Tag: microfiction

I listen, periodically aware that I’m holding my breath. I can’t stand for even the microfriction of inhaling and exhaling to obscure the sound. Sudden crescendos and gentle arpeggios sweep me along with bobbing triplets punctuated by abrupt rests, the space between the notes as important as the notes themselves. My heart beats in time with the shifting cadence, from adagio to andante to allegro. Codas come and go, weaving motifs into melodies, unfolding and refolding one measure at a time until the air is crowded with invisible threads that wrap themselves around and hold me close.

Eventually, the story comes to an end—something about spreadsheets and margins and deliverables—and he looks at me expectantly.

“Well? What do you think?” he asks. A brief reprise.

I blink and shake my head as if I hadn’t been in rapt attention the entire time he was speaking. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. I wasn’t listening. Can you tell me 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.

They drove until they ran out of gas.
They walked until their feet blistered.
They camped until they were found.
They fought until their strength failed.
They died until they rose 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.

He’s nauseated before he even sets foot inside. The entire ride there Jake complained so loudly that Dad almost turned the car around, but an elbow from his sister shut him up. No way she’d let him ruin her fun.

They pass through the archway as Jake’s having flashbacks to last year’s debacle. Dazzled by the lights of the midway and high on funnel cake, he’d rushed alongside his sister to the battleground where he met his nemesis—and lost.

This time, Mom has to bribe him with cash to get him to cross the row of food trucks that provides the last safe barrier between him and another round of shame and defeat.

“Just try. That’s all I ask,” she cajoles. Momspeak for “do it or else.”

Face hot, he shuffles forward, eyes on the dusty ground.

The man in the candystripe jacket chuckles when Jake bumps into him. “Whoa, there, son. First thing’s first.”

Jake groans but lets himself be guided to the gate. He squeezes his eyes shut, preparing for the fatal pronouncement.

“You’re good to go. Hop on.”

Jake’s eyes snap open. “Wh-what?”

“C’mon, kid, the line’s backing up.”

He looks from the ride operator to his smiling mother to the vertical ruler behind him: four feet on the dot.

Brimming with sudden adrenaline, Jake screams with delight as he leaps into the rollercoaster’s front car and doesn’t stop until long after the ride ends. Victory!

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.