Micro fiction: Manic Pixie Dream Boy by Paula Johnson

Oliver appeared when Audrey needed a jump-start. She looked out her window and saw him performing tai chi. But she was on the twenty-third floor, and the building next door was mostly steel beams.

Catching her eye, he pointed to his watch, mimed eating, then dropped to his knees, begging. They met in her lobby. Was this a lunch date? A kidnapping? Both?

Audrey was soon able to decode Oliver’s sporadic text invitations (Sneakers. Passport. Tabasco!) but never understood the man. “If that boy were a toy, he’d be an Etch-a-Sketchy,” Audrey told her friends before checking her cell phone—again.

© Copyright 2016 Paula Johnson. All rights reserved.
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Paula Johnson is the founder and editrix of The Rose City Sisters website. She is spending July “at” Camp NaNoWriMo writing a collection of 100-word stories.

Micro Fiction: The Other Side of the Coin by Justin Ballard

“This doctor is never on time” I muttered while fiddling with my coin.

Though I am grateful despite having to sit here for 66 minutes. He’s one of the good ones. He helped me for 39 glorious minutes that proved more valuable than the 12 years before. I was on 8 more medications than 4 years prior. Facing 3 more to balance the side effects of the others. (HA!) It shouldn’t be a joke. Just seems laughable how I didn’t notice extra bottles in my cabinet till now.

I gave my coin to a woman on the way out.

© Copyright 2016 Justin Ballard. All rights reserved.
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Justin Ballard is a Renaissance man. This is his second micro fiction story.

#82 Passing Castle Green by Jackie Pugh Kogan

I was nearly to Castle Green when the wind found its way beneath my collar. Off guard because there is never much winter here even in winter, I’d left the apartment without a scarf. No, not off guard. Daydreaming. Be honest. I flipped up the hood on my thin coat.

When I’d first spotted her that hot, bright day last summer, the light intense, rendering shadows sharp, I’d been heading for the bus, as I am now, on my way to the library to shelve books for another eight hours, to waste another day. I could have been painting in good light. No! Honesty, remember? I haven’t had the oils out in more than three years. And today is winter, it’s overcast—light is needed to paint. Head cleared now? Continue Reading

Micro fiction: Détente by Miko Johnston

We cling together while the earth shakes, trees topple, our hearts pound.

We’re unhurt, but forward path’s obliterated, return trail’s impassable, and we’ve no supplies.

Bushes rustle; a young backpacking couple emerge, sharing a canteen.

“Got any extra?” I ask.

The couple exchange glances. Guy shakes his head. “Shouldn’t be out here without water, grandpa,” then asks lady, “Where to now?”

Lady taps her cellphone. “No signal. Try GPS.”

Guy switches it on. “Nothing.”

“Damn. What’r we gonna do?”

Chuckling, I hold up a trail map. Guy slumps. Lady reaches into his pack and tosses me a bottle of water.

© Copyright 2016 Miko Johnston. All rights reserved.
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Miko Johnston is the author of the A Petal In The Wind series of historical novels. She’s a founding member of Writers in Residence. A former Glendale resident, she now lives in Washington (the big one).

Micro fiction: Chester Wintersnap Knew the Odds & He Was No Gambler by Geanora D. Bonner

But he loved his Mrs. so didn’t counter delusion with sensible logic.

At a bodega on the border of despair, he chose the wiser “pay over time” option. Leaving, he chuckled. A grubby hand stretched his way. A
woman? Feeling magnanimous, he said, “Share the dream,” and let the hand select one of the fluttering tickets. He ignored the inquiry of
how he could be reached when “they” won.

Mrs. was envious of the polished woman who held the large pasteboard check days later. Chester could not see her hands and so never knew how the odds had worked.

© Copyright 2016 Geanora D. Bonner. All rights reserved.
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Not exactly straight but out of Compton and almost to Portland (OR), Geanora D. Bonner has always written. For more than 40 years she approached writing like a timid woman in a demure one-piece preparing to swim at a public beach in July. Now she is trying to be more like the 300-pound man in a Speedo plunging into the pond on New Year’s Day.

#81 The Move by W.L. Wren

You are in a box. You’ve only a handful of inches to any side—left and right, before and behind.

The world trembles and rumbles. Every so often, it tilts inexplicably.

Faces appear in front of you. Squinting. They are four to five times the size of your own. They coo and murmur. They insert large appendages through slats in the box. Pink appendages. Brown appendages. Appendages knuckled and supple like tree branches, each trying to poke and scratch you.

Voices ask if you’re okay and you want to say, “I’m in a box! How okay can I be?” Instead, you ignore them and hope they go away.

Vague memories from childhood surface. Images of people in white coats who jab and prod and stick you with things that make you sleep. You remember waking. You remember several mutilations. “My God!” you think. “What will they do to me now? What’s left of me to cut and remove?”

Uneasy, you curl your tail beneath your hind end. Fur falls from you like faded blossoms.

Then, all movement stops. After some moments, the box rises and sways. “What now?” you think. “What now?”

The assuring voice that never assures is closer. As the box travels with jerks, the voice mutters without cessation.

Finally, the box sits on what appears to be solid ground. One of its sides falls away and you look out on a dubious freedom.

You recognize nothing. There are no familiar sights. The scents are all wrong. Nothing sounds as it should except for the murmuring voice that will sometimes offer comfort but this time simply annoys.

With wary steps, you leave the box.

Head lifted, nose furiously trying to identify, you turn left and right. Suddenly, a sharp noise sounds behind you and you’re off. You run. You had already spotted the place—the sofa by the wall near the window.

Before anyone or anything can stop you, you’re behind the sofa. It’s cramped but this is good. Experience tells you they cannot get at you here. You are dug in; you will not leave. You can outwait the voice. You can outwait them all.

Soon, the darkness will come and with it all voices, appendages, and boxes will leave, banished from the feline night.

Then, with guerilla stealth, you will lay claim to this new country. With quiet sedition, you will come to own it, as you own all places in which you reside, for domestic worlds are easily ruled by civilized savages.

© Copyright 2016 W.L. Wren. All rights reserved.

w-l-wrenW.L. Wren (better known as Bill) is a writer in New Brunswick, Canada. He has had several stories published previously by the Rose City Sisters. He has one ebook collection of stories on Amazon, Disrupted Lives and Other Commotions. His next ebook will be available soon.