MFM: Shadows Among Smoke

A fog settles between the ground and the sky, like a cloud that has sunk too low. The fog is thick and heavy, creeping into every inch of space and squeezing the oxygen out of my lungs. But people continue to march on through, as if the air is clear and the sky is blue and the clouds are out of reach as they should be.

Among those people, solid and real, are figures as pale as the fog, fading in and out of vision like a shadow among smoke. They lean in close, to the business suits and the dark-eyed students and the elderly alone on benches. Their mouths move in blurs, whispering secrets and spells. The reactions are subtle, but undeniable—shoulders sag, backs quiver, chests exhale in longing.

I hear it: a voice that doesn’t form words but sends chills down my spine and into my toes. It makes my heart twist and ache, makes my fingers reach for someone who isn’t there. I flinch as a figure floats past me, through me. He moves on, to new victims of the same whispers, unnoticed by all—except, evidently, me.

I stare as he turns unexpectedly, catching my eye and matching my gaze. He freezes, brow furrowed. Then he smirks, wiggles his fingers adieu, and dissolves away into nothing.

And yet I know, somehow, that he’ll be back.

MFM: Polaris

I cross my yard in the early morning air, pausing to wiggle my toes amidst sharp blades of grass and grainy clumps of dirt. I look up—instinctively, reflexively—searching or stories and magic twinkling against their dark backdrop, just barely out of reach. Polaris shines brighter than them all: the night’s lighthouse, guiding people home for eons.

The moon shines down in spotlights, tracking me as I spin in the grass below. I nearly slip from the dew on my makeshift dancefloor. Still, I spin faster, until the stars are streaks of silver above. Faster, until the swirling air feels like it could lift me off the ground. Faster, until I’m stumbling over my giggles and laughter and can’t spin any longer.

I close my eyes and imagine the big dipper tipping and showering me with stardust. I dance with fragments of the universe until they fade in the glowing embers of the sun. The warmth of dawn melts the cosmos to my skin, and I am one with the universe.

MFM: Sticks n Stones

I’ve fallen from bikes, from rollerblades, from ice skates, from shoes. I’ve been scraped and sprained and battered and bruised. I fear the sensation of falling, and crashing, and tumbling, and the aching that will inevitably follow.

But while I may fear the sticks and stones and broken bones, I don’t remember them. I don’t remember the pain of a tattoo needle until I’m already in the chair. I don’t remember the sting of pavement carving off skin until I’m already on the ground. I don’t remember the force of a lego piece until it is already underfoot. I forget these things, diminish these things, wince once at the pain and move on.

But someone called me annoying once, and I have believed it ever since.

And someone criticized my excitement once, and I have subdued myself ever since.

And someone listed all my flaws once, and I've had them branded in my brain ever since.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words are easier to memorize.

MFM: Connection

How many times had he taken this for granted? The always constant signal, the instant nature of knowledge and conversation—a world and lifestyle he had been born into. His whole life, he had used it without question, never noticing how much he needed it until it wasn’t there.

He called her over and over and over:

Voicemail.

Voicemail.

Try again later.

(But without words now, there wouldn’t be a later.)

Layers of cement separated them, strangling the connection in more ways than one. They had said goodbye before dusk, she had left before dawn. It was easier. But too late, he had changed his mind. So now he ran, phone glued to his ear.

Voicemail.

Voicemail.

Try again.

(And again, and again.)

He reached the platform as the train picked up speed. He could see her clearly, focused on her own screen, looking up just in time for eye contact before vanishing into the shrouded tunnel.

Maps are only useful if you know your destination; they had never discussed where she was going, only that she was leaving. Still he stumbled, breathless, to the routes plastered on the wall. He didn’t know what he needed; a sign, a clue, a hint.

What he needed, in the end, is what he got—a stop, circled crudely on the glass with marker, accompanied by her handwriting:

FIND ME.

So he did.

Micro Fiction Monday: Life (BEDS 411)

I’m used to emptiness. You know—dirt roads, single street-light towns, skies that stretch on forever just to remind you of how far you have to go just to find a shopping mall. I’m used to knowing everyone, and having the entire town’s history imprinted on the back of my hand. I’m used to feeling stuck, in this tiny corner of the world, where insignificance runs rampant. It’s incredible how suffocating fresh air can be.

But here….there’s life here. I see more people flash by in a minute than I see in a day back home. People are walking and talking and laughing and doing. Noises fill the silence, and skyscrapers fill the sky—evidence that there is more in this world than just me. Here, I can stare out my window and see more than just a tractor driving by. Here, I can see different people from different backgrounds, doing a hundred different things at the same time—instead of just the same old farmers in the same old dirty overalls.

A small town has the space to stretch your wings, with nowhere to fly. Here, where buildings stretch higher than I could ever imagine…anything is possible.

Micro Fiction Monday - Freedom (BEDS 404)

I keep my eye on the horizon. It stretches forever; I’m not used to it. I’m used to concrete towers, buildings stretching high into the sky, people visible from every corner and every coordinate. Business and busyness, cramped and crazy, where the closest thing to freedom is stepping on a balcony as high as you can get. Where you try to see everything, but can only ever get a fraction of all the uninterrupted movement. Flatness is foreign to me.

But here, flat is everywhere—where the tallest building is a storey and a half, and I can see the end of every street I turn onto. Where the greens outnumber the greys, and the sky is so blue that it seems more like a cartoon backdrop than reality. The air smells different, tastes different, feels different. Here, freedom is seeing the world open up around you, its limits beyond your line of sight, if there are even any limits at all. Freedom is reaching up towards the clouds, because they’re so close that touching them is somehow closer to a reality than a mere possibility. Freedom is reaching out on either side, and never touching another soul.

Freedom is feeling like, at any moment, you can jump and never come down.

Micro Fiction Monday: Shooting Star

It flashes by in a single streak against black—the world’s only evidence of magic. Over in half a second, and the sky turns back to darkness.

Most people miss it. They’re too blinded by the city lights, or too caught up in dream world to notice the spark of wonder above their heads. Those who are lucky enough to catch that glimpse don’t even see the stardust in their hands; they brush it off like dirt. They carry on with their lives, oblivious to what they gave up.

But some people know. These people are few in numbers, dwindling down as time goes on, but they still exist. They see the light for what it is. They catch the stardust, cradle it in their hands, and don’t dare to let it go. They bottle it up, seal it tight, and wear it around their necks--not as a trophy, but a symbol.

They kiss that bottle and make a wish. Because the people who believe, who see the possibility in a small vial of glitter...

Those people conquer the world.

Micro Fiction Monday: Dot, Dot, Dot

Sometimes, in cartoons, the artist likes to use an ellipsis to portray an awkward encounter. You know, that little “dot, dot, dot” thing? Cartoonists will leave it hanging in the middle of a panel, with no speech bubble or narration box or anything. It emphasizes the silence—it makes it louder, more awkward or tense, et cetera.

If my life were a cartoon—which, sometimes, I swear it is, because it is just so ridiculous—there would be one big, fat ellipsis staring me in the face right now. Like, I can practically see it. In my entire life, I don’t think I’ve ever encountered such an awkward silence in my life.

And all I said was, “Hi.”

Okay, back up. How do I explain this as briefly and as clearly as possible? Long story short: I had a best friend. Once. Past tense. But we were pretty good—I dare say amazing, together. We had the telepathy thing going on, the whole shebang. You wanted gross fast food at 2:30 in the morning? You had someone to drive you there, without question.

And then I, the genius I am, decided to move away. I chose a different school a million miles away, and suddenly, that was that. No more telepathy. No more late night take out. No more 3 AM emergency phone calls.

Nothing.

I’ve long since acknowledged that what happened was my fault. I picked the school over him. I chose studying over him. I chose my new friends over him. And eventually, I became his second choice, too.

Fast forward to now—I’m a college graduate. I’m back in my hometown, if only for the summer. And there he is—four years older, but still just the same.

He says hi.

I say hi.

Dot.

Dot.

Dot.

Micro Fiction Monday: Stubborn

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you, uh...did you need any help?”

I huffed as I shifted the weight of the dozen or so books in my arms. Behind my massive stack was a girl, wearing a blue t-shirt and a staff lanyard around her neck. She was staring at my books, a basket extended hesitantly towards me.

I smiled. “No thanks, I’m good!”

She blinked and nodded. “Alright. Sure.” It took her a moment before she moved on, still glancing over her shoulder as she went.

The line in front of me shifted, and I shuffled forward to follow. A Shakespearean play slid uneasily on top, and I nudged it back into place with my forehead.

Another staff member—this one a guy, with his hair slicked back into a bun—walked past, before doubling back. He looked my selection up and down and cocked an eyebrow. “Did you want a basket?”

“Nope!”  I said, ignoring the quivering protest of my arms. “I’m okay, thanks.”

He opened his mouth and took a breath. “Really,” I said. “I’m fine.”

He shook his head and moved on.

The line moved once more, keeping in pace with the eternal wait time that had been prevalent all afternoon. I could see the front, now, along with all four frazzled and exhausted cashiers. When it was my turn, I shuffled forward and dropped my load onto the counter with a crash.

The cashier looked at the books, then back up at me. “We charge $2.95 for bags,” she said flatly.

I hesitated, staring at my books in contemplation. Finally, I sighed. “Do it.”

Micro Fiction Monday: End of Summer (BEDS 019)

I dipped my big toe in first. The water was cold—freezing, even—but so was the air around me. The sun was just beginning to shimmer above the horizon. It was too early to be awake, and far too soon to be leaving.

At least, that’s what everyone said. But summer was ending, and already I could see a yellow tint on the leaves above the cabin. Registration for classes had come and gone, and back-to-school ads plagued the radio that my sister had brought down to the beach every day. Now, the car was getting packed and loaded, and soon our summer home would disappear behind the mountains for another nine months.

I lowered myself onto the dock, easing the rest of my foot into the water. I swung my other leg around and eased it in, too, shivering as I did. There was no time to be slow, no time to get used to the temperature. So I slowly swung my legs beneath the water, hands gripping the dock, and stared off at the horizon as the sun inched its way up. The other cottages dotting the lake remained dark, and the birds and crickets remained quiet.

In that moment, it was just me and the lake. Just how I liked it.

                
Eventually, my peace ended. I was called back to the car, the engine revved, and we pulled out of the driveway for the last time. With my sister already asleep on my shoulder, I watched as our house disappeared out of sight, taking my summer with it.

Micro Fiction Monday: Mondays (BEDS 012)

“Gooooood morning, WTXY listeners! What a beautiful way to start a Monday, am I right? The sun is shining, it’s a beautiful seventeen degrees celsius, and we’ve got all the hottest tunes to start your week off right! We’re gonna—“

I slammed my fist down on the radio, and with a staticky fizzle, the announcer finally shut up. Last night, the idea of setting the radio as my alarm seemed ingenious—what better way to get me up and at ‘em as quickly as possible? Clearly, I didn’t account for the overly-enthusiastic host, which did more to chew at my nerves than motivate me to get out of bed.

I groaned and squinted at the sliver of light shining through my curtains. Mornings and Mondays are horrible enough by themselves—put them together and they’re basically a gift from Satan. I pushed myself up in bed, knowing that the longer I stayed there, the more likely it was that I’d fall asleep, and make the day worse than it already was. At this stage, there was only one thought on my mind.

Coffee.

I stumbled, half-blind and sluggish from the lingers of dreamland, out of my room and down the hall to the kitchen. I had to mentally track the process, for fear that any wander would result in broken ceramics on the floor.

Step one: grab mug. Check.

Step two: Fill with water. Check

Step three: pour into coffee maker. Check.

Step four: insert single-serve coffee grounds. Check.

Step five. I slammed my hand down on the “brew” button and leaned against the counter, waiting for the satisfying gurgle of God’s beverage being made.

What I heard instead was a moan, a hissing, and a pop as the machine sprayed water all over the counter, the mug…and myself.

Micro Fiction Monday: A World of Magic (BEDS 005)

I live in a world where magic exists. When I was thirteen, I was presented with a choice—continue to live in complete mediocrity, or move to the place where animated movies are set and fairy tales are inspired by.

Needless to say, I chose the latter, and my life became an adventure. I have ridden on broomsticks and magic carpets, I have fought dragons and danced with princes and learned that once you sprinkle pixie dust on something, in never comes out.

The world is not without its dangers, of course. I have scars from close encounters with daggers and swords. Falling from flight often leads to a concussion, and dragons are far scarier than they are mystical. Many people would say that leaving the world I know, leaving my home, is not worth the life of adventure I live now.

I would disagree. Sometimes, the “home” you thought you had is nothing but another scar. I have mastered this world, I have grown into it. It is no longer the realm of fairy tales, but of reality.

Now, this world of magic is my home, and it’s the people I’ve met that have made it so.

Micro Fiction Monday: The First Leaf

At exactly 3:42 on a Tuesday afternoon, the first leaf of autumn fell. Everyone knew it was coming—the leaves were all shades of golden and auburn, and the sun was beginning to set early in the evening. It was only a matter of time before one gust of wind carried enough chill to pluck the dying leaf from its branch, lowering it gently to the ground.

This moment of contact, the first of many, marked the official End of Summer. It was the point of no return, the first preparation for winter. The moment you know that there will be no more warm days on the forecast, and that every risk of rain would quickly become a risk of snow. It’s the moment everyone finally packs away their shorts and tank tops, dares to put the sunscreen farther back in the bathroom cabinet. It’s the moment every child finally accepts that school is back for the long run, and when every parent realizes that Christmas is just around the corner.

The first leaf marks an end, a beginning, and the beginning of a larger end as we enter the final quarter of the year. It holds all the memories of a summer gone, and all the possibilities of a year yet to come. It’s not only the essence of change, but a reminder that some things never do.

Micro Fiction Monday: Weakness

“Need any help?”

I closed the book as I looked up, careful to keep my finger between the pages. “No, thanks, I’m good!”

The employee looked at me warily. “Okay. Let me know if you do.”

I nodded and smiled, turning back to the shelf as though I was still contemplating my purchase. “Absolutely!”

He stuck around a little longer this time. I ran my fingers across the spines, even pulled out another book and compared it to the one I had. As soon as he was out of sight, I shoved it back into place and opened the one I had spent the last hour and a half reading.

I don’t normally do this, I swear. But the library waiting list was like a mile long, and payday wasn’t for another week...I had every intention to buy the book. Just, y’know. After I had spent numerous hours reading it in the store.

Pretending not to read, though, is really, really hard when it’s a very, very good book. I tried to move around inconspicuously, but it was never long before an employee turned up, eager to make a sale. The last one—a boy with shaggy hair and a silver earring his left ear—had already approached me three times. 

“Hey.”

Make that four. I flushed and slammed the book shut again. “Sorry, I was just—“

The employee shook his head and thrust a slip of paper at me. I blinked. It was a receipt.

“Take this with the book into the coffee shop,” he said. “Quick. Before my manager sees.”

I took it slowly. “Wow. Um. Thanks.”

He smiled. “Just let me know what you think when you’re done. I’ve been wanting to read that all week.”

He walked away, leaving me stunned in the mystery section.

Micro Fiction Monday: A Light in the Dark

The last thing you expect to hear at five am on the beach is singing. Maybe three hours earlier, when clubbers were still stumbling down the boardwalk, high on the intoxication of alcohol and a summer getaway. Maybe three hours later, when the families with young, early-riser children start to make their descent onto the beach, flooding the air with the scent of sunscreen and the sound of childish laughter. But not at five. Five is the transition point--the point where it stops being late, and starts being early. At five, some people are waking up, but no one is on the move—or even singing at all, for that matter.

And yet, I’m standing here in the moonlight, surrounded by the voice trickling down from God knows where.

I look across the boardwalk, but all the expensive villas, tourist shops…even the convenience store is dark. There isn’t a soul awake, a single window brightened. Except…

There is one single, giant lightbulb illuminated. It sweeps across the ocean, disappearing into the distance before rounding back again. In all the years I’ve been here, out of all the nights spent partying around bonfires on the beach, never have I seen the lighthouse functional.

Then again, never have I ever been out here at five am.

As I approach the towering monument, I start to see a figure standing in the window. A portion of the glass is propped open, allowing her song to drift down to the sand below. The song is unfamiliar, and the voice is the most stunning I’ve ever heard, but that’s not what sends me gaping at the building.

No, what catches me off guard is the long, billowing stream of human hair, flowing out the window and waving at me in the wind.

Micro Fiction Monday: Fragile

I should have known it would end here. I tried so hard to stop it. Knowing the future, it seems, does nothing but turn you into a constant state of denial.

Here’s the thing that no one knew about time travel: the time-space continuum is not a fragile thing. There is no butterfly effect; squashing a bug will never destroy the entire human race. Rather, it’s self repairing. Kill a cricket ten, twenty years ago, and you’ll return to your own, unaltered timeline. It’s like throwing a pebble in the ocean—the ripples only go so far.

There’s an event horizon in the continuum, and once you reach it, there’s no going back. Nothing can be changed, because any attempts at alteration will be smoothed out in the rough current of the time stream. No one knew this—not even me.

So I stood on the brink of it all, rewinding and replaying, twisting and turning the events that had set the greatest tragedy of my life into motion. But with every attempt I made, the laws of the universe followed suit, and nothing brought me any closer to my goal.

I returned to my own time, numb with the pain of having watched death perform a hundred times over.

Micro Fiction Monday: Summer Is

Summer is feet on the dashboard, plastic warmed by the shining sun. It’s the howling wind when you roll down the car window, the country station blasting through the speakers. Summer is an excuse to eat ice cream, licking the stray drips off your fingers. It’s running around barefoot, abandoning your sandals to feel the sand, the pavement, the grass beneath your toes.

Summer is possibility. It’s the feeling that longer days mean more time, that you can hop on the wind and ride it for miles. Summer is temporary freedom—from school, from work, from responsibility. It’s a day at the beach, or at the park, or just driving around doing nothing at all.

Summer is everything, and nothing. It’s a vacation, a road trip, cramming every second full with something new and exciting. It’s a day spent at home, in the comfort of air conditioning, licking a popsicle from the comfort of your own couch. Summer is both comfort and excitement, and everything in between.

Summer is the hope that, at the end of it all, you’ll have an amazing story to tell.

Micro Fiction Monday: Truth or Dare

“I’m not doing it.”

“You picked dare.”

“Yeah, because there are only so many things you can do in a car going a hundred miles an hour.”

“And this is one of them!”

“And it’s insane. I’m not doing it.”

“Come oooooooon!”

“No. You can’t make me.”

“I’ll pay for your share of gas money for the rest of the trip.”

“…….I hate you.”

“Is that a yes?”

I sighed and unbuckled my seatbelt. “Just realize that if I die, you’re the one who’s going to be cleaning my dead carcass off the interstate.”

He grinned. “Sounds like a yes to me.”

I rolled my eyes and swung my legs over the console. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

“I’ll let you know if any cops come.”

“I’m more concerned about dying, but thanks, I guess.”

I positioned myself in the back of the car and made eye contact with him in the rearview mirror. He grinned again and reached up to hit a button on the dashboard, opening the sunroof above me.

“Good luck,” he yelled over the wind.

With a pounding heart and sweaty palms, I gripped the edges of the window and pulled myself through the gaping hole in the roof. The wind plugged my ears and dried out my eyes as I squinted into the sun in front of me. I stretched my legs slowly, rising above the car and the blurring landscape around me.

And suddenly, I was flying. The wind pushed my hair out of my face, and the sun shone on me like a spotlight as I flew down the highway. I stretched my arms to the sky and squealed, basking in the warmth of the setting sun, before the car horn sounded, and I dropped back down to safety.

Micro Fiction Monday: Freedom

I saw the movement before I felt it. I had already been staring out the window for a solid ten minutes, unblinking, as I willed the metal mechanisms to pull the train forward. Then, the flowers began to move outside the window—slowly, at first, then faster, as the car lurched forward. Gears moaned and clunked together,  and I heard the engine puff and wheeze with the effort. The whistle sounded.

We were moving.

The attendant had told me to sit still, especially if this was my first time, but the energy and excitement and anticipation had built too high. I was overflowing, and like the wooden cars surrounding me,, I needed to move.

I pushed myself out of my seat and started walking, then running, then flying down the aisle. I leaped over bags and dodged passengers, yelling their complaints to my vanishing figure. I jumped from one car to the next, running opposite from where the train was taking me, my feet no longer fast enough to keep up as the scenery began to whiz by the windows. 

I pushed open a final door and felt the rush of fresh air, the wind grabbing my silk hair and running wild with it. I caught myself on the railing of the caboose, watching as the city already started to disappear from view. So it wasn’t as big as everyone thought, after all.

The whistle blew again as the train reached full speed, pulling my away from the place I had hated for so long. I closed my eyes and breathed in the freedom, the relief, and the peace.

Micro Fiction Monday: Sunken Memories

The smell of campfires hit me in the face as I turned the page. Not literally, because I was in my room in the middle of the afternoon, and in no way remotely close to a bonfire. But this slightly dented hardback, its pages already creased from the dog ears of another read-through, was one I bought last summer. The first time I read it was by the light of the fire pit outside our tent, and the smell came back to me now, as though the pages had absorbed the smoke when I was reading.

~~

The next book I read brought a cool breeze to my cheeks, and though the air was silent, I could hear the jingle of holiday songs. I closed my eyes and saw soft yellow lights among thick green branches, could feel the satisfaction of wrapping paper tearing beneath my fingers, revealing the cover that I was now holding in my hands. The first time I read it was that afternoon, during the peaceful quiet of a holiday.

~~

I crack open my new book as I exit the bookstore, the rush of a new addition to my collection still fresh in my bones. The air has a chill to it, and I quickly zip up my jacket, tugging my silk scarf farther up my face. My eyes drift over the new, unfamiliar words as my boots crunch through the dead, fallen leaves.

And like every book I’ve read before, this memory will soak itself into the pages of this book, only to be released when I start the story anew.