Tag Archives: microfiction

“Nobody Loves” Microfiction by Thomas Elson

“A mime? What the hell?”  My friend said that afternoon as the entire student body shmushed through the doors and into the auditorium of the newest high school in the state. 

This was the third school assembly arranged by the well-traveled, very well-read, quite elegant English teacher and theater director about whom rumors swirled.

Voices clattering, the students plunked into their seats.
The lights dimmed.
The curtain parted.
A man –
rail-thin,
attired in a black-and-white horizontal-striped sailor-neck,
long-sleeved shirt,
black pants,
thin slippers with no soles

sauntered onto the stage
arms erect at his sides
hands stiff
toes pointed
The crowd sat in silence.
He bowed humbly
walked lightly
sat gently
gesticulated effusively
emoted silently

His face morphed into glee, despair, then confusion as music piped from the stage toward the audience.
Within moments, his feet moved as if to the sound of tiny pebbles clattering onto the wooden stage.
The mime ducked,
remained in character while he
jerked his head right and left.
raised his hands to shield his face.

Hard pebbles of uncooked macaroni were slung by kids
too young to drive legally – only four of whom would graduate from college – few of whom would marry only once –
and only one of whom would ever return.

After the assembly, the English teacher bounded toward the stage,
waiving a blue box he must have picked-up on the aisle.

He demanded silence, then admonished the crowd for long minutes - about
manners, decorum, respect –
until the principal intervened
to dismiss them.
However, to this day, no one has answered the key question:
Who the hell brings a box of macaroni to a high school assembly?

Thomas Elson’s stories have appeared in multiple journals, including, New Writing Scotland, Short Édition, Selkie, New Ulster, Lampeter, Moria, Mad Swirl, Blink-Ink, Scapegoat, Flash Frontier, Bending Genres, and Adelaide. His story, Trapped Inside, was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He divides his time between Northern California and Western Kansas.


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“Put Him Down” Micro Fiction by J.D. Clapp

I smell his cigarette smoke, hear his wheezing before the door to my room opens. There’s no squeak, so I know that little green air tank he drags around is sitting next to his chair in living room. I can hear some right-wing talking head coming for the TV down the hall.

“Put that goddamn book down and go take care of him,” he slurs.

I put the book on my desk, taking care to mark my page. I turn to look at him. He’s holding our varmint rifle, a smoldering grit hanging from his blue tainted lip, smoke swirling up around his gaunt weathered leather face. I say nothing. I hold my face and eyes blank and flat like carboard.

“Be a man for fucks sake. Go put him out of his misery. One between his eyes. Then dig a grave if he means that much to you.” I take the rifle from him, say nothing, and head out back.

Jet is laying on his side on pile of fallen leaves. His tawny coat blends into the yellow and reds surrounding him, as if the earth has already begun to reclaim him. He hears and smells me looking in my general direction with milky, cataracted eyes. His tail wags, he stands, and shuffles to greet me. He leans against my leg, all his weight now, and I rub his head. I know that old bastard is right. The blindness is new, but his tumors and arthritis…

“Jesus Christ! Just shoot him. Do I have to do everything?”

I take two steps back, lever a round in the chamber, put the barrel to Jet’s forehead.

“Goodbye buddy,” I say, voice cracking, then squeeze.

There is no sound beside the boom and it’s over and it’s merciful.

“Was that so damn hard?” he says from behind me.

I turn and we lock eyes. “No,” I say.  Then I jack another round, already resigned to the digging ahead.


JD Clapp writes in San Diego, CA. His work has appeared in Wrong Turn Literary, The Milk House, The Whisky Blot, and several others. His story, One Last Drop, was a finalist in the 2023 Hemingway Shorts Literary Journal, Short Story Competition. This story was previously published in Bristol Noir.


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“The Heifer Come Spring” Microfiction by Jeff Burt

On the fourth day after the heifer went missing, Billy and I, twelve, ran the length of the grazing field in the snow and at the far end before the woods, found the gate bent enough the yearling might struggle through.

We picked up a trail of hoofprints, of a low belly dragging through the deepest snow, determined swipes at a sluggish pace that showed the heifer desired freedom from head to hoof.

The clouds were monochrome but after ten broke and sunlight shone on southern facing slopes.

The day’s dusting melted as we approached fearing an animal raised to be beef would be prematurely turned to hide and woodland feast for coyote, crow, and all the crawling crowd of underground microscopic feeders.

We never found her. We traipsed fence lines and woods and not a sign. In spring we took a tractor and looked for femurs and vertebrae but nary a bone poked up in the fertile earth.

Years later I woke in the early morning to find new snow fallen on my deck and that heifer came to mind, that child’s delight we had that one heifer had defied the fatal stockyard zap in the head, had defied butcher, farmer, the walking dead. It gave us hope for surviving school.


Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, and has contributed to Williwaw Journal, Willows Wept Review, Rabid Oak, and others. He has a digital chapbook available at Red Wolf Editions and another forthcoming from Red Bird Chapbooks.


“Scope Kiss” Microfiction by JD Clapp

Each morning, when I look in the mirror, I see the scar–a quarter inch, ragged indent above my eyebrow. Seeing the scar, I remember the impact of my rifle scope “kissing” me because I was on tundra, someplace in Newfoundland, and my shooting sticks moved when the shot fired. I remember warm blood running down my face and my guide walking to a tree, getting a pinch of sap, then rubbing it into the bloody hole on the edge of my eyebrow before putting duct tape over the sap. Each morning, the scar reminds me; I missed the moose.


JD Clapp is based in San Diego, CA. His micro fiction has appeared in Blink Magazine, 50 Give or Take, Paragraph Planet, 101Words, Micro Fiction Mondays Magazine, Scribes MICRO, Vermillion, Flash Fiction Fridays, and a Story in 100 Words.


“Peanut Butter on a Day of Summer” Microfiction by Conrad Gardner

"Peanut Butter on a Day of Summer" Microfiction by Conrad Gardner

I had a rough conversation with my boy today, about him and his girl. It put me in mind about the time I found my ma sitting alone in the kitchen on a hot summer day after she had a doctor’s appointment, looking out the window and across the empty, overgrown fields. She’d tried calling my dad at work about something, she said, but he wasn’t there. I asked was Dad gonna be home late and she said no. She told me to sit down; I did. Most boys have their rebel phase around fifteen, but I’ve been a mama’s boy all my life.

I sat opposite her at the kitchen table, not knowing what to do or say. She reached out and grabbed my hand. Didn’t say anything, but kept a hold on my hand. Tight. She had that look, when you want to say something but can’t, you know what I mean? Then she got up and went to the cupboard, took out a two-thirds full loaf of white bread and jar of peanut butter. Setting it on the table with a couple of knives, she said, ‘I’m going to eat all of this, d’you want to help?’ I said sure, not like I had anything better to do, and we set to it.

Now, the peanut butter was smooth and I’m a crunchy guy, but it didn’t matter, not with the white bread, and I could still lick out the bits that stuck to my teeth. That was always my favourite part with peanut butter. It tasted sweet somehow. Time we finished, my ma had flakes of PB smeared around her lips.

She held my hand again and looked at me for what felt a lot longer than the few seconds it had been, then turned and looked out the kitchen window. The sun had started to set and hovered above the fields. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’ she said, before coughing. I agreed with her.

Things were good back then, I thought.


Conrad Gardner’s writing has previously been published by AutoFocus, Superlative, and AEL Press. He is based in Herefordshire, England.