Tag Archives: microprose

Kismet

Posted on December 5, 2018 | 2 comments

Six months ago I’d’ve said it’s crazy, the idea of you and me. Six weeks ago I almost walked away.

Shaking my head, I button my best shirt, red garnets winking at collar and cuffs, and watch your face light up in the mirror.

2 Comments

Posted in Chicago, Fiction, Microstories, Writing

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Not your princess

Posted on November 7, 2018 | 3 comments

My mother poisoned apples. My father hid his heart inside a tree. It was a family thing, dealing death and dodging it.

I don’t have time for subtlety. I tried being quiet; I pretended to sleep. I tossed a twig and grew a prickly thicket ‘round my house. You cut it down.

I call lightning into my palm. Dare you to open that door.

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Posted in Microstories, Writing

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Driver’s Ed

Posted on September 5, 2018 | 1 comment

Coach M was intense. The football guys loved him.

“Do you believe in Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior?” His fist pounded on the passenger window like a hammer pounding nails.

My hands tightened on the wheel. “Sure,” I said, praying I’d make it out of the car.


[Yeah, so I forgot to add this to the microprose grid. But I wrote it for that, so I’m leaving the badge!]

1 Comment

Posted in Microstories, Writing

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Fee, fie, foe

Posted on August 1, 2018 | 2 comments

They keep coming: small men with their small desires. They hunger for my gold; they scrabble through my table leavings. They foul the air with their scent.

Here comes another, hand over hand to steal my solitude. Let me ready my plate.

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Posted in Microstories, Writing

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Scorcher

Posted on July 4, 2018 | 7 comments

Nights like this, I sleep naked, seeking relief in the coolness of empty sheets. I wake to the droning of cicadas, the yearning for rain, the ache of desire and the taste of your name in my mouth.

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Posted in Microstories, Writing

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