Microfiction: Ending and Beginning

“I don’t want a last meal. I want a bath.”

The guard vouched for him. The prisoner was old, what could be the harm? The guard, who had been a young man when he started in death row. The guard, who had grown to know the man who would die for a crime he didn’t commit.

When he took him to the small bathroom, his final act of mercy was unlocking the cabinet of cleaning supplies, dropping the keys down the toilet. The bleach and ammonia would do the rest.

“Thank you,” the prisoner said as he started to breath.

Fie found the ring in the carrot patch. She slipped it into the pocket of her dirty coveralls before going back to the weeding.

Then, it was a bouquet of roses in the cabbage patch, blood red and fragrant as day. She let them sit, save for one, which she placed in her wide-brimmed hat.

As she dug around the sweet potatoes, she found small, foil-wrapped chocolates, dirt clinging to their ribbons. The truffles melted on her tongue.

“I was already yours, you know,” Fie said, kissing the scarecrow’s cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His silent stitched mouth continued smiling.

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30! (And microfiction!)

I’ve been doing this thing off and on that you all may have noticed if you’ve been here a while. If I’m feeling awesomely motivated, I try to set tasks at the beginning of the month that are ’30 (fill in the blank).’ This month, I’m doing these things:

  • 30 doodles on Instagram
  • 30 quirkyalone things I love on Twitter
  • and 30 pieces of microfiction here!

Let’s get started!

“Be kind to people. That’s what I’ve done for three hundred years.” Sergio stuck his hands into his jean pockets, fingering loose change.

“That’s all you’ve done with your immortality?” Charles asked as they stood on the bridge, watching the water below, and he pulled his collar around his sneer. “What a waste.”

Sergio shrugged. Fog covered the cityscape, leaving them suspended in a dream of white and gray. “It’s what I would have done with my mortal life, too. Take it or leave it.”

Maybe after a hundred more years, Charles might change tactics. He would wait and see.

 

Broken Bones + Booze + Song

At my book release party for Pickled Miracles, I played a game called “3 for $5 in 5.” Guests could pay me $5 and give me three words, topics, subjects, etc. I would then take 5 minutes and write a poem. It was a great experience and I’ve been getting back into it. For this one, a friend gave me the three topics above.

 

Standing in the midst of the pile of bones

A femur deep and snow dark night

I can still feel you in me

 

There’s a time that I recall when we split a bottle

To keep warm and the only thing that we had

Other than each other

Was the burning of amber liquid flame

That passed from your lips to mine

And we would wake up a tangle of one another,

Parched, desert dry,

And the ice would still stay there.

 

I want the midnight chanting again,

The worshipful thighs and fingers and you

You in your glory above me

Fingers feather length and falling

Upon me.

 

The wolves came and took you,

They smelled the spices and you left me

Facing an oblivion of memories, an abyss where

The darkest parts of us

Would be pleasant compared to the

Inexplicable loss of it all.

 

I run with the wolves now,

And the cold is home,

The drink is done, and it’s the only way

I can get at you, because your heart is still left

At the bottom of the pile of bones

Which is our bed now,

Haunting you.