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Thread: Open Call: Post Your Micro-Fiction, Small Tales, and Poetry here

  1. #1
    Registered: Feb 2008
    Location: on a mission to civilize

    Open Call: Post Your Micro-Fiction, Small Tales, and Poetry here

    Since we seem to be enjoying turning this place into our own little literary magazine, and all loving the 'Tocky Going Wild' thread, do as the title suggests. To get the ball rolling:

    "The Last Dream"

    Would you go to sleep knowing this would be your last dream? What would you hope to dream for? Those endless nights of wild and rampant excursions, climbing mountains, flying high above the trees, exploring deep caverns, hunting for buried treasure. Your last dream, before sleep. Who would you be?

    Would you be a painter, a sailor, a carpenter saving souls? Would you pillage or plunder, hope and heal, dream within your dream? Would you be a philosopher, and it all makes sense in the end. Will you find love? Will it hurt when you free fall and hit bottom without waking up. Will you be remembered?

    Will it be scary, dreaming your last dream?

  2. #2
    Chakat sex pillow
    Registered: Sep 2006
    Location: not here
    I wanna write a sequel to your last erotic novel, Queue. We don't have enough pleasingly tweaky stories about nut butter and wrinkles yet. Yes, that'll be one of my last dreams too, because damn you for thinking I'm going to have just one.


    There come certain points in your life when you realise a friendship has diminished, that the joys and sorrows you shared and drew companionship from were no longer things related with ease, clouded by a fog of grey indifference that had slowly rolled in when neither of you was looking. It was not fickleness, no. Life happened, as it does, and it changed you by degrees. You were no longer the same person you were yesterday; and so, then, neither was she; and whatever congruence had once drawn your paths together now slowly skewed them away.

    'Who else in the world is going to say what an asshole that guy is?' you ask. 'None of your other friends are as rude as yours truly.'
    'You'd always win the gold medal there,' she agrees.

    And she smirks. You can hear it in her voice. You think you can see it too -- the way she tilts her head when she's about to laugh, and her glasses fall down her nose, and that warm chuckle as she pushes them back up? Of course you can see it. You've seen it every other day of your life for years. And now as her voice rises and falls in your ear, you wonder if her hair's still a curly mess piled on top of her head like it always was when no one else was around to notice... no one except you.

    This is how it has always been. You make a joke, like you always do, and she laughs, but you know now in those silent pauses that she hates it, so she changes the topic to something else.

    Hey sister, don't you know it's time that I unburdened myself?
    Snapped these threads of silence, and let you know what's been happening
    Time that I spoke to to you about
    the heartache and the emptiness that never went away
    and this absurd notion that all I really owned was a fury and a flame,
    kindled with broken promises,
    and even that faltered with time
    dying like half formed prayers falling from cracked lips
    to scatter amongst embers of glowing resentment

    'Hey, I know we haven't spoken much, but I really have to prepare for tomorrow's project review. Call you later in the week, yeah?'
    'Oh. Sure. Break a leg!'
    'Of course. Take care!'
    'Take care.'

    Your sighs are always quiet. As she hangs up, so are hers.
    Last edited by Sulphur; 6th Dec 2017 at 07:19. Reason: clean-up

  3. #3
    Registered: Feb 2002
    Location: In the flesh.
    The fear was in her eyes and in her voice. She knew the time was short. She had fallen in the tub and become bruised the way only old people bruise, the kind that goes all the way and paints continents of indigo pain on the skin. The nurses hadn't checked and she had lain there for hours until meal time. Now she was safe in bed but she didn't feel safe.

    She was going to die soon. It wasn't a question the way she said it. She knew in the way maybe we all do when we learn to trust that inner voice after a lifetime of ignoring it. She didn't want to, this good woman whose every waking moment had been to serve parents, husband, children, and kinfolk like me. The depth of her fear struck me deep, so deep I was afraid she could see my fear for her when I lied telling her she had plenty of time.

    I was glad to have gotten to know her better here at the end, glad to have served her, fixing her roof in the hot summer sun. It would be a good memory for me, sitting over a plate of her garden vegetables, after, as the paint dried on my clothes and she told me of the night my parents eloped. Soon all her memories would be gone and those precious few I could carry forward. But I couldn't tell her any of this and admit I knew that she was right.

    When the door shut and I made my way down the hall as the warmth from her hug faded her fear clung to me. If someone as good as she feared death then what chance did an old reprobate like me have? Within the month I carried her coffin as I promised her I would.

  4. #4
    Level 10,000 achieved
    Registered: Mar 2001
    Location: Finland
    Damn, we got some talented fuckers here! This is all good stuff.

  5. #5
    El Shagmeister
    Registered: Jul 2000
    Location: Under your fingernails.

    O hai.

    Tap Tap Tap (tentative title)
    by Luis Alvarez

    Where am I? It’s dark. I can’t see anything. Trapped in a very tight space, curled up. My skin, my body, presses over something hard all around it. It feels warm, soothing, but I can’t move. It’s alright: breathe. Breathe in and breathe out. In and out, in and out. Perhaps someone will come for me if I just wait. I can hear myself breathing. I’ll call out. Someone should hear if they’re nearby.


    My…my voice! It’s so small, frail. Was that even me? Of course. No one’s answering. Did they just leave me here all alone? Wherever here is. In and out, in and out. Breathe. Keep breathing. I need to try again, louder.

    “Help! Someone!”


    Whatever’s holding me is smooth to the touch, gentle, this warmth makes me sleepy. No. It’s dark and cramped. I need to escape. The walls seem to close in, gripping my body tighter.

    I start to struggle. Muscles bulge and strain. Sweat dribbles down to my eyes, stinging them in this darkness. Anxious, I push against my bonds, but they hold firm. I want out, out! Soon enough, I exhaust myself, feeling sore all over. Tears pool in my eyes, mixing with sweat. I can’t wipe my face. Can’t escape.

    Tap tap tap.

    What was that? What was that? The noise came from above me. My ears are ringing; I could feel it through the wall. Who was that?


    Each knock is a blow that shakes my prison, wracking my body. It hurts, it hurts! Desperation is clawing at my throat. Words barely escape me.

    “P-please…no more!”

    Something cold stirs in the pit of my stomach. I can feel it spreading all over me; so cold, so cold. I can’t stop shaking now, grinding against the walls of my captivity. In and out, in and out.



    I can’t hear my screams. The noise deafens and pummels every inch of me. The walls are crushing my body. My throat is burning. Let me out. LET ME OUT, PLEASE!


    Blinding white light shatters the darkness away as my prison breaks. It burns me, scouring my body with its heat. The light dries up my screams. I’m free, but I can’t move, I’m spent. Suddenly, amid the pain and confusion I feel myself lifted upward, ever upward. I am soaring. Everything is a blur of enormous shapes and colors swimming in front of me. They loom over me, impossibly tall, threatening to topple over and crush me. As things begin to come into focus, I see them. Two, creatures towering over me, impossibly tall: my captors, my tormentors. I am so small. One of them shifts to the side, blocking the light, giving me some relief under its shade. My heart won’t stop pounding. In and out, in and out, in and out. What are they? Terrible, majestic. Fear feeds the awe that I feel. My chest tightens a bit more. I need to speak, I need to know, why me? Something snaps inside; it hurts so bad and…and…

    “Tommy! You killed the chick! I tolja not to crack the shell too hard!”

    “Sorry, sorry! Aw, geez….ok, you can open the next egg then. Don’t tell mom, though, ‘k?”


  6. #6
    Registered: Oct 2017
    The night was humid.

  7. #7
    Chakat sex pillow
    Registered: Sep 2006
    Location: not here
    Last edited by Sulphur; 6th Dec 2017 at 03:43. Reason: *click*

  8. #8
    Registered: Oct 2017
    Bonus points for catching the reference.

  9. #9
    Registered: Feb 2001
    Location: Somewhere
    sultry, the night was sultry
    Last edited by PigLick; 6th Dec 2017 at 23:21.

  10. #10
    Registered: Oct 2017
    I'm out. Too damn sultry in here.

  11. #11
    Registered: Nov 1999
    Location: Deck 4 Cargo Bays
    Dan stared in shock. It was so obvious now. The squirrels! It was the damn squirrels!

  12. #12
    El Shagmeister
    Registered: Jul 2000
    Location: Under your fingernails.
    I picked the gun. It was, after all, the easier choice.

  13. #13
    Registered: Oct 2016
    Location: Blundering through the shadows
    Hello dear reader
    Some haikus are meaningful
    But this one isn't

  14. #14
    Registered: Feb 2008
    Location: on a mission to civilize
    I refuse to let this idea die, though in hindsight it should die a horrible death...screaming in agony...pissing its self...coughing up blood....

    Hemingway's Ghost

    Here they are. They come to my house, come to seek me, come to profess their admiration for my work and celebrate my life; celebrate my contributions to literature. Contributions to literature—if I had to do it all over again I would have been a pig farmer, at least they would have left me alone to do my work.
    They run roughshod through my house, phones in hand, are they even still called a 'phone' now? They run amok through my house, my home on the corner of Whitehead and Southard, the little place Pauline's rich uncle bought for a wedding gift, the place where I went to get away from them all to work and fish and live, the place at the end of the country where I was able to warm my bones.
    They all love me. They all love my work, because they all love literature and reading as much as I did. So groups of them cram into the rooms of my house, the house I built a brick wall around to keep people out, and climb the narrow steps with the now loose and rickety ornate handrail that wobbles unsurely from all those whom come to seek me out because of my work and how much it touches them and how much it means to them, electronic devices in hand; and all I can do is sit back and watch.
    I watch from the shadows as one tour guide after another tells their same slightly inaccurate portrayal of the thing over and over to jammed groups of people whom have each paid $16.00 dollars a pop to see where Papa lived and worked, though discounted for kids, though kids don’t come, they have better things to do. Day after day they come, each one with $16 dollars in hand, and extra money or lines of credit for the gift shop to buy my books, because my writing means something; to buy books about me, because I meant something; to buy trinkets to give as gifts or to sit on shelves gathering dust.
    They take they tour, barely listening to what the tour guide has to say unless there is a cat involved. People always give their fullest attention to the cats, especially the Asians and Europeans who have traveled across great oceans in the lap of luxury to be here, disembarking in Mallory Square where street performers draw applause and walk away with hats full of cash and coin, and bums sleep in the shade without enough cash or coin to get the drink they so badly need. They come here because they love reading so much, and take pictures of the pictures on the walls, never once reading any of the captions. They’re here because of me. My mug hangs down from every wall, yet I somehow feel as if I were fading away. They photograph themselves and each other and the cat on the bed. They photograph the non-existent walkway to my writing loft. They photograph the tour guide as he gives his tour. They photograph yet another lizard that can be found everywhere on the island. They photograph the pool and the penny and the signs about people I knew and the things I did. They photograph the toilet.
    They view whats left of my world through an uninvited lens instead of the books I wrote; and yet, somehow I'm more popular than ever. My image looms down large at Sloppy Joes, and both Joe and I have been gone for years.
    But they all love my writing. I overheard a couple of ladies ask a man in the giftshop, "Do you actually read his books? We never have." They were a couple of older ladies, older than the man they were questioning. They were shocked that he actually reads my work. He must be a misogynist.
    All I ever wanted was to be left alone to do my work, and for people to read my work. And because of that, I’m more popular than ever. I'm still the most popular writer in the world whom no one reads.
    And people still wonder to this day why I killed myself.

    Last edited by Queue; 28th Dec 2017 at 20:08.

  15. #15
    Registered: Feb 2002
    Location: In the flesh.
    Death is over rated. I enjoy your writing. Here then is a companion piece.

    There is no Bradbury's Ghost

    Here is no one and nothing. Nobody comes to see the house where so much imagination was poured into every line of spare prose. There are no lines of gawkers at his desk so full of the memorabilia there was hardly a place to type. All the emotion invested in each piece is swept away to dusty college bequeathment. All his life an investment in emotion. From the shear joy of being alive in "Dandelion Wine" to the courage of letting go that precious gift in "Endless Summer" his fans tasted their own mortality in all it's glory and wonder and wanted more as well they should. As well he meant they should.

    But no feet tread the path his wife planted her roses by. No buses unload legions of passengers seeking a taste of his life, some trace of magic left on the things he touched, to take home. And there was magic by the bucket, by the bushel, by the truck load. It came to him every morning as he rose from his simple bed that none will now see. Ideas lit upon him like the loving rays of an endless sun. He accepted them as one would the morning paper and sat down to work.

    Complex notions of every variety to win him awards he graciously accepted but set aside in search of the next notion. Things he never cared for except as those things brought out the best of us. And now there are no things. No pipe with faint odor of an evening smoke where the idea of burning pages drifted out and away to stain all humanity with warning. No veldt outside the living room window to draw ones sight and senses. No kite in that sky to strain it's own will against the pull of a young boy named Nightshade.

    There are no ghosts for the one who wrote of so many and was haunted by them in every deed and depth. No faint impression marks the chair where a thought came to him too horrible to mention and he could not wait to mention it. No worn place in carpet where he paced wishing for one last hug from his father so much that he would take one from the grave. All that he was is gone.

    All that remains where his house stood is the hole created by the monumental vanity, itself a hole in the man Thom Payne, that wiped away the vestiges of his life. We have his words and they are enough. More than enough.

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