DUSTMEN

Microfiction, Drabble, November 20th, 2020

The click of Stanson’s six-shooter broke the desert's silence like an angry rattlesnake. Ahead, three dustmen shambled through brush and thorn towards him. They stank of rot and their own bodies’ decay. Three booming shots, then three dull thumps, and the dawn was quiet once more.

The fire of their cremation burned an ugly blue.

For breakfast, Stanson ordered whiskey.

“More of ‘em every day.” The tavern-man shook his head.

“Like bad times and taxes,” agreed Stanson.

Outside, a preacher pleaded repentance. Tomorrow would be worse if Stanson didn't find the pits. Judgement wasn't coming -- they'd already been damned.

KRAKEN BLOOD

Microfiction, Drabble, Dec 7, 2017

Kraken blood tattoos cast soft blue light on the pirate captain’s brandy. Once, he’d boasted of the monster he’d slain for that ink. How his crew’s appraising eyes had gleamed at the swirling designs!

But that stolen blood he wore turned the ocean against him. Fearing a curse, his crew cast him overboard with two worn coins and a bottle of spirits. Unable to drown him, the waves spat him ashore.

His untouched liquor glimmered like moonlight on forlorn seas. He pulled his sleeves down, masking the glow, as he coughed up brine.

The kraken had defeated him after all.

JAR OF SEEDS

Microfiction, Drabble, Dec 7, 2017

I keep a jar of seeds near the window, where the morning light makes the glass glisten. It was something my mother used to do.

I’d question her about it, embarrassed my friends would wonder. "An offering," she would say, winking. For wandering spirits, in case they were hungry.

She died last winter. My grief had melted, slowly, with the snow. In the spring, I put out a jar of seeds, thinking of her smile. Summer arrived. My jar had earned the attention of a small bird, and my mother's wisdom became clear.

The bird ate well, and I laughed.

THE CAVES

Microfiction, Drabble, Dec 7, 2017

I climbed into the caves to talk to god. The caves spoke their own language, one I didn’t understand. Stalactites dripped steadily, accenting my footfalls, and a throbbing hum from the depths beckoned me deeper. The corridor grew steadily warmer until I began to sweat in the still heat. Some tunnels carried the sound of rushing water, yet were as dry as the desert far above. Still I was alone.

Finally, I found the monolithic crystals

Their muting thrum silenced all other sound in the cavern, and the only voice I could hear was the one in my head.

Mine.

HEY, PSST!

Microfiction, Drabble, Dec 7, 2017

“Hey, you wanna buy some cubes?”

The voice was overwhelming. It was not just a sound, but a force, pounding our skulls like a sonic rockslide. The earth itself had spoken.

I balked as the mossy hill above the maze of stone blocks before us rose and met my gaze. I fumbled my sword.

“Wh—“ I stammered.

“Homemade,” the titan interjected.

Our valiant crusade was over. We’d been wrong; there was no demon god, just a hermit craftsman the size of a cliff.

I swallowed. “How much for, erm, one? One cube?”

“Ŝ̶̨̗Ẽ̵͈V̵̲̪̾Ë̸̞͇́͝Ņ̸̀̑,” it intoned, and my company’s horses fled.

SOCKS

Microfiction, Drabble, Dec 7, 2017

I stirred, the morning's chill waking me. Clear dew dotted my web. I shivered. Socks, that's what I needed! Four pairs.

I found two pairs, but each set was a different color. I searched my other hideaways and scavenged a third unique pair. No matching today; how about a fourth set, one for each pair of feet? What if I went mad as a wasp, and matched none of them at all?

No. That wasn't me. But wait, what if...?

I hunted down more socks, three unpaired, and chittered happily. I’d made a rainbow, a color wheel, on my feet!

Long black hair

Microfiction, Drabble, Dec 7, 2017

I saw the head of long black hair just long enough to know it wasn’t a trick of my eyes. A child had darted between the cars ahead of me.

I parked along the sidewalk and stepped out of my sedan into the flickering orange glow of a street lamp. It was quiet this late, my gently humming engine and the click-click off my hazards the only echoing sounds.

“YOU’RE NOT MY DAD,” came a scream directly behind me.

I jumped, whirled around. There was the girl, blurring into the fog. She struggled against an unseen hand, then vanished. Gone.

Taste the clouds

Microfiction, Drabble, Dec 7, 2017

Omaka gazed across the dunes to distant, shimmering cliffs. Heat rippling off the sand disoriented her, nauseated her, but Omaka smiled. Soon, she would see skygliders above her.

Gliding hadn't yet reached her snowy homeland. Her people were too large, there were no thermals to ride upon, and the blizzards mocked liftoff towers. Tundra life had little room for soaring with sun-owls.

Yet, Omaka had heard rumors of a new wing design. A stronger wing design.

The distorted cliffs looked distant, but so had the sky, once. Soon, Omaka would taste the clouds, and tell her siblings of their flavor.

Mother's Job

Microfiction, Drabble, Dec 7, 2017

Mother's Job fascinated me.

I craved insight into her daily routine, but when I asked about it, she'd sigh, avoiding my eyes. "I'm tired sweetie, can't we talk about something else?"

Still, it was our routine — I’d ask about the cloning facility, she'd change the subject. "Maybe when you're older," she'd assure me.

Today, she startled me with an overlong hug. "Don't go outside," she ordered.

On TV, the news segment's banner read: "Synth-humans' Rights Bill Overturned: Wave of Violence Follows."

She cried into my neck and apologized for never telling me.

"I just wanted a daughter of myu own."