SHORTS

A Tiny Taste of Fiction

The Short

The taxi slowed in front of a house held together by dust and bad dreams. She stepped into the rain as the tires ground gravel. Forty-two years of searching and this was all she had. She dropped the crumpled paper. It didn’t matter now. They were long gone.

The Short

Movement on the cold statue caught her eye. A large spider crawled up its frozen face, too large for Scotland. She stepped further away, wrapping her coat tighter against the wet wind. She checked her watch again. One minute had passed. Where was he?

The Short

Miranda’s foot hung in the air, her eyes fixed on the chaos of stars erupting overhead. The sharp slam of the trailer door bounced off the canyon walls and was answered by a shrill howl, too close for comfort.

The Short

The green glass was smooth on top, but she gripped its jagged sides. It bit into her fingers. She squeezed tighter. It cut deeper. When the sting made her eyes water, she let it drop, anonymous among the trash in the parking lot. A skinny dog with a watchful eye whimpered and covered his face as she stood.

Getting dark, time to head home.

The Short

The cigarette burned in the ashtray. She spoke. What did she say? Her tea sat half full, ready for her when she was ready, like a friend or a faithful dog. It was probably cold. She took a drag on the cigarette, a Dunhill. Where did she find those in South Carolina in the early 90s? She told us we could leave. Where were we going? Next time we’d come, she’d be there, sitting vigil at the kitchen table, a pack of Dunhills and a cold cup of tea. She was waiting, but not for us.

The Short

Her fingers stroked the keys. "It's just like when you played it for me the first time when I was busy breaking your heart."

The Short

He slipped the pirogue into the dank water, stepping in quickly, and stuck the paddle into the water, not too deep to disturb anything lurking there that might be much larger than his little boat. Clumps of green algae clung to the paddle as if willing to escape by any means necessary.

He’d made this journey a thousand times, but every time he felt the eyes watching and the water shift with the too-large things that just broke the surface and occasionally bumped his boat. Why was this the only way to Mama Mireaux?

The Short

Her hand shot out to grab him but he'd already gone, vanished like a ghost in the fog. The train whistle cut through the silence, its steam an answer to the biting cold. She shivered. Had he ever been there?