More addictive microfiction
Someone needs to lock that dealer away 👀
I noticed this week that this is my 52nd post this year 🫣. Thanks for being here!
Over the last three weeks, I’ve been dipping in and out of microfiction and poetry. Both are incredibly satisfying writing exercises and art in their own right. The microfiction in particular is a little workout in the mind gym as you have to tell an entire story in less than 100 words or so. It’s a challenge but I think it serves as a valuable exercise in working out what should and shouldn’t be included in the story. I hope you enjoy these little sketches from the last couple of weeks. A huge thank you to
again for hosting this club and producing compelling microfiction every day.60mg of Paradise
A kiss of rose petals. A caress of smooth caramel between gleaming white sheets. “I can stay,” he whispered.
Her silken body rolled away from him. “You can’t stay in paradise, English.”
“Why not?”
“Paradise is for the outsiders.”
He traced a finger down the narrow crevice between her muscles. “I thought I was in.”
She laughed. “Go home, English.”
100mg of a Skull
“Ave got it,” said Gerwick the goblin, rubbing his palms together.
“The… the dragon skull?” asked Earl.
“Yeah,” he beamed. “Cost me fifteen magic beans.”
Earl and Gazzock looked at each other in disbelief. “Fifteen?”
“Fifteen,” the goblin confirmed.
“So go on then,” said Earl. “Show us it.”
The little goblin dug around inside his clothing and produced a small, avian skull. Gazzock’s eyes rolled north as he collapsed from his chair.
“Shit for brains!” said Earl.
The goblin stared at him, confused. “Tis a dragon! As they say.”
“Gerwick, have you ever seen a dragon?”
“No sir.”
“Thought not.”
60mg of Forever
He stepped into the hotel lobby again. Irritation crossed his face when the girl set to work again, trying to remove his jacket.
“It was such a bad storm. Here let me take it,” she pleaded.
“Just get off me, please.”
“I was just removing your jacket.” she said, stepping back, head bowed.
“Why? How long am I here for?”
“Forever.”
50mg of Freshness
I saw the new kid still wandering up and down the aisles when I was lowering the shutters. “Lost something?” I asked.
“Oh, I'm still looking for… have you seen the tartan paint?”
“No. Did they need a long stand too?”
“Yeah! How did you know?”
50mg of a wave
“Get in! It's gonna start!” Stevie screeched. “Yer can't come to Heatwaves and not do the waves!” He excitedly bombed into the pool.
I jumped in behind him.
————————————————
“How was Heatwaves?” asked Mum from the car.
That moment, I felt it was too soon to talk about the surfing turd.
The Wave was based on some real waves:
Heatwaves was a leisure centre in Stockbridge village (formerly known as Cannibal Farm before redevelopment began), just outside of Liverpool. It had palm trees, fake beaches, a flume and a wave pool. I remember the sheer excitement if you were going on a school trip or to a birthday party. Although I never experienced a surfing turd moment myself (others did— there was always a cleanup crew or a pool closure) I do remember ending up with glass in my foot one time. There’s no place quite like the 90s.
Nice work, Hanna! Poor Gerwick.
They'll never get me.