#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. Continue Reading

Micro fiction: Glass Ceiling by MaryJane (MJ) Thornburg

Arctic vortex, pineapple express…whatever it is, another snowstorm was in full force. Appearing out of nowhere, snow blowing in all directions, felt similar to her life, whirling out of control. The storms were happening more often. And would stop just as fast.

Unpredictable turbulence seemed to mirror her life.  Work was never-ending, and she felt closed in, the glass ceiling was very much keeping her stuck.  She focused on the road, trying to make her path clear.  She felt trapped and enclosed.

Meanwhile in another world: “Mia, come to dinner and PLEASE stop shaking that snow globe…”

© Copyright 2016 MaryJane (MJ) Thornburg. All rights reserved.
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MaryJane (MJ) Thornburg is a Rose City Sisters reader who decided to try writing fiction. This is her second story.

Micro fiction: The Wedding Gown by Jackie Pugh Kogan

I return the gown to Panache, and, empty bag in hand, reach the door, brush off a tear. The windows frame a rain-slick street, gutters flooding.

Were his words slick as assaulted streets? Or do I need to turn the glass to my own expectation. I long for a window through which to see truth framed. The Iraqui desert is made of glass, they say; flooding the mouth, sand tears all the way down.

And the empty bag? A strip of torn underskirt is imprisoned in a grommet. My eyes flood. I should tell them perhaps the gown is flawed.

© Copyright 2016 Jackie Pugh Kogan. All rights reserved.
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Jackie Pugh Kogan is a Los Angeles based writer working primarily in gothic fiction of the American West. Publications include short stories in ROAR, Dream International Quarterly, The Northridge Review, and poetry in Crazy Woman Creek: Women Rewrite the American West (Houghton Mifflin, 2004).

Micro fiction: Email to a Friend by Janet Aird

Dear Sylvia,

I’m very afraid I’m going to lose Patty. I’ve been calling and texting and no reply. I guess I just have to wait till she’s ready to get back to me.

She believes in God and heaven.

Love,
Jenny

© Copyright 2016 Janet Aird. All rights reserved.
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Janet Aird has been a freelance writer for trade magazines in the field of sustainability for 15 years. Her first novel, “The End of the Road: A Love Story,” is coming out later this year.

Micro fiction: Rin Tin Tin in Retirement by Glen Armstrong

He no longer barked at aircraft beating the sky into puzzles and only sometimes lifted his muzzle toward the traffic taking off and landing at Mines Field. The world was only fooling, like a mean kid whose gestures were false, who never released the ball. His appetite was good until the end. His trainer kept him warm.

He was the favored canine, the canine the favored animal.

In a world that skinned with purpose.

In a world where the kill was more than simple sustenance.

© Copyright 2016 Glen Armstrong. All rights reserved.
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Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit and BlazeVOX.

Micro fiction: One Hundred Words by August

One hundred words, no more she said, and me with one hundred and one. Would she notice one extra, so small, so very small?

Of course she would, she is that way (make that “she’s” to hopefully save the one.) I’m all about brevity; too many words wasted do as much to mislead as do too few. What must be said must be said as she has said it must be said.

So how would she advise me to best use my words?

Focused message, in one word, (actually, in this case, one hundred words): life is…

© Copyright 2016 August. All rights reserved.
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August is the pseudonym of a man with many accomplishments, including winning 3rd place in the 1957 Emerson Elementary Kite Flying Contest, Novelty Division.

Micro fiction: The Memory Monster and the Mortal by John Pulver

His sword heavy, the man blinks, but the monster does not vanish.

The monster grins. “Why hold onto the past? Such a futile endeavor.”

“Go away. Let me remember for a little longer.”

“And deny my hunger?”

“I do not understand. Why must you exist? The universe expands. Why can’t it hold my memories?” the man asks to give himself resting time, not expecting answers.

The monster cocks his head and squints one eye, and says, “The universe burns, without me.”

“Let me leave behind a picture or some words, and I will not fight.”

The monster laughs and lunges.

© Copyright 2016 John Pulver. All rights reserved.
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John Pulver lives in a home shaded by a sycamore tree.

Can you tell a great story in Dothraki?

living-language-dothrakiAthchomar chomakea!

In an effort to appeal to a wider audience, RoseCitySisters.com will now accept both micro fiction and flash fiction in Dothraki.

No need to feature nomadic horse warriors in every submission—feel free to create engaging characters and interesting plots as you always have.  Just remember the 100-word limit for micro fiction and the 1,000-word limit for flash fiction. We look forward to your submissions!

Dothras chek.

 

Micro fiction: April Fool’s Day by Steven Craig

The sun was peering into the windows of the trailer at 161 Springer Lane.  The smell of bacon on the stove was becoming more pronounced. Earl reached over and turned on the television set.

“Lurleen, you ready yet?,” Earl shouted. Lurleen had been outside “getting some sun” for the last five minutes, “so I can brown the same time as the bacon,” she said.

The calendar said it was April 1, 1957, but they both knew it as their wedding day. Lurleen came in from outside and changed from her robe to a gown. She grabbed Earl’s hand, and smiled.

© Copyright 2016 Steven Craig. All rights reserved.
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Steven Craig has not achieved accolades of any kind at any time. Not even a participation trophy, as he does not participate.