Shorties, Volume I
Size doesn't matter
Welcome to the Shorties! The Shorties is a series of microfiction, which is loosely defined as stories that are 300 words or less.
I love this style of writing because there’s no beating around the bush. You jump straight into the action and try to cram every element of a binge-worthy story into a few words.
These stories turned dark quickly and you might think I’m morbid now, but I hope you enjoy them all the same.
When his ears stopped ringing and the acrid stench of gunpowder smoke dissipated, he gazed solemnly at the empty shotgun shell on the floor.
The same shell that released nine pellets into his brain.
Who knew invincibility would be such a curse?
I must be in hell.
The touch of the cold, steel blade on my skin, slicing passage into my belly is more than enough to make me scream, cry, and run for the hills. But I can’t because I’m a living corpse, awake and unable to move.
The doctor says, “cut deeper,” and I feel my insides scrambling. This can’t be happening.
I’m supposed to be unconscious.
"The repairs are done. Fire up the thrusters."
"What?! NO! You need to come back first!!"
"It's okay baby, there's no oxygen left. I love you."
He flicked off his mic and pushed off the hull of the spaceship, floating into the darkness to spend his last few moments among the stars.
What a lovely dog thought the old man as he watched a young pup chase after a rogue tennis ball. Sitting on the park bench, basking in the warming sun, he allowed a rare smile.
Suddenly, a young girl approached and sat down next to the old man. His smile vanished.
“We know what you did,” she whispered.
Anguish flashed across the old man’s face. The old man deserted The Cause to live out his life in this idyllic time string, instead of fighting someone else’s senseless interchronological war. Memories of when they sent him back in time flashed before his eyes, including the betrayal on his comrade’s face as he buried a knife into his guts up to the hilt.
THAT was his only regret.
“Time to answer for your cr—”
With an almost imperceptible *pop*, the old man disappeared.
“Fuck…” the young girl sighed, before snapping her fingers and dematerializing.
The chase began.
The sky was beautiful the morning I was murdered.
I didn’t hear the stranger creep up behind me and separate my head from my body. There was a slight pressure around my neck and then weightlessness as the world spun and the ground moved closer at an alarming speed.
With the last few seconds of my life ticking away, there are things I remember. The rays of sunshine dancing off the morning dew. The sweet, earthy petrichor wafting on the cool, summer breeze. The headless torso that carried me through my every experience, strangely contorted and spouting red.
The regret that I took it all for granted.
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