Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 26-11-2014
They’d had other guests in the house before and were generous with food and accommodations. None had ever stayed so long as Goldilocks, however, and the bears were growing concerned that their porridge supplies were rapidly dwindling. “She can really put it away,” Papa Bear had remarked on more than one occasion. Mama Bear urged patience over the holidays. “We’ll know exactly what to do when the time is right,” she said. After dinner the following evening, Goldilocks pushed back from the table, patting her distended belly, giggling and exclaiming, “I’m just STUFFED!” repeatedly. “She could be,” whispered Baby Bear, tugging gently on his mother’s fur. When Goldilocks returned from the outhouse, all of the bears were smiling.
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 25-11-2014
She fixed the small lace collar at her neck, straightened the pale pink sweater, and smoothed the plaid skirt. The dramatic eye was gone from the face in the mirror, likewise the scarlet lip; she was neutral now with just a hint of blush and gloss. She sighed, but moved out to the car with purpose, keys in hand. Only for Fern would she do something like this; only for that precious, ancient soul would she would turn back the clock and play the part of the girl she’d been before. She had rejected that life, become her true self, found love, and enjoyed a kind of happiness others only dreamt about, but Fern … Eyes all but failed now, her memory blank most days, she wanted to say goodbye to Debbie. “So, Debbie I will be … one last time,” Morticia whispered as she drove off.
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 24-11-2014
When Matt came to, he was slumped in the snack aisle of the Baron Street Piggly Wiggly on a pile of chips he’d pulled down; he’d drooled (or worse) all over his shirt. “Hey, you’re back!” Chuck said, helping him sit up. There were tears in his eyes. “Who came through?” Matt asked weakly. “My grandmother,” Chuck said. “It was her voice and everything. She told me where to find my dad’s war letters and urged me to go low-carb for my heart. It was her, man. It was so weird.” Matt rubbed his forehead and sipped the water someone had given him. “It can be freaky,” he said slowly. “When I was in New York last month, I apparently visited a photographer as Marilyn Monroe and told him off for publishing childhood photos.” Chuck whistled. “Yeah,” Matt finished, trying to stand.
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 22-11-2014
Eleanor sat in a chair holding the pan of bars on her lap, thinking it through. Several of her friends came up, asking when the goodies would be served, but she didn’t answer right away; Eleanor didn’t like to be pressured. After almost 20 minutes, she stood up, took the cover off of the pan and moved to the desserts table. “Yay!” Alma said at the head of the line. “There’s marijuana in these,” Eleanor said, quietly but clearly. Alma’s hand hung in mid-air, her mouth open. “Cherry cordial pot brownies,” Eleanor said again a little louder. “In case you want to live a little.” The bars were gone in less than five minutes, and Doug Cabot had taken a small flask out of his vest pocket and tipped a little into the church coffee with a sly wink in her direction. The cake donuts sat in a pile, untouched, but Eleanor thought they’d probably be gone later (if what she’d heard was correct). “84 is going to be a really interesting year,” she whispered, packing up.
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 21-11-2014
As they read the list of his heinous crimes aloud, Fred showed no emotion. “Cursing, astral manipulation, poisoning, kinesis with intentions to harm, thought control, necromancy, necrophilia, animal cruelty, and bullying. His aim? To extend the reach of his sorry life – in this one and the next – through the use of a simple spell disguised as the verbal tic of a buffoon.” There were gasps and some sniffles in the courtroom. “You will be hanged from the neck until dead, Mr Flintstone. No more ‘yabba dabba do’ for you.”
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 20-11-2014
The zombie apocalypse began during the late shift, and the Dairy Queen grounds were packed with post-game idiots. “On the one hand, no Chem test tomorrow,” Hannah said to Decker while nailing pieces of metal shelving up over the windows. Peeking out, she noticed a number of people just standing there, pre-frenzy. “On the other, so much for my engineering degree.” Decker was modifying his prosthetic to be a bayonet with replacement lawnmower blades from the back and some duct tape. Hannah had turned a small gas canister into a flamethrower and had been working on their Molotov cocktail stash for the last hour. “You and me, man,” she said to Decker who nodded. He was surprisingly cute for an arts major; if they survived … She put the flamethrower in the makeshift mount and told Decker to take his station by the side door. The clamoring outside had begun in earnest. Hannah sang, “Our milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard!” and opened fire.
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 19-11-2014
Peters listened carefully, occasionally taking notes. “Well, we can’t stay in any kind of hotel or motel,” the mother began. “Or farms; can’t do petting zoos or any kind of camping,” the father added. “He’s very withdrawn and distracted at school.” “No trips to the beach or even the circus.” “No antique stores.” Peters offered a compassionate smile before asking, “Is there a place he does like to be? A place he feels safe?” The parents looked at each other, pondering the word “safe”. “Well,” she said in a quiet and measured voice, “he likes the library. A lot.” Peters nodded. “Mr and Mrs King, I think little Stephen has a very fertile imagination, sees a lot of things and people that aren’t there, and lives out long storylines inside his head. Most kids do this, he just does it to a profound degree.” “So, you’re saying this is normal?” the father confirmed. “I’m saying,” Peters said slowly to add weight to his words, “that you’ve got yourself a writer.”
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 18-11-2014
“When did you know?” Foy asked, putting liberal amounts of brandy into his friend’s glass. “In the third grade, as preposterous as that sounds,” came the reply. “She stood there, in her blonde pigtails and blue dress at the front of the class, delivering the most erudite, confident book report on ‘The Necronomicon’ that I can ever imagine.” Foy paused, not knowing exactly what to say. “And that,” Lovecraft finished, “is when I realized that I was in love.”
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 17-11-2014
whatwouldyousellyoursoulfor.com was an unmitigated success; the answers poured in via web and text and the Facebook page reached its maximum likes on the first day. The Devil sat watching the counters spin, giggling to himself and occasionally whipping the scribes for no reason; they were working as hard as they could, he was just antsy. When the lawyers had determined that, yes, all of that was functionally a signature, he’d brought more wayward souls into the contract pool just to handle the backlog. The Devil had a long sulfur bath, got his hooves buffed, and ordered something extra smart from the tailors (comfortable yet chic) for the massive amount of visitations and collections that were to come. He giggled again. “The best part,” he told the scribe closest to him, “is the emoticons.”
Filed Under (Microfiction) by Tansy on 15-11-2014
“Stop, or I’ll tell!” Cindy whispered hoarsely. Sam extended his arm just a tiny bit more, the threat of dropping her doll to the entryway a story below them becoming real. “Tell them what?” he jeered. “That you were playing on the landing where you shouldn’t have been? That you were clumsy with grandma’s antique doll?” Cindy’s mouth curved up slightly into a smile he didn’t expect to see. “I’ll tell them you cry watching animal rescue videos; I’ll tell them you talk to yourself under the covers; I’ll tell them you put that candy bar in the Johnson’s pool on a dare.” Sam’s mouth hung open. “I know everything about you,” Cindy said in a voice so low it seemed not to be human for a moment. He could feel his arm drawing back the threat; the doll would be safe, but he himself … not so much.