BY ARGYLE

 

  The Accident

This is the story of how my life fell apart. I was coming from work and was in an hour-long traffic.  There were yelling and horns beeping everywhere. I too was beeping my horn and yelling. There were people getting out of their cars, which I thought was strange.  I got out of my car to see what had happened. What I saw that day was horrific.

 There were 3 cars flipped upside down, on the side of the road, and completely destroyed. I felt sorrow for the people in the cars, because I knew what had happened,  there was the police and ambulances surrounding the wreck. Soon they got everyone ready and the traffic resolved. I headed home, filled with melancholy, and discovered something tragic. 

“Honey! I’m home!” I yelled. 

But then I got no answer. I was a little confused about where she was. But then I got a horrifying phone call. 

I picked it up and it was from the hospital. 

“Hello?”

“ Is this Mr. Washington?”

“ Yes, is there something wrong?” 

“Unfortunately, yes. I have some news about your wife. Mr. Washington we would like to invite you to St. Lukes.” 

As soon as the phone call ended, my stomach was in knots, my throat was dry, and something seemed happy at that moment. I went to St. Lukes and received the news.  The horrific news, the worst news, the depressing news. I got to the room and saw the coroner and my wife. 

 

Then I collapsed. 

BY THING 1

Just A Peek

 

“Eighty chronolyps remaining,” The computerized announcement chimed through harsh speakers embedded in the frigid room’s ceiling. If it wasn’t for the cluster of youth cowering over uniform desks, furiously marking in answers to their long-awaited exam, the room of the dreaded test would’ve been regarded as a chamber of isolation reserved for psychotic patients. 

Student 78-4U shivered, eyes locked on its screen. This was it; expectations—not quite dreams, necessarily—of entering the Sorpiplix Expedition and Solar Warfare Academy would soon be limply abolished. The last hour of perusing the exam questions proved to 78-4U all previous studying was in vain.

78-4U’s eyes wandered to its fellow student’s desk perched dangerously close to its own. Despite the prestigious nature of the Academy, the exam coordinators didn’t organize a terribly efficient test-taking setting, in addition to their apparent lack of care regarding the room’s temperature. It was too easy to steal answers from a neighboring student. 

78-4U marauded answers around its neighbor’s tentacle slapping the screen to submit answers that 78-4U would mirror as its own. Just as 78-4U’s confidence was beginning to warm up, the automated voice declared, “Examination defrauding is not acceptable. Student 78-4U, your portal is now a mere accessory. You may keep them as a token of reminder.”

The classroom’s icy bite dissolved, and Student 78-4U’s vision turned to black. Removing its goggles, 78-4U’s bare eyes revealed its own familiar dormitory. Trying to drown its disappointment, 78-4U smiled to itself. All things considered, at least it was now warm. 

BY HARRY P. OTTER

The Crib

 

            I still couldn’t believe that the stifling heat, the three-day barge-ride, the two-day hike through the desperate vines, insects, and terrain couldn’t protect these people. I couldn’t understand how a law meant to protect this area could lead to this, simply because it hinged on the presence of this private tribe. I tried to imagine the last year: the usual hum of this tiny, ancient community against these humble homes blended with the unusual sounds of visitors. All I could hear, though, was the eerie echoes of the jungle in the charred and hollowed out structures. I imagined the reassuring voices of the cartel squad late yesterday as they approached the last survivor in his hut, the explosion of bullets, him slipping out the back. How could he not be charred and hollowed out after this last year?

            In his home my foot bumped something. A cradle, untouched by the carnage. Even in the dimness I could tell it was masterfully crafted. I had come here to help these people, to preserve their language and culture, as unique and rich as this cradle. I was in his space—less than 24 hours from this man. I had supplies he would never take, interest he would never believe, and motives he could never trust. The cradle, a priceless artifact back home, I returned carefully to the rubble and turned to leave, my soul crippled by shame of my people and love of a people no one would ever meet again.

BY THING 2

 

Dragon’s Cavern 

 

 

            It was 2 in the morning when it happened. Thing 2 was sleeping soundly in bed when the door burst down. A three-eyed tri-clops rushed in. The tri-clops boomed “Where is the scrawny one they call Thing 2! I have a quest for him!” He set a map down and walked out Thing 2 had been cowering in his bed the whole time. He wearily walked to the map. It was a map to Dragon’s Cavern. Thing 2 shivered at the thought of going there, but he had been quested so he had no choice but to go. 

            Thing 2 had packed everything for his 7-mile journey. Last night when the tri-clops came, it was raining, and he had to fix a leak because the big heavy door hit part of the ceiling so hard it made a leak.  

            Thing 2 looked at the map again. He would have to cross the Great River, then climb up to the Dragon’s Cavern. That was exactly what he did. 

            When it was the middle of the day when Thing 2 could see best, he walked in. The gigantic dragon was asleep. After he got to the Dragon’s Cavern, Thing 2 had no plan. He chose his answer, he would poison the dragon. Good thing he brought poison because hey why not. So, he poisoned the dragon's food very sneakily and climbed back down the mountain, crossed the river again and when he got home, he fixed his door. 

BY ANYBODY

 

The Garden

               By Anybody

 

               “Here she comes.  Everyone shush!”  The fruits quieted down as the gardener approached.  Once she had gone, the whispering began again.

               “She’s putting on gloves.  Why is she doing that?” asked the grapes.

               “Oh, she’s working with the pineapples again,” the cucumbers announced.

               “What a dumb name; pineapples.  Every other language calls them ananas. What’s wrong with English?” the oranges murmured.

               “It’s dumb and innacurate.  I mean, if you squint, they kind of look like a huge pinecone, but they do not taste like apples,” said the bell peppers.

               “Personally,” said the bananas, “I don’t mind that they changed it.  It was a little too close to another yellow, far superior fruit for my liking.”

               “Oh, be quiet, bananas.  You’re only yellow when it suits you,” said the lemons.

               “You sour little—” the bananas growled.

               “Now, now,” the strawberries cut in. “Lemons, don’t pick on bananas just because they grow upside down.”

               “I do NOT grow upside down!  It’s not my fault the humans peel me that way!”  the bananas said indignantly.

               “Now, don’t get all in a bunch!” The blackberries quiped and touched leaves with strawberries like a high-five.  Everyone giggled.

               “You two are just mad because I’m a berry and you’re not!” the bananas shouted.  Everyone gasped and fell silent.

               “I thought we agreed not to mention the “b” word again after what happened last time,” the tomatoes said quietly. 

               “Hey! Are we talking berries again?” An obnoxiously cheerful voice called.

               “Oh, hey… nightshade… how’s it going?”

BY SOMEBODY

 

We Don’t Talk About It

“If your father were mortal, he’d be doing life in a federal penitentary,” Sylvia’s mother said.

Sylvia: “What did he do?”

“We don’t talk about it.”

“Did he murder someone? Punish him how?”

“Oberon has his special ways of punishing. When you come of age on your sixty-sixth birthday you can visit him and see.”

. . .

Waiting, Sylvia wrote her paper on “The Innocence Project at Cardozo School of Law.” She wondered if her father had been punished erronesously.

. . .

Sylvia to her grandmother: “I’ve come to see father.”

“He’s had to adapt. Now he plays ‘Among Us’ with his goblin friends in the basement.”

“Dad, it’s me—Sylvia.” Her father went back to the screen.

“Can we talk? I want to know what you did.”

Finally, her father led her up the 666 stairs to the attic, a Long Room Library with hundreds of apple boxes stuffed with papers. He left without a word.

Sylvia opened an unlabeled box, found tiny bits of paper that had been run through a shredder. “Great,” she thought.

. . .

It took her weeks to dump them all around him, a chaos of litter. “ This is your new game. Paste these together. She handed him tape.”

. . .

Ten years later she read the reassembled documents. “Oberon broke the Sword of Truth across your back, robbing you of speech and mind just because you spoke the recipe for Gooseberry Cordial? “

BY HEY YOU

 Shahr-koo-tuh-ree 

 

 

“That’s how she died you know.” 

 

My hand recoiled from the charcuterie tray as I eyed my cousin with suspicion. 

 

“How?” I asked. 

“Well, I suppose if they didn’t tell you…” he said archly and stalked away. 

 

I hadn’t really thought about how my aunt died. I supposed in consideration for my 9yr-old sensitivities, the adults hadn’t supplied the grisly details, but what could he possibly mean?  Was she poisoned? Did she choke to death? Maybe she was allergic to dairy? The provolone I had been munching seemed to instantly age in my mouth. Surely, they wouldn’t serve cheese at her funeral if that were the case. 

 

“People just die sometimes.” Mother had said, attempting to quell my fears of meeting my own untimely demise.  Actually, it created a new fear of just dropping dead at any moment.  

 

I scanned the room. There were small clusters of people talking in solemn tones, flowers adorning every surface, with photographs of my Aunt’s beaming face from her “culinary vacations” to Thailand, Mexico, and Italy on the walls. Was it her obsession with exotic foods and travel that ultimately led to her doom? Did her plane crash? Did the pilot choke …on a piece of cheese??! 

 

I couldn’t let my imagination run any further. I finally worked up the courage to ask my grandmother. 

 

“Diabetes, child,” was the answer. 

 

I cornered my cousin. “Why’d you say that by the snack table?” 

 

“What?” He suddenly looked unsure. “I heard she died of brie cheese.” 

BY HURDY GURDY

 

Precisely on schedule, the train squealed and quivered to a stop at the city’s Central Station, the one referred to by locals as the “rail cathedral.”  The airy expansiveness of the grand hall, its glass roof panels allowing a glimpse of overcast skies, retained some of the stillness of a house of prayer.  In the baroque elaboration of the floor’s tilework and the grand staircase crowned by an ornate clock, it rather resembled a palace, he thought.  The other passengers from his car milled around him, not pausing to take in the sumptuousness of their surroundings.

He exited at the main doorway and walked through cold drizzle for several minutes.  The first moments in a city are essential, he thought, in grasping some awareness of its particular character. The muted quality of light suffused by the clouds, the scents of urban activity, the prominence of gardens between cast iron fencing and façades. He passed very few people and failed to reach a thoroughfare he’d expected from his map, now lodged deep in his bags.  Finally, realizing that he had not gathered his bearings as he’d departed, he returned to the station and found his way down to the information booth.

The young man behind the counter glanced up with a sardonic expression and waited for him to speak. After considering whether to use the scant phrases of the local language he’d prepared during his journey, he fell back to English.  “Direct me to Friday Market Square, please.”

BY PERIWINKLE

 

 

You’re Getting Warm

            Because she was a princess, she had access to her mother’s magic mirror. When she turned sixteen, and was old enough to date, she realized that the questions she had asked the mirror in the past were embarrassingly trivial. She knew now, the only vital question was which of her suitors would make her happy ever after.

            “Magic mirror, make me see, Which young man is right for me?”

                                                … Who will love me day and night?”

                                                       . . . Who is worthy of my hand?”

            She rephrased the question, and asked it many times a day. She asked politely, and when that didn’t work, she was blunt and direct. “Stupid mirror on the wall, show me who is best of all!” She was really quite frustrated! The mirror had always worked before! “Where did Mom hide the Halloween candy?”  “What did Dad get me for Christmas?”  Now she was asking the most important question, and the mirror was behaving like a plain old mirror! It was so important! Which of the young heroes and princes would love her the best?

            She tried it once more: “Magic mirror my knowledge fill; Who loves me best and always will?”

            The princess said a bad word. She had really thought that she would get an answer this time, but there the mirror was, just showing her reflection. She huffed off and went to tell her mom that the mirror was broken. It was quite aggravating.

BY BEETLEJUICE

 

Claire knew the only thing that would make her feel better was a trip to the bookstore. She loved the solitude there. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t find solitude at home or at work. It was being alone but surrounded by people that she liked.

Today she went to Emerald’s bookstore before she had even eaten breakfast. 

When Claire got to the Hobbies section, she saw that there were two other people in the aisle. Normally she would try to avoid them, but today she didn’t care.

She walked past a woman, who was looking at knitting books and was hit by the potent smell of cats. When Claire glanced at her, she saw that the woman looked like she was wearing a cat hair fur coat. 

The other customer, a tall man, was looking at the gardening books. He didn’t look up as Claire perused right beside him. 

Claire had grabbed a book on flower gardens when she heard a most distinct, and out of place noise.

“Meeeeeeooooowww”

Claire’s head whipped up and she stared at the cat lady, who acted like she hadn’t heard anything. So, she turned to look at the man next to her. 

He had a shocked look on his face and was also looking at Cat Lady. The lady glanced at Claire and the man, then walked away guiltily. 

As Claire stared with disbelief at the retreating woman (and passenger?) she heard the sound of uncontrollable laughter coming from the man behind her.

BY GEOFF

 

Dragon Bowel Mover, The Filthy Job that saved society

By Geoff

               “Sire Mikaelus Rowe here with another Fantasy Filthy Job that literally saved nations and kingdoms. The Dragon Bowel Cleaner. You would think a dragon would prefer to just chug a flagon of fiber to cure incontinence, but instead, they hire brave squires with broom and pipe cleaner for the intestinal journey.”
               “This job keeps the dragons happy, and it has purged society of the unworthy. The job is simple, pick out the bones of wannabe lawyers and politicians, push out what shouldn’t be in there, and don’t touch the gold or magical orbs of licentious howlers. Since dragons like gold, they prefer to save it in their bellies. They also like to keep licentious illusion orbs away from humans so they breed responsibly and with love. These orbs were used in the past by succubi to dominate the world, and they nearly succeeded.”

               “A dragon can sense when their gold is being taken out of their belly and they will promptly digest any thieves, as with anybody the tries to take those illusion orbs. Because of this occupational hazard, anyone that wants to be a lawyer, politician, or any station of great persuasion in society, it is required that Dragon Bowel Cleaner be on their resume extensively.”

               “Now only the most pure hearted induvial are allowed to be lawyers and politicians. Now there are no riots, no Academy awards, and no wars. The world is a better place. And curing dragon incontinence beats mending fences. Sire Mikaelus Rowe out.”

Sam Fam Microfiction Challenge

 So to connect everyone over the 2020 Thanksgiving Holiday, I proposed that we have a family writing challenge. I had seen this 250 word microfiction challenge online and it sounded fun and less intimidating than a larger assignment.  (Although I greatly underestimated how hard it is to fit a story in 250 words or less).  

So to assure originality and as an equalizer each participant is randomly given a genre, an action, and a word that has to be incorporated into their story, and they have 24 hours to complete it.  That's it. 

These will be published in subsequent posts on this blog, anonymously at first and then revealed later. 

We will also add original artwork (and possible musical contributions)  to several of the stories as the week progresses as a way to involve more people.

Many different ages are participating and so we are keeping it clean. Also this is a judgment free zone, but feel free to post uplifting and encouraging comments.