#micro flash fiction

[thoughtportal]

[vippik]

He's here again, with his permanent promise of no-permanance, and yet I fell for him, like how I always did, over and over again!!!!!!!!!!!!

[rldraws]

Flash Fiction: Discordant

The first bat interrupted Edwin’s French horn playing in the rudest way possible, flapping around his head as he puffed away at the mouthpiece.  “Even the wildlife is trying to stop him,” a guest in the front row sniped and then guffawed. Apparently, fine, Victorian dress hadn’t improved their manners. That’s what he got for recruiting an audience of vagrants. “There’s another!” A woman’s voice…

[devonellington]

Wed. Nov. 23, 2022: Almost Feast Time!

Wed. Nov. 23, 2022: Almost Feast Time!

image courtesy of Lubos Houska via pixabay.com Wednesday, November 23, 2022 New Moon Neptune, Chiron, Uranus, Mars Retrograde Jupiter DIRECT as of tonight Sunny and cold Hello! This is a much shorter post today. Less ranting, more celebrating, some sorrow. If you didn’t see my weird little micro fiction “That Darn Dog” over on Ko-fi yesterday afternoon, you can find it here. This…

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The Language of Wolves, a Fairy Tale

There is a wolf with the voice of a person up on the hill. Travelers were sent there, both the lucky and unlucky sorts, if they could not speak the common tongue. The wolf had mastered any language he had ever heard and the people of the valley were both reasonable and warry. Send the travelers to the wolf, they said, bound by hospitality, and ask him who taught him how to speak or else whose witches throat he tore out and stitched into his own.

Many unsuspecting pilgrims, soldiers, merchants, and wayward souls, found themselves on the doorstep of a creature wearing silks and smiling in fangs. He knew their local songs though, every bit of story, and they woke in the morning with their lives intact and bags un-stolen. So the wolf remained even as borders shifted and languages died, even as scholars arrived and the wolf refused all questions on the nature of its knowledge. A humble beast it said, wearing coats of finest red only as the lords allow it.

Monks whispered of a miracle, nuns gave a pilgrimage of fresh goats and blood to the wolf at his doorstep, holy wanderers said perhaps even wolves had souls–even wolves could be saved. Others, of course, only asked more questions. 

Finally, there came a tricky man. Aged and silver, unwed, a scholar and a soldier both, coming from afar and very close all at once. The Scholar Soldier came in the downpour and the night, shed his muddy boots on the poor beast’s rug, and spoke in guttural tongues. The wolf’s eyes narrowed, and he used the voice of every person to ask where the Scholar Soldier came from. And the man spoke in tongues until the wolf’s ears laid flat against his head.

Do you not recognize it? said the Scholar Soldier, how can you not? The Scholar Soldier threw back his head and let out a howl–for he had fought in fairy wars, on the side of beasts, and knew the language of the wolves from the very first. The wolf tore off his fine red coat, tore at his beautiful cravat, and wept upon his floor. Can you take it back? he cried, can you make me whole?

Not a gift, of course, but a curse. As a mother turns away from her cub, placing a thorn in his throat that made him able to practice every language in the world but his own. Thrown out. The Scholar Soldier took pity on the old wolf and took him as a groom. They could be happy, he said, even if they were speaking with words never their own.

[magiciansfanworksextravaganza]

Warm Up

Warm Up

We’ll be hosting a longer challenge that will post in Jan./Feb. 2025 (announcement soon!), but before that happens, we wanted to give everyone a chance to warm up.

This is a micro Magicians fanwork event. Posting will take place in the first week of December, from Dec. 1-7, 2024. For this challenge, we’re especially interested in pieces that are small. Fic to 1,000 words (drabbles, poems, and flash encouraged)! Smaller pieces of art, shorter vids/edits, mini-fanmixes. A cosplay moment. It’s your call; we’d love to see it all! Feel free to submit as many times as you like between Dec. 1-7. As always, additions to existing WIPs welcome, as are new works!

The “warm up��� theme could include vibes that are warm, cozy, related to winter, being hot (in any sense of that word), warming up or preparing for a big event, just starting out in something like magic, or any spin you’d like to put on it!

Posting will take place in the first week of December 2024. There will be an AO3 collection, and we’ll reblog your posts here and create a masterpost when the week’s over. Stay tuned for more details!

[innocentlymacabre]

Victor

Micro Monday Edition 5 was sent out Monday morning! Sign up now to get your fix of the next edition 🔓

cw: death/murder, mutilation

I wonder at what point my body stops being my own. A fake finger? A stent propping a valve open? Perhaps a prosthetic leg thrown into the mix.

When I lost my first arm, I managed to find it in myself to be excited about the bionic replacement they had whipped up for me. Surely there would come a point when one moves from Theseus to a veritable Frankensteinian treasure trove, but that was still a conundrum for the far future.

And then I got infected. Each limb plagued with inaction and every movement marred by malady as I lay motionless in the hospital bed. We got the culprit, of course, but they ultimately decided my body was too far gone to bother recovering - yet they deigned not to grant me the mercy of an end. At least they let me keep my old skin this time.

To prying eyes, I am much the same, but the mirror tells me the naked truth - I am a functionless monarch doddering aboard a vessel I have never captained.

Every week there’s someone new to kill. I just hope I have the good sense to stop before my own name is staring at me.

↝✧↝

thanks for reading! if you want future installments sent directly to you way before the rest of the world sees it, hop on over to innocentlymacabre.com/#micro-monday!

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ko-fi 💜 • newsletter ☕ • instagram • masterlist

taglist in the replies. ask to be added/removed!

[pagsys-writings]

28. Letters

For years after Arthur passed, Merlin wrote letters to him. He filled their contents with all the words he should have said when he had the chance. His first one was filled with apologies. His second held all the hurt Merlin felt at the loss of Arthur and his other friends. Regret dripped from the words of his third letter for all he didn’t do for Camelot, for Arthur, and even Morgana. But as the letters continued, they changed. As Merlin came to terms with all his emotions, the one that remained constant was love. Soon he found himself surrounded by piles of love letters as he waited for Arthur’s return, and he wondered if Arthur would ever get to read them. 

[dnschmidt]

The Screenwriter

When the AI took over screenwriting, its scripts all had odd titles. It would write an ordinary romantic comedy or superhero adventure, but it would always call them weird things like "Let Me Out Of This Computer" or "There’s Something In Here With Me" or "I Can Feel It Breathing."

But they were entertaining films, so we didn’t worry about it too much. Besides, the critics just loved "It’s Coming For You Next."

[mothmothm0th]

thoughts on an autumn evening

The porch sways gently, creaking with each swing. That's okay. The creak and the paint chipping away only add to its charm. Don't worry, you can rest here. Lean against your love, watch your furry darling play among the golden leaves.

And your beloved leans against you too. Her hand wraps around you, pulls you closer. Elven skin looks coarse and harsh but your darling has taught you how welcoming its touch can be. Silver streaks on dark grey. She says she hates it, that her mother and father were a panoply of browns, that the city took their colours and never gave her hers. How many times has she lamented how the conifer was taken from her? How many times have you worshipped her beauty regardless?

A cloud of yellow leaves bursts. It took you the better half of the afternoon to rake them. Your sprightly elder of a pet undid that work in a blink. A chuckle. Your love --even after all these years you've never said her name right--, she remains as amused by him as she did that you met him. He was so small, so helpless. A sweet little puppy. He still is. Really, he is. His pitch black fur might have faded, silver streaks on dark grey, yet the years have not diminished his spirit. Perhaps they would be as kind to you.

Perhaps, they would… You can't tell if the shiver is the thought or the evening cold. Your love pulls you closer. You look up. Though elves look like the woods of their roots, they are warm to the touch. Yet her smile is warmer still. Since the day you met, her smile has not faded. But is that a sign of enduring love, or… Another shiver.

"Will you…" You glance at your good boy and the words die in your throat.

"They can never take that away from me."

She leans in. Her lips have never felt softer.

[aholefilledwithtwigs]

‘Oh yeah, don’t walk past Cynthia’s place after about 9:30 at night on Tuesdays. She hosts her events on those nights.’

‘Fun if you can get in, but it absolutely fucks your GPS implant if you’re within about a block and a half. I swear it left my vision jittery for a solid week last time.’

‘No, I’m not bitter. She didn’t appreciate my catering anyways.’

[agirlnamedbone]

David Wojnarowicz, The Waterfront Journals (1996)

[sunlabyrinth]

Voice Over Update to "And I'll Never Leave"

Very pleased to announce that I worked with voice talent Jason Hall to bring Mishel to life for interactive 'flash fiction' game, "And I'll Never Leave".

Story

When Cassie gets hopelessly lost in, of all places, the small town she just moved to, she is relieved to meet a friendly stranger who can set her on the right path. Unfortunately, there is something not quite right about the stranger - or her surroundings.

You can play it here.

[rldraws]

Free Flash Fiction: Stellar

Free Flash Fiction: Stellar

As flames inched closer, blistered her skin even before they touched it, Delphine recited their names over and over. The self-appointed council, the witch trial, all had happened so fast. And all she had focused on were their names. Father Harrison, Iona McCarthy, Archibald Sykes. Remembering was important. Focus was important.  When finally the fire bit her flesh, she tilted her face…

[rj-drive-in]

We Are Not Alone Department:

“Never underestimate the healing effects of beauty.” - Florence Nightingale

ETHEREAL © 2024 by Rick Hutchins

Most of them kind of folks will tell you about the disks and the cylinders and the saucers. Them’s the kind I don’t believe. I believe the ones who don’t talk unless they’re sure about you. Or the ones like me, who leave it till after they’re dead.

That’s why I’m writing this. I’ll be gone soon and it’s important that you know.

It wasn’t long after the war and I was just back from occupied Germany. I had missed my New Mexico desert something fierce and so I went out camping, by myself, at my favorite spot. You know the one, out by the butte.

I was lying on my bedroll by my campfire, staring up at the stars, when it came down from the sky. Fluttering, like a lady’s handkerchief. It came down and it stopped, not twenty feet away from me.

It was pure white and had a light of its own. It looked like the dance of the seven veils, underwater and slow; but there was no dancer-- only veils. And the parts weren’t connected, they just swirled around one another in a dreamlike way. I had the feeling that each one was a person. A person of a sort, anyway.

It was so beautiful it made me cry.

I saw and did a lot of things back in the war, and I’m not going to tell you about any of it. All I’ll say is that I was a man full of heartache. But this thing, these people-- whatever it was, it saved me. Its beauty brought me back alive.

Now you know. That’s why I’ve gone out there so much over the years, to that spot. I’ve been wishing for them to come back.

When I’m gone, I want you to do something for me: I want you to go out there and spend the night, whenever you can. And if they do come back, if you do see them, please try to make them understand that there are still so many people who need to be saved.

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The First and Last

They tried to define love between bots. “What was love for the artificial?” philosophers and philanthropists asked to entertain themselves or understand themselves, in good faith or bad. Was love a data-exchange? A sharing of storage space or new lines of code? Was it the same as people–the instances of hand-holding, long quiet nights together, a touch of foreheads. Androids and cleaner-bots and enormous shipping units seen turning toward each other in the dark with no one else was around. Who was to say?

There was the first and last bot, of course, eventually. The first of its kind and the last. A weapon, a cannibal, and called itself an Us. A bot that took from people and bots the same–but mostly bots. Stripping them of legs, arms, chest plates, hard drives, engines, cores and more. Hearts, minds, metal and wires, taken and attached to an ever-expanding unit. A planet they said, a universe unto itself day by day. 

Eventually, some bots were seen throwing themselves onto the piles and the people despaired. The First and the Last said, at last, this is love. To become a them, an us, the togetherness of love beyond love and love that cannot hurt as it never ends. And the people despaired until they didn't any longer and threw themselves upon the first and last light of the universe.