Microfiction: Up

The two of them walk in the dark. No romance here. Only dark, and stars, and the moon, and science. In the distance, the space port has a rocket on the launch pad. They continue to walk over a hill and into a depression away from their own light pollution so they can look at the sky.

"What do you see when you look up?" she says.

"Possibility. The future. You?"

"Where we belong."

Violence - No Knife

“Oh crap!”

Probably not a good idea to say that aloud with my hand back for my knife. But, I realized it wasn’t there. I took it out earlier when I was taking a nap. It kept jabbing me in my side. Like a knife. Yeah, I’m an idiot.

Of course that exclamation just encouraged him further to charge me. Why not hit me hard and take me down? He had at least fifty pounds and six inches on me.

The chest blow hurt some, but the real pain came when we (me) hit the floor. My air exploded out of my lungs, and my back felt like an instant bruise.

It didn’t help either of us that when he speared me he wrapped his arms around me. For me, it meant it felt like I had rocks in my lower back: Oh joy, more pain. For him, it meant his arms were trapped under me.

He squeezed hard, so there was still no air in my lungs. I knew what he was trying to do: slam me down again. I couldn’t beat him on strength for strength.

I looked around. Quickly. Needle nose pliers. Those would hurt.

I grabbed them and jabbed hard into that soft spot between the shoulder and the neck. I got lucky. Pretty sure I wouldn’t have done much if I hit hard bone since they were old and dull and a bit rusty.

I will take the luck.

Yanking them back out did it. He was done then. He recognized it, but still tried to stop the bleeding. It wasn’t going to stop. And I was damned if I was going to help him.

I kicked him hard in the face. Childish, but I said it out loud, “Sweet chin music.”

He dropped and bled out there.

Heathen

“Hey yall! How was Mass?

“Mass was good Uncle Ernie.”

“Yeah, Mass was good. You should try it.”

“I leave that to you. I hope prayers were offered for my soul?”

“Prayers are always offered for everyone’s soul.”

“Always good to know.”

“Daddy, why can’t I stay home on Sundays and watch TV like Uncle Ernie?”

“Because you are not a heathen.”

“Ha!”

“What’s a heathen?”

“Someone who enjoys pleasure rather than going to Church.”

“Is that the same as a pagan?”

“No a pagan doesn’t believe what we believe.”

“Yes. I am not a pagan buddy. I was an altar boy. Even your dad can’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because he was a latecomer to the faith.”

“I converted.”

“And the converted are always the most fervent.”

“You are still a heathen.”

“Not even sure how you got up this morning, and got ready for Mass.”

“It was painful. But that is being a good Catholic.”

“So a heathen sleeps in late?”

“Only a Sunday buddy.”

No Story

“You fucked up again.”

“Yeah .. I am good at that.”

“That you are. Anything to say?”

“Not really. You know it all.”

“No pleading? No story?”

“Nah. What’s the fucking point? I did it. I fucked up.”

“Most people would tell some livid story. Some would cry. They would say something to save their asses.”

“Sorry. Not me. Unless you just want to be entertained. If so, I can recommend some good books and films.”

“Ha! I like that. ‘It is what it is.’”

“Yep. No dispute. No point in putting a spin on it.”

“You know I gotta do it it anyway.”

“Yeah. Just make sure I can work. No money coming in is no good for anyone.”

“I heard that. Ribs?”

“Yeah. Head some too is ok.”

Stupid Thoughts

He didn’t like the look of the three guys walking down the street towards him. He know this was stupid, and more than likely there would be nothing, and they would pass and say hi or howdy to each other (he had never been able to shake from saying howdy - maybe too many cowboy movies as a kid). But he still didn’t like the look of the three, so he moved his hand to his knife on his hip. In reality, the knife was nothing more than a security blanket, and he knew this. Sure, in his head and fantasies he liked to think he could use it fast enough to take out any attacker, like Zatoichi. He knew though he would just wind up a bloody mess on the ground like any other victim.

He flipped his shirt up just like in those old westerns, but his common sense was right and the three passed him except there was no hi or howdy since the boys could care less about him and were more interested in talking to each other.


Copyright 2012 by Casey Moore

Every Day/Meanest Thing

"Well, ten days of no drinking for me."

Sigh.

"You know, you don't have to drink every day."

He shoots her a look.

"Is that the meanest thing I have ever said to you?"

"One of them," he whines.

Violence - The Shoulder

He tries to raise his right arm. He gets the gun up; points it at the door. Then the arm drops. He tries again. Holding it there. Shaking. Pain. His arm drops again. He looks down at the blood coming from his shoulder.

“Figures I get shot in my shooting arm,” he thinks.

He reaches over with his left hand and picks up the gun. It feels awkward in this hand. He raises it and points at the door again. Propped up in the bed like a sick school boy. Waiting, his left arm shakes not used to the weight. Holding the gun. He knows his aim will be off. But at this distance, all that matters is he hits center mass. As long as he can stay conscious. The blood flowing out of him. He waits for the door to open.

Loose - Microfiction

“Whoa.”

He realizes he almost hit another car.

Switched lanes too close, he thinks.

Wheel feels loose in his hands. Car speeding up. Not really thinking through the driving. Just doing and reacting.

He enters a turn.

Car feels like it is sliding in the bend. He knows it isn’t, but in his head he isn’t holding his lane and is sliding out through the outside lanes.

“Hold on.”

He races to catch them. He knows they are somewhere ahead.

“Get control.”

Two cars ahead. One right in front. The other on the left. One in front is going to slow. Gap between is shrinking.

The Husband

“You need to stay away from my wife.”

He stares at the Husband across the table.

“I can’t threaten your kids. That is what I would normally do. But, as she has told me numerous times, they are her heart.”

“Bastard. You - “

“Yes. So, I can’t threaten the kids. Or her. But, I can threaten you.”

The Husband blinks.

“Oh, I won’t kill you. I can, however, make you suffer.”

“There is nothing …”

“Trust me. There is plenty. Suffering in all new ways. I never have to touch you even.”

“She doesn’t love you.”

“Yes she does. She just never got the chance before.”

Scary Knowledge - 1

A man and a woman walk through a large box store. He stops when they get to the massive aisles of cleaning supplies.

“This is one stop shopping for chemical warfare. Ammonia and bleach next to each other: I love it.”

“Your knowledge base scares me.”

They walk on. He looks at a row filled with Tide.

“Know what this aisle is?”

“What?”

“The beginning of napalm.”

“Why do you know this?”

“Gotta survive the apocalypse or revolution that is coming.”

They walk past cosmetics.

“In there: fingernail polish remover. Shit can warp a pan it gets so hot.”

She sighs.

“How do you know this?”

“Practice.”

Relax

He realizes his hands are gripping the wheel too tight.

 "No reaction time."

 He breathes heavily. He feels his weight settling and everything relaxing from the head down. The car in front is coming up fast, but he must take these few seconds. Finally it hits his hands, and they loosen on the wheel.

 He presses down on the accelerator and moves to the right passing the car.

 He can see the lines now. Not real lines. not hallucinations. These are lines he superimposes as hem oves through the traffic to show all the ways around and through the other cars.

 Relaxed he presses play. The music starts, and he presses down harder on the accelerator. 

"Stereotype."

 The car is moving faster now. He checks the dashboard clock and his watch.

 "Soon."

T.S. Lee - 1

He stares at the doorway watching the rain and the wind.

"What's the weather like?"

He looks at her. Just looks like he doesn't know what she is.

"It's a tropical storm. Sitting right on top of us. Three days of wet and windy."

"When does the bad stuff get here?"

Stares.

"Go look at the radar on TV. All that green and yellow - us for the next three days."

She walks away. He watches.

He turns back to watching the rain fall and the wind move the rain and trees all around.

He hopes she knows what disdain he has for her; but he knows that like the storm it might be too complex a thought.