The rager of the gods

Day 13: Envy
No Novel November 2019

Two green beer bottles in a bucket of ice via

Shots! Shots! Shots!

The gods sat in a circle around a bucket filled with ice and unlabeled bottles. With Hera away for the weekend, Olympus had become the site of an epic rager, complete with a dance floor and a mountain of ambrosia pizzas. Most of the younger deities had already passed out, but a handful of stalwarts remained.

There were three potions left, identical except for effect. Lust had sent Hephaestus and four demigods for a different kind of party; Wrath took Artemis and Aphrodite to the backyard; Poseidon was working off Gluttony in the kitchen; and Hermes had a Sloth aura that made them all sleepy.

Athena scrutinized the bottles. No matter what she drew, it was guaranteed regret in the morning. But what the Hades—what happens on Olympus stays on Olympus, right?

She grabbed one and knocked it back. The taste made her cough, acrid and sharp, and when she opened her eyes again, the world was bathed in green light.

She waited to see what else would happen. But as seconds passed, she realized that while she felt no different, the eyes of her friends had turned baleful and cold. Desire mixed with hatred.

No one said anything. They just stood up and left, one by one.

Athena sat alone on the throne room floor wiping away bitter tears. The effect was only temporary, she knew, but the ache, the isolation, the emptiness—the sting of envy—was all too real.

This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you’d like to know more and/or join in, click here.

Signing off

Day 12: Test
No Novel November 2019

Remixed 1940s TV test pattern black and white - TV test pattern by btnkdrms via Deviant Art

I don’t know how the argument started, just that it started in the middle of my favorite show and went on way, way too long. One minute we were cuddled up on the sofa, bodies softly conforming to each other, breathing and hearts synchronized; then somehow it was three hours later, and we were at opposite ends, balled up in individual protective shells.

Maybe it was because I cried when the wife wound up back in the kitchen after her “kooky scheme” to be a jazz musician failed. Maybe it was because I laughed too hard when the husband’s prized Chevy was crushed by a falling piano.

Whatever it was turned our romantic comedy into a soap opera. There were dramatic monologues, significant pauses, impassioned pleas, artful tears—all reaching a shrill crescendo, then fade to black.

I waited until the end of the anthem before I looked up with breath drawn for another try. But all I saw was the test pattern reflected in his eyes. Perfectly blank grey and black circles.

That’s when I knew it was time to leave. That’s when I knew that nothing worth staying for would be broadcast on his channel ever again.

This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.

All in a day’s work

Day 11: Farmhouse
No Novel November 2019

It’s not actually a farmhouse. That would require a farm. More accurately, it’s a homestead.

The house is nestled in the crook of what passes for a highway in these parts. According to the brief, there’s a vegetable garden, a gang of chickens, a solitary cow, and a well of the sweetest water in this zip code; there’s also indoor plumbing and wi-fi. These folks don’t need much from the outside world, but they’re not cashing in on this scrap of countryside.

You check the coordinates again. This isn’t your first rodeo, and you’re confident you’re right for the job. It’s just the rumor you heard about Harrison last week. Sometimes the psytech spits out the wrong address or wrong name, and then you’re up the Styx without a paddle.

Gravel crunches under your tires as you pull up to the garden gate. You leave the engine running as you get out.

A twiggy, mousy-haired teenager trots up to the fence. “Hey, mister, you lost?”

“You Reynold Cole?”

“Uh, yessir.”

“Your parents Finnegan and Esmerelda?”

“Yeah? What’s it to you, mister?”

“Nothing personal.”

The property’s dense treeline mutes the sudden pop and thud.

You pocket the aneuryser and get in the car. If you hurry, you can be back in the office before Laurie’s birthday cake is gone.

It’s the first thing they teach you in the academy: When a heroic call to adventure disrupts the primary timeline, always kill the farmboy.

This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.

The sins of the chef

Day 10: Delicious
No Novel November 2019

A decadent chocolate cake with a slice on the side and a cup of coffee - Chocolate torte by theresahelmer via Deviant Art

It’s not the worst cake I’ve ever eaten, but it’s damn close. The center is nearly liquid, drying to a sedimentary crust where alleged frosting smoothes the whole thing like adobe. The menu proclaims it “better than sex,” which knots my stomach worse than the leaden ball of pastry; what is this person doing in their private time?

And yet my fork keeps moving, bite after horrendous bite, until the entire slice is gone.

I sit back with the exhale of a triathlete crossing the finish line, then check my notes on the ordeal. This is going to be a hell of a review.


My eyebrows shoot up at what I’ve written. Brow furrowed, I look at the rest of the cake revolving in its case. It’s perfectly normal: moist, chocolatey, light. Nothing like the monstrous confection I just ate.

The sinking feeling that follows has everything and nothing to do with cake.

I peer through the counter window at the chef, her head drooped between bowed shoulders, face thick with tear-streaked makeup, jaw set hard.

My stomach churns and groans loudly. As if my gastrointestinal distress is a signal, the chef’s face brightens and her body unbends. She looks around questioningly, but I’m gone.

I toss a $20 at the waitress and duck out, crumpling my notes. I’ll find another joint to write up—right after this lady’s issues settle themselves in my gut. I should have known.

Food critic by trade. Sin eater by fate.

This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.

What sleeps in winter

Day 9: Blanket
No Novel November 2019

Bright street lamps in a snowy scene at night - In bright white snow when everyone sleeps by maaykeklaver via Deviant Art

Silence falls on snow falls on leaves falls on the sleeping earth, tucked in tight with her secrets to dream slow dreams until the coming of spring. We walk arm in arm down the empty sidewalk, sliding between the night’s blankets, each keeping secrets of our own.

This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.