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.

Microfiction challenge #3: Mystery, permanent, riding in an elevator

 “I think it’s permanent this time. He even took that creepy elk head.”

“Oh, Libby, I’m coming over with some chocolate. And Kleenex.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“I’m coming.” Marjorie hung up.

Shit, why did I mention the elk head? It’s going to be much harder to hide.

---

“Did you know the elevator’s not working?” Marjorie was panting.

“Again? You’re such a friend—willing to climb mountains to provide chocolate therapy.” Libby hugged Marjorie. “Come in.”

---

Later, ignoring the “Out of Service” sign, Libby pressed the down arrow. The doors opened. She stepped between the antlers and pressed “P”.

Microfiction challenge #2: Romance, merit, assembling furniture

“Hi, I’m Libby, the dancing queen!”

Matt stared, bewildered.

“From ABBA.” She pointed to a truck emblazoned with Assemble BaBy Assemble!

He laughed. “Come in.”

“You need help with a desk?”

“Correct. I was born without opposable thumbs.”

It was Libby’s turn to stare.

“Kidding. But pictograms and Allen keys are my nemesis.”

---

Twenty minutes later, Libby peered over Matt’s shoulder.  

“I assemble words too.”

“Then I gratefully accept more help.”

“T-E-M-E-R-I-T-Y."

“You’re brilliant!” Matt turned, smiling.

“Anything else I can assist with?”

“I lack the temerity to ask women out. Could you help with that?”

Libby grinned. “With pleasure.”