100-Word Microfiction V

Detritus

He doesn’t know, can’t know, what riddles he’s leaving in his wake. The warm Bud Lights on the counter, muddy clothes on the bedroom floor. His wallet is here, glasses are here. The car, gone. They’ll wonder when they find it, and examine all its contents, but the car is old and has little to report. These objects can’t explain as he would: This was a regular day and I never make the bed, and I meant those beers for later, but then I forgot, and hey did you happen to find my Aquaman keychain, because that’s been gone forev—

100-Word Microfiction IV

Mirror Neurons

She’s sitting across from me, flooded in light. Three heavy cameras are trained on her face as she recounts her husband’s murder. We were in bed, asleep, and then suddenly this guy’s in the room. And his face…

Lost for words, her features undergo a flashbulb transformation: teeth bared, eyes dilated with madness, as if the imprint of that night has been caught on one of those wildlife cameras where a predator walks past and trips the shutter. Later, cradling a bourbon, I’ll stare for some time at the isolated frame, wondering if she knows he’s still in the room.

100-Word Microfiction III

The Ring in the Lake

She’s wearing her favorite outfit: A blue linen skirt, cinched at the waist with a woven cotton belt, and her sister’s Coca-Cola tee-shirt to go with it, because that’s what he was drinking when they met. A denim jacket in case it’s cold by the lake. White socks, bra, underwear. An old pair of clover earrings, For luck, From Dad, and three slim bangles that make a shivery noise when they touch. A mood ring with an oval stone that will fade to gray as her body sinks, but for now is milky pink and glowing bright as a smile.

100-Word Microfiction II

Let Me Show You

They meet at the door, which she holds open with her foot. He’s lost, reeking of cigarettes, and sidles closer with his phone to show her where he wants to go. The font is so large that the words appear broken. They don’t contain an address. He reaches into his coat pocket, Let me show you, wait, and as his hand disappears she thinks, whatever’s in that pocket will decide me, and the pocket’s rather bulky, but not that bulky, so she waits in a parody of obstruction, dumb with manners, holding his phone which doesn’t contain an address.

100-Word Microfiction

Post-Op

I didn’t know what I’d feel, seeing myself this way. The woman facing me is pitiable, maimed. Two long asymmetrical scars cross my chest: one over my heart, the other low and slanted red like the claw mark of a predator. My nipples are gone, giving my chest a blind quality, or perhaps a muteness, as in one of those horror movies where the character’s mouth is covered over with skin.

Yet my mind is filled with grim delight. The world has taken something from you, and that’s a first. Your chagrin is my balm, my victory, my silent redress.