Tag Archives: microstory

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.


Units of measure

I measure your absence in degrees Fahrenheit, in feet of snow, in inches of ice. Come spring, when the world has thawed and the sun has crept into every shadow, I will measure my freedom in lilac blossoms and deep, unfettered breaths.


Glutton

Some stories come gently, drifting in and settling on the page.

Others stories fight the telling. Tooth and claw, they snarl and bite.

I wrestled a wolverine into a cage and left it on your doorstep. I dare you to open it.


Weights

Small things add up. They tip the scales no matter how light. Smiles on tiny squares of paper, air in my tires. Kisses tossed from the top of the porch steps. All I can give in return are words and golden promises.