Very short fiction
“I don't know…” I said. “I'm still not certain that's a good idea.”
“Oh come on!” she replied, pretending to poke my ribs repeatedly with both her index fingers, making faux stabs in rapid fire sequence. I knew my part in this game of hers and pretended to try dodging her pokes. “What do you have to lose?”
Well...I don't know…” I said. “Everything!”, I thought.
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They came at night with their torches and weapons, like they always do. Teeth bared, eyes glazed, in heat for the hunting of the less-than. Nostrils flaring for the scent of fear, intoxicated by it.
Not my fear. Theirs. Fear of the Other. Of change.
Somewhere, faintly, fear of doing the wrong thing, of being found out, shamed. Of what they see of themselves in me.
Getting out to meet the mob robs them the joy of catch and they fall silent. Staring down the leader I deckare: “I am not a monster.”
This I will not survive.
#MicroFiction #TootFic #ShortHorror
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The excitement was downright tangible. Means of communication was found and proven to work!
The aliens had agreed to have their first press conference for journalists. One for each country, one question per journalist.
Just as everybody was set and the event was about to begin, there appeared to be some commotion among the press. Somebody was shuffling and elbowing their way up to the front.
There was some grumbling, but if only one out of around 200 was that uncivilized, things were pretty good, actually!
The conference began, it was time for first question. Just as the Afghani journalist was about to ask her question, that pushy one shouted:
“Why did you land HERE, instead of the United States?'
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I love you! But you don't need to know.
I miss you! But you don't need to know.
I long for your touch… But you don't need to know.
I think I'm broken. But you don't need to know.
You don't need to know it But I love you.
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“PUSH!” That voice, shouting, almost screaming, jolted me back into consciousness like an electric shock. Back in my body, back with the pain -
“PUSH!!!”
Gasping, I push.
“AGAIN! PUSH!”
Screaming, I push.
“How much longer?” I sob. “How – much – longer!”
“As long as it takes” came the answer. “Now, PUSH!”
“How many more?” I whimper. “I… I can't handle any more…”
“Yes you can. PUSH! PUSH as many as there is to push!” answered the voice.
Then, through my agonizing push I hear another voice, quieter, nearer: “We didn't rear you to be our Queen for nothing.”
Fedizen of the mastodon.art at @ovro@mastodon.art, come say hi.
Some years ago there was a thread I spotted on the birdsite. It started with this prompt: “Introduce a male character like male screenwriters describe women characters, GO.” I got a bit carried away and what could have been one short (and somewhat snarky) post, turned into a short story.
Adam Proudwood was nearing 30 and as such was already past his prime. He was keenly aware of this fact, although by looking just at his body, you wouldn't notice it. Or his age. Most people did look at his body, with eyes hungry – or envious. He was of the tall, lean, slim type. His masculinity was obvious, and although it wasn't that of bulging muscles, he projected strength. He walked with an effortless stride and had that kind of swing to his gait you could not help yourself from watching him walk toward you and then turning to check his backside as he strolled past.
His stomach didn't have any of the extra baggage men his age typically carried around. It was still flat and youthful. His chest and the curvatures of his back told: this man may not lift weights, but he is agile and in perfect control of his body.
His legs were long and went all the way up to a perfectly formed, firm buttocks. He wore tight, well fitting clothes in natural materials. Not to show off, but because he found them comfortable. He liked how his clothes felt on his skin, which seemed to have a natural sheen to it, as if inviting you to touch him if only to feel if his skin was as soft to the touch as it looked like.
If you could pry your eyes away from his tight trousers nicely showing the outlines of his up tucked penis (he had long past given up trying to wear boxers, their seams rubbed uncomfortable against his member – he was not only a grower, but a shower as well), you'd notice a classically handsome face under shortish hair that seemed to have a mind of its own.
His eyes, though, hiding behind long, thick lashes, had the look that revealed his age. He had that troubled look of a man with history of love stories ending up in heart break and that heart break was his. His appearance told proudly to the world: here is the perfect combination of the readyness of youth and the skill and endurance of a man. Of course, these days all this didn't come naturally. He practiced yoga every day and ran.
He was on his way to catch a train to his granddad's birthday. A family reunion he had grown to dread. “Still not married?” his uncles would say. “Soon you'll have to settle for anyone who'd take you, or you'll die alone and unhappy.” “When will you give me grandchildren?” his father would ask, with a pointed stare at his groin.
Adam would wonder why his father didn't pester his sisters, but instead encouraged them to study as far as they could. “Titles won't carry on the family blood or name!” he had once told Adam. “Your sisters need a steady, good income before they can even think of starting families”, his uncles explained.
Preparing himself mentally for a grueling evening, he stepped into the train and found his place. Next to him sat a woman reading a book on solar sails, making notes as she progressed. She was older than him and radiated the kind of hot charisma that comes from knowing exactly who you are and what you want.
As he sat beside her, she glanced up at him and said: “Well hello there! I hope you are in for a long ride.” Slightly blushing Adam turned his head to look out the window at the scenery starting to pass by quicker every minute. He was quite aware of her looking at him inch by inch and felt slightly tingly.
Fedizen of the mastodon.art at @ovro@mastodon.art, come say hi.