Tag: microfiction

Addicted to Story

Photo by Dale Anderson

With Apologies and Thanks to Robert Palmer

I might as well admit it, I’m addicted to Story.  I do not remember the first time I heard a story.  I DO remember the first time I read an entire story on my own.  But by then I was maybe six years old and had been “on the narrative” for years.

My parents read to me before I could read myself and told me stories of their childhoods.  I could not get enough.

Story was soothing at the end of a tough day when I couldn’t sleep.  Then it was soothing at the end of ANY day.  Soon I needed story in the middle of the day.  Before long I was reading stories at the breakfast table.

In Third grade I would come home from school and write MY OWN stories.

Thankfully, college and grad school were story-dry years.  Textbooks occupied my reading hours; tests, term papers and thesis projects commanded my writing efforts.  My work life was mathematics and memos.

Eventually, I had two children and Story came back into my life.  I read to them and told them stories of my childhood.  But it didn’t stop there.

I took them to the local public library for more stories and checked out books for myself.  I read late at night after the kids had gone to bed.  In the morning, I read at the breakfast table.

I started writing again.  I don’t want to stop . . . my keyboard is calling me.  I thought I was immune to this stuff but I’m going to have to face it, I’m addicted to Story.

Robin Anderson

A Wasp’s Kiss

On a beautiful summer afternoon, you sit talking with a friend. You’ve eaten a delicious lunch including a scrumptious lemon tart; your hands are slightly sticky and sweet. It doesn’t matter; you are relaxed and unconcerned about the attention you may be attracting. From the corner of your eye you observe your new puppy frolicking in the weeds. Happily, she is not nibbling at your hands as she frequently does. But then something tooth-like scrapes across one of your fingertips. Confused for a moment, you realize you have been tasted by a yellow jacket.

Fortunately, it dislikes lemon tart.

Wasp image by Steven Bailey via flickr.com

Robin Anderson

Week End

Free image from flikr.com/the commons

The city grew quiet. A Friday exhalation.

 Humans expelled over the countryside in their cars in a single sigh.

Two days away from work and worry, a slim chance to breath.

So the city can rest.

Then.  Again.

A gasping Monday inhalation as the metropolis sucks them all back. Into the dark lung of commerce.

Robin Anderson

CHANGES

TheNightMail is changing!! You may have noticed the new WordPress theme. But wait, there’s more!

TheNightMail was originally created as a show place for Becky and Robin’s short fiction related to their screenwriting project, FREAKTOWN. It soon morphed into a straight out site for Flash Fiction accompanied by carefully curated images. It was not long before poetry, particularly haiku, made an appearance. More recently, there have been guest author contributions as well. Yes, evolution happens.

Now TheNightMail is changing again. Robin and Becky have returned to decades old writing habits and are producing novels and novellas under TheNightMail imprint. These farcical romance and mystery stories have historical settings, so you will find new sections on the blog devoted to “Regency”, “Flash Facts” and “Publications”. We will still endeavor to punch out flash fiction pieces for your consideration but hope you’ll click around the site and see what else is available in longer form.

Thanks for reading.

Image from flickr commons

Just Before Sunset

The waxing moon hung in a diaphanous cloud.  He remembered to look down just before he flew over the river.  There she was, looking up.  He could count on her.  Every evening, at sunset, looking up; looking for him.  Once she waved and seemed to beckon him.

As a youngling, he’d considered trying to meet her, his faithful watcher.  But one of the elders, his grandfather or a great uncle, had warned him off.  “Not a good idea.  Women like that are untrustworthy.”

As he grew older, he grew to understand why.  She was a human.  He was a crow.

Image by Robin Anderson

Tom

Once there was a man on a commune in the Canadian wilds. His name was Tom.

One misty moisty morning, we jumped in my Volkswagen bus and hightailed it for the California desert. He was running—I was in love.

A year we spent squatting on that mining claim in the Chocolate Mountains, living a whiskey fantasy, surviving on beans, rattlesnake, and the kindness of others.  I sang for tips in the small-town bar. He got by on charm.

 Finally Tom tired of me-it was inevitable. I returned to my Canadian island. He kept running.

Don’t tell my husband, but sometimes I think of him still.

By Mollie Hunt

photo by Ajay-Karpur on unsplash

Female Trouble

She was leaking.  Again.  It seemed only to happen in public.  At home it was never a problem.  She could sit for hours reading or working out mathematical equations.  Even when staring at the clouds or stars and theorizing, there was no seepage.

But out shopping, at tea, in a ballroom and especially at the subscription library, she had only to open her mouth and the trickle, then torrent, of her words, opinions and knowledge flooded the air.

Her intelligence on hideous display and before she could ratchet her jaw shut, the whispers began all round.

“Bluestocking.”

Image: Portrait of MME De Graffigny by Pierre Mignard via flickr commons

1816

It would be the fight of his life.  A duel but not over a woman or an accusation of cheating at cards or even because some Pink of the Ton had cast aspersions upon the arrangement of his cravat.  No, it was far more serious.  The control of his fortune, his title, his estate, his very future was at stake.  And he had no choice of weapons, was unarmed, unmanned, with only his twelve year old brother as his second.  But he must face the challenge.

Bile rose in his throat as he turned to confront his opponent.

“Hello, Mother.”

Embellishment for Haiku

Image:  Portrait of a Young Gentleman via flickr commons

Z’Doom

She was stuck.  None of the buttons at the bottom of her screen were operative.  Eventually they all disappeared.   Why shouldn’t she leave the meeting?  No one moved, no one spoke.  A thin trickle of moisture snaked down her back.  Her palms were wet.  But she continued to stare straight ahead.

Resolved to stand, she found her butt glued to the chair, her feet fused to the floor.  She could not un-rivet her gaze from the screen.  She was frozen as were all of her fellow zoomers.  They stared into each other’s blank, motionless eyes and prayed for unstable internet.

Image by Arteum-ro via Unsplash.com