Thursday, March 6, 2014

A Tiny Collection of 69 Word Stories



Interview with a Ficpire
       
Willie stared at the blank page, unable to come up with a single word. He anguished, and suddenly, blood began to bead on his forehead.

“Is this what you want?” He turned his head to show his jailer the liquid forming on his brow.

Count Cheswick smiled. “The ambrosia of writer’s block!” he exclaimed, scraping the droplets into a cup. “Keep not writing, or I will have to bite!”


Julia

At first I was wary of Julia’s drool
then relished her thrashing about in our pool
She’d swim like an army of hippos in heat
with her wiggly backside and five fingered feet

In her eyes I saw jellybeans, raspberry red,
and a quite meaty bone at the foot of her bed
her heart was a mirror, she loved me the best,
Now she’s in doggie heaven to rest.


Bobby’s Plea

“Please don’t.”

Bobby bounced off locker 287 and back into the bully’s hands. Big Ed was laughing, as was his gang. Even the girls giggled. Marcie said “Do it again!”

It had been a year of humiliation, taunting, bruising. Enough.

“Please! I’m begging!”

“Pussy’s crying” Ed howled as he shoved again.

“I said please” Bobby mouthed, as he pulled the gun from his backpack and fired, over and over.


Fresh Meat

If I could be any non mayonnaise sandwich,
I’d choose to be gouda and smoked Vermont ham
If I could be more of an elegant entrée,
perhaps I’d be succulent roast rack of lamb

If I could have any old moon watching partner
to wilt alongside as we gracefully aged
it just wouldn’t do to have any but you
after all, you’ve the keys to my long rusted cage.



Art for Money’s Sake

Bragi pulled from Hansa’s saddlebags a long thread and mockingbird feather; from the ground, a stout, longish twig. He looped the feather onto his stick, tying off after 13 turns.

Into his mug he dropped a pinch of cobalt powder, and then enough spit to make blue liquid. He dipped the brush, and then onto birch bark he painted:

Songs Written, 50 Pence

Once hanging the sign, he waited….



Ruth

I held her hand. It was the first time we’d touched without it being an accident. Her skin was wrinkled beyond belief and yet, soft as eiderdown. In her face were a hundred lines, each one shadowing a story, an event; loves lost, tears shed, a wide smile and hearty laughter. She’d been so strong, and now, was but a wisp.

I held her hand, gently, ‘till the last.




High Cost

I was obviously in the wrong part of town; not because the people there were different than me, but because they were enraged and my skin color was a lightning rod to their fury.

I was blocked at Fremont by young men, so I pulled down an alley, hoping to escape. Surrounded! 20 hateful faces. They pounded on the car, screaming. God help me, I stomped on the gas!

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