A month or so ago, I posted something about micro fiction and why I’ve found myself drawn to writing it. Call this an update of sorts to share the following handful of micro fiction stories, each of which is either 50 or 100 words in length.
THE CYNIC (published on 50-Word Stories)
There never needed to be smoke to signal a fire for Rodrigo.
News reports, assumptions, stereotypes; call him jaded, but with most things the cynicism served him well.
But he never questioned her. She was pure. Gentle. Perfect. His refuge. A confidante. A companion.
The finest Chihuahua ever.
STRAIGHT (published on 101 Words)
The romance had gone without hitch until the inevitable question about his scar.
His past always reared its ugly head at some point in relationships. The only variable was how long it took to kill them off.
It was 16 years since his face had been slashed. Eight since his release. No matter who he’d become since, he’d not found anyone who could deal with the things he’d done back then.
He struggled with them, too.
“Can I tell you it was just the stupidity of youth?” he answered.
“You can tell me anything,” she said.
Perhaps this one would last.
Like other clubs of this sort in Tokyo, there were no windows to peer through, but the neon sign standing next to the reinforced door advertised “Filipina companions” inside.
You had to wonder if they were being entirely honest. Another sign handwritten and taped to the door said, “Japanese only.”
THE COUNTER (published on 101 Words)
“Nothing bad will happen,” Alan’s counsellor said. “Remember, the compulsions are your anxiety acting out.”
Alan lifted his tea from the low table separating the two men, then silently counted backwards from five before taking a sip.
“Do you want to try another one?” the counsellor asked. “Without counting?”
Five, four, three … Alan tugged at an arm hair, nearly spilling his tea. Numberless, he had another sip.
There was a pause in conversation; no sound but the squeak of armchair leather.
It was Alan who broke the silence. “I think I burnt my tongue a bit.” And a smile spread across his face.
THE SARARIMAN (published on 50-Word Stories)
Okamoto’s eyes fix towards the silvery gravel covering the park, where he sits on a bench, briefcase resting against one leg, can of beer in hand.
Commuters stream by into the station, central Tokyo bound. He won’t be joining them.
Like yesterday morning, and he still hasn’t told his wife.