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 Micro-fiction published by Retort Magazine, on April 12th, 2013The Strangers What he said to me—what he actually, literally said, to me, was “I bet we could get tickets to that.” But what I heard him say—I was watching the ad panel on a moving bus—was “My mother’s got a marvelous ass.” And as I turned my head toward him, and was greeted . . . → Read More: The Strangers – Microfiction by John Brown Spiers Micro-fiction published by Retort Magazine, on May 4th, 2012CORPUS CRISPY Bob had always felt comfort with ritual. As a young boy he had found his only sanctuary in places that felt the same as where he now sat, head bowed, slightly bored, saying nothing and looking at nobody. The same pews, the same “bells and smells”, the same routine, an unintelligible language spoken during the proceedings by those on the other side of the rail, the same standing in line to receive the bread wordlessly handed over by young boys in their simple uniforms. Bob fondly remembered his First Communion. Bob’s father had been an Army chaplain whose duty assignments had taken him and his family all over the world. Everywhere they had traveled Bob had attended the Roman Catholic services, sometimes several times a week. When he was a boy, finding himself alone, with his newly made friends now suddenly thousands of miles away, alone in whatever sometimes exotic, sometimes banal, town his father had been shipped to, it was a relief to be able to attend services that were always the same, always predictable, always free of surprises. Micro-fiction published by Retort Magazine, on April 25th, 2012Somewhere not near, not here, but still as real as a pig’s squeal, two sirens sang the same song. One was coming closer. One was fading. Together they ascended, fell, both, neither — twin tumors dancing in the ether. “Why don’t you touch me in bed before we sleep?” Anne asked till voices told . . . → Read More: Til Blank Do US Part by Mike Davidson Micro-fiction published by Retort Magazine, on May 21st, 2010A Simulation Though the explosions shouldn’t surprise him they do. They sound off rhythmically every few minutes and he shudders startled by each and every echoing blast. Placed where he is on the terrace looking out over the river he can see the Basilica’s towers and the smoke sift upward through the trees-line. The blasts’ depth can be heard from the other end of the city—buildings rattle and shake; glass shivers in the windowpanes. At every screamed signal that precedes the cannons’ fire the same lump rises swollen and stuck in his throat; he sees crumbling walls and buildings, feels the way the earth tilts under-fire, and his hands tap his ears as he falls forward folding into the receptive ball he was taught to produce under such circumstances. Micro-fiction published by Retort Magazine, on May 17th, 2010The lost art of Toad callingHe limped along the sidewalk shouting “I will treat them like animals. I will drag them through the dirt before I slit their throats.” As I passed he looked me in the eye and momentarily, before again casting down his gaze, I could see that he was possessed. “Secretly, you know I am, right.” He asked. |
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