Microfiction #10: Xenofiction, eating, grass

Body count

Finn reminded the school: this is a census. There is to be NO contact. WHATSOEVER.

He swivelled his snout towards Ripley, who last year had succumbed to temptation and nudged a few splashers. The resulting pandemonium of flailing limbs emptied the waters before they could get a decent count. Ripley grinned. A mostly intact salmon he had been tongue-rolling, savoring its oily sweetness, shot from between five rows of jagged pearly whites and high-finned it towards the seagrass.

And remember, Finn ordered, when I give the signal, submerge! You know how hysterical they get when they spot our dorsal bits.

Microfiction challenge #9: Steampunk (maybe*), balloon, looking at a watch

Libby and Beatrice dodged rocks and tree roots, giggling as their pantaloons ballooned around their legs. They slowed as they approached the expanse of Pteridium aquilinum, a hoary quietude devoid of birdsong and beech-leaf rustle.

The hush shattered. Music, maybe, but unlike any from a piano or dulcimer. The ferns backbended as the girls crept towards the source. Libby crouched and picked up a flat object. Letters glowing like fireflies spelled out “Missed call.” And beneath, “August 17, 2:27.” Libby checked the pocket watch attached to her bodice and turned the face towards Beatrice.

2:27.

The object went dark.

*Despite my best investigative efforts, I am still not entirely sure what steampunk is.

Microfiction challenge #8: Tart noir, heel, eyes meeting

 “Is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”

“It’s a pistol.”

Libby shifted her gaze from the gun’s barrel. His formerly baby blues were now glacial.  

“I guess I wasted my money on these fuck-me shoes.”

“I’m not opposed to mixing business and pleasure.” He waved his gun towards the bed.

Taking advantage of the distracted crosshairs, Libby executed a classic tart noir maneuver.* The gun fired but failed to halt her forward momentum, his left eye a lava flow of colour and drama as she impaled it with a three-inch heel.

*Forgive me for this sketchy plot device. 

Microfiction challenge #7: Historical fiction, horizon, opening a window

  Open the window, Vladimir.

It’s cold.

Please.

He rolled it down an inch. Laika thrust her nose at the gap, whole body wagging.

It won’t be painful. And it will be quick.

Quick? Seven days? And barely able to move?

Vladimir reached for Irina’s right hand. She curled it into a fist and jammed it against her mouth to keep from punching him.

---

How long was Laika able to view the thin blue horizon as Sputnik-2 orbited the earth? Not nearly as long as planned. But Vladimir didn’t tell Irina that. Let her swallow the Party's more palatable propaganda.

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smithsonian-institution/sad-story-laika-space-dog-and-her-one-way-trip-orbit-1-180968728/

Microfiction challenge #6: Fairy tale, rocker, dancing

7:00 p.m. Time for the dream-lost sleep of the elderly.

But when the residents returned to their rooms, each found a sumptuous outfit on their bed. And an invitation to the “Get off your rocker!” ball that night.

They scoffed, yet none could resist the urge to don dresses and tails. None except Grumpelstiltskin. 

Swathed in silk and velvet, the residents were energized. All attended the ball and danced until dawn. All except Grumpelstiltskin.

The outfits vanished. But the materials had been impregnated with a skin-penetrating life-lust that reawakened the residents’ joy. Except for Grumpelstiltskin’s, who lived listlessly ever after.

Microfiction challenge #5: YA, banana, flying

 "Cool!” Marjorie ran one hand over the Schwinn’s stingray handlebars and banana seat.

“Wanna try it?” Libby swung her leg over the crossbar. Marjorie perched behind her, arms hugging Libby’s waist.

The bike wobbled until it picked up speed, both girls whooping with glee. The whooping rose in intensity as they started down the hill on Patrick Street, then veered into a screech as Libby swerved to avoid a pothole. The bike careened wildly. Its front tire clipped the sidewalk and the girls were sent flying into Mrs. Gamble’s hedge.

Giggling, they extricated themselves, yew-bits garlanding their hair. High five!

Microfiction challenge #4: Horror, gorge, making a phone call

He’s gorgeous. Or at least his photo is. It was probably AI-enhanced. So was hers.

Libby phoned him. After months of online flirtations, they are both eager to arrange an in-person date. His voice is gorgeous too. So is hers, thanks to a voice changer app. He’s probably using one as well. She has no issues with this camouflage. This is a hunt, after all.

Might they be a perfect couple? Maybe he's in a cutthroat line of work as well? Libby smiles at the appropriateness of the adjective. Cut throat.

Time to shave her legs and hone the blade.