Category Archives: Microstories

Anthology

Some stories are not meant to be long. A few words scribbled on a napkin. A name. A number.

Some stories are written in the dark, read under neon lights. A few strokes of the pen.

Some stories end before they begin.


Peace

The War was over, they said. You said, don’t slam the door. Don’t wake me if I’m dreaming. Don’t raise your voice.

Night after night I matched my breathing to your measured steps. Maybe this time you’d come back to bed.

The War is not over.


Chameleon

Maybe tomorrow I will be made of magic. I will strike sparks from the sky with my fingertips. I will snatch sheep from the hillside where they graze. Tomorrow I will catch your gaze: a glint of light and then gone.

But today I am a fat lizard, all sinew and scales, contemplating a stone in the sun. I spread my limbs and scrape away lichen until it looks like me, that stone.

I watch, barely twitching an eye, waiting for a cricket to bound within reach of my tongue. I watch, I wait, and I think of dragons.


Wordless

You do not need to write me poetry. There are sonnets in the subtleties of your smile, an aubade in every glance thrown over your shoulder. The flash of your eyes, the hint of warmth in your gaze: a poem in progress.


Star-crossed

I traded minutes for kisses, hours for the slide of your skin against mine. I drew out every second, unwound them one by one: my fingers, your hair.

In that perfect moment when time no longer mattered, the lark began to sing.