kind to a stranger,” he said softly. “Just like you were fifty years ago.”
Recognition dawned. Sarah’s eyes welled up. “Jack?”
He nodded, extending his hand. “It’s time to come home, love.”
Sarah took his hand, leaving her earthly worries behind.
Emecheta Christian’s work explores themes of self-actualization, belonging, and the complexities of the human experience. His works have appeared in esteemed literary journals and anthologies such as The Potter’s Poetry, Indiana Review, Oxford American, Four Way Review, the Academy of American Poets Poem-A-Day Series, and elsewhere.
The Halloween Pact
by Rachel Parker
Only Michael knew that the shoebox underneath his bed contained a witch. When grown-ups peeked inside, she hid. “The boy’s completely neurotic,” his step-father scowled, rattling the box hard; twigs, coins, a Batman’s severed hand.
When Michael was locked in his bedroom, shadows chewed the walls. Midnight came and the tiny witch scrabbled to get free. Michael heard her pleading in his mother’s voice, her sobs muffled in the walls. His heart thumping, he retrieved the box.
‘If I let you go, will you help us?’ He prised the lid; moth soft wings fluttered into flight.
Michael’s Mum unlocked his door at dawn. ‘Quickly, love.’ Two suitcases waited in the hall. His step-father was slumped, clutching his head. The tooth-ache had come true.
I always loved writing as a teenager and indulged in a lot of intense poetry that I occasionally inflicted on people. Now in middle age, I have rediscovered the love of writing and am enjoying starting this relationship again.
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Cranked Anvil 
A wonderfully eclectic smattering of quick fiction. A perfect taster menu – will certainly be tracking down some more Tom Leaf, Rachel Parker and Tim Kirton. Thank you, to everyone involved – so creative.