Here’s the fourth 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…
Blue Midnight
by Jackie Meekums-Hales
“You’ve woken the garden. See how notes hang around like Christmas baubles on a tree. Why do you stand there, shadow-like and blue, playing to midnight air?”
“Why not? This troubled world is so in need of harmony. In the debris of broken lives, let music lift spirits, bringing joy! Why do you watch, standing there as if the cloak of night is your best friend?”
“If music be the food of love, play on… But the world can’t hear. You don’t exist…”
“Indeed. Let the spirit of music fill the air with love. Let colour creep among the darkening skies. For all you know, others will heed the sound.”
“Why are you haunting me?”
“If you ask that, you don’t know yourself.”
Jackie has had two novels, “Shadows of Time” and “Nana Boo”, published by Between the Lines Publishing and writes flash fiction, micro fiction and poetry. She is a retired English teacher from Somerset, where she chairs a writing group and draws inspiration from the world around her.
Follow the author on X/Twitter.
Old School
by Fizle Sagar
Scattered over the kitchen table were small paper squares measuring 8 cm by 8 cm or 3 inches by 3 inches in old money – ten of them.
Each piece was folded in half crossways making a large triangle. The two side points were folded and slipped inside each other, the top folded down and tucked in between them – a secure pocket.
The paper was from adverts at the back of glossy magazines, usually porn. He imagined it gave him an edge, showed he was the business as if there was something more than just the product inside, a bit of titillation; a crotchless thong, a nipple, or a cock.
He was old school after all and speed was definitely old school.
Bio: Coming late to writing I need to catch up. My first novel, as yet unpublished, a historical fiction set in the time of the American Civil War and the Lancashire Cotton Famine.
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Shocking Revenge
by Matt Oliver
You don’t remember me, but I recognise you instantly. The moment you open your front door to let me in.
I’m the electrician you’ve booked to sort out your dodgy fuse board that keeps tripping. You’re the bully from the year above me at school who made my life a physical, mental and psychological hell for three years.
“No problem mate, I’ll have a look, should get it fixed in no time.”
And I fix it.
Leave a few wires loose behind a socket.
The shock could be enough to stop your heart and kill you.
Fingers crossed, eh, you bastard.
Matt Oliver writes short stories, flash fiction, and is now having a go at microfiction.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
Dig Out Your Unwanted Evening Dresses! Charity Sale
by Linda Fawke
Someone was turning old ballgowns into stylish Prom dresses to raise money for the homeless. Such a good cause, I thought. I had a wardrobe full of them.
There was the peach satin one, my first, worn to my Graduation Ball. I’d had my hair done in elaborate curls and wore long, black gloves. It was as clear as yesterday.
The pale green one with chiffon sleeves I made myself. It was much admired. I stroked the fabric.
A low-cut, black number worn when older and braver; sexy, I thought. And several more, each with evocative memories.
I sighed and closed the wardrobe door. I couldn’t part with them; they were my history.
I made a donation to the Homeless charity instead.
Bio: I write fiction and non-fiction, have self-published two novels and (recently) a non-fiction, light-hearted book about living as a retiree in the French Alps, ‘Going Downhill – A Retiree’s Guide to Ski-Bumming’. Currently, I love writing short and very short fiction.
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Come Back Bobby
by Christine Dubuc
We had had enough of pigeons.
We came across a field of sheep. One in particular seemed to take a shine to us. He was big with a black face and dirty wool. We fed him grass. I wanted to rip off some wool as if it was candy floss.
My brother said he was so dirty we should put him in the washing machine and then hang him out to dry.
– He’ll make a nice Sunday roast,
said my brother.
– You’re just being a meany!
I started to cry.
Bobby looked at me one last time, before slowly making his way back to his flock.
– Bobby come back, I shouted after him. I’ll take care of you!
Bio: I wrote this at a creative writing class I attend once a week. I enjoy writing moving little stories.
A Memory
by Sam Bevington
His words landed heavy and flat, a gut shot, upending her world.
How had she not seen it, in all these long years that his heart wasn’t wholly hers?
The blood starts rushing to her ears. She’s shouting, screaming that this isn’t happening and how dare he do this to her. Their life, now no more than dandelion seeds spreading out on a breeze, irretrievable.
She moves through the house with no direction, adrenaline making it impossible to stand still.
Insults fly over her shoulder, sharp and baiting, hoping a barb will land, stick and bind them together.
But he remains impassive. Unmoved. His mind set; the end in sight.
Bio: Reads more than I should, writes less than I should. Writer-in-progress.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
The Old Woman With The Sparrows
by Steen W. Rasmussen
The old woman observed her starving babies. They were a frightful sight.
Something had to be done.
“To reap, you must sow!” she said, and immediately knew where she must go.
The baker sold her yesterday’s bread for a coin. In a quiet alley, she scattered pieces of the day-old bread on the ground—leaned on her cane—and waited.
It wasn’t long before one showed up. And another. Followed by others.
“10, 11, 12….” A baker’s dozen she counted, smiling at the irony.
Once a trust was established, she started hobbling down the street, slowly, throwing crumbs behind her all the while.
The little sparrows, excited and content, followed the old cat lady home, where they were welcomed by her starving babies.
Steen W. Rasmussen was a singer/songwriter in Denmark—his native land. He now lives in NYC and is a member of Woodside Writers, a literary forum. His poems and prose have appeared in numerous publications.
The Doll
by Dorcas Wilson
The old woman cradled the doll in swollen, deformed hands; the doll tatty, grubby, raggedy, misshapen, sagging here, bulging there with its once vibrant colours faded; accompanied her everywhere.
Cuddling the doll to her heart, she whispers its name, a memory, a ghost like the daughter who made the doll.
Dorcas Wilson writes Micro Fiction from her base in Central Scotland. You can find her work online in a variety of Lit Mags.
A Snapshot In Time
by Makayla Kocher
She flitted and fluttered as if gliding on wings through the garden. The cobblestones were crisp beneath her bare feet. The sun slowly peeked through the dancing needles.
She danced between the thick and overgrown stocks of sunflowers. She stopped, one foot lifted behind her in an arabesque, the leather strap of her camera sliding slightly. She raised the camera, shifting the settings.
A soft ‘click’ sound captures the scene before her: an aureate sunflower basking in amber light, a delicate bumblebee burying its tiny face into its florets.
As she lowers her camera, it is as if their eyes meet. A snapshot in time, two beings frozen in time and place. A bee and a girl—a girl and a bee.
Makayla is an avid reader, writer, and life-time learner. She is passionate about how stories and storytelling act as ways of engaging with and understanding the world around us.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
Pork
by James Hancock
Little Jack Horner sat in the corner, eating a Christmas pie.
He put in his thumb, and popped out a tongue, then slurped up a mouth-filling eye.
The thirties were a time of poverty, and cupboards were always bare.
Too many mouths crying for food, which simply wasn’t there.
Ladies of the night, the homeless and desperate, even the occasional policeman walking his beat, were asked to dine at Jack’s family home. His father had a clever idea of solving everyone’s problems. And nobody refused the invitation for a hot meal.
Jack was nimble, Jack was quick.
Into the spine, with a long sharp stick.
Ignoring the midnight screams, Jack’s neighbours were rewarded with bags of fresh minced meat and thinly sliced pork.
James Hancock is a UK writer of thriller, horror, fantasy, sci-fi and bizarre comedy. Some of his short screenplays have been made into films, his stories read on podcasts, and he has been published in print magazines, online, and in anthology books.
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Escapism
by T M McLean
Banners fluttered, weapons thudded on shields and insults echoed across the valley. Richard stood, taking in the horde of invaders, but God’s teeth, the itching would not stop! Somewhere in his mind, Richard noted the bill hooks and spears, mail and helmets. All the while, hellish bites rived at his nerves.
His ankles, already clawed raw and bloody before donning his greaves, raged again. Were they bleeding now? Impossible to tell. Fire scurried across his skin, numbing all other sensations.
Damn fleas; bastard lice.
Salves awaited him back home. The relief would almost make enduring the battle worthwhile.
A bloodthirsty, murderous, unified cry blasted from the enemy and their line lurched to action.
Perhaps the itch would be ended in another way. Permanently.
T. M. McLean writes horror and dark fiction. His latest release, Stingers (co-authored with Noel Osualdini), was shortlisted for the prestigious Shadows Award for Collected Works by the Australian Horror Writers Association.
Coconuts
by Mike Everley
Red, blue and yellow lights flashed in sequence against a dark purple sky. Mimicking the loud music that threatened to tear apart the fabric of space. Gaudily painted teacups swirled in centripetal arcs around a brightly lit central pillar. The smell of vinegar on hot chips assaulted the nasal passages.
A dark figure stood at a wooden stall slowly lobbing wooden balls at the nailed down coconuts. A study in futility and abandoned hope.
The world owed Caradoc Jones a living. With increased venom he threw the rough
wooden balls at the coconuts. He hoped the intensity of his throwing might crack the outer casing and let the milky fluid seep out.
There would be a sort of justice in that.
Mike Everley has had fiction and poetry published in the Anglo Welsh Review, New Welsh Review, Poetry Wales, Outposts, Cardiff Poet, Undiscovered Poet, Entheoscope, Poetry News (Poetry Society), Lothlorien Online Poetry Journal and 5-7-5 Haiku Online Journal etc. He has also had articles published in general, specialist and literary magazines and journals.
Enter our flash fiction competition here, to win cash prizes and publication.
Submit to our Fiction123 here.
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