He flicked the butt, still glowing, out of the car’s open window. A jogger or dog walker would stamp it out in due course.
He filled his lungs, checking his bank account with a smile. He expected more ceremony, more import to his last ciggie.
Image credit: El Caminante/Pixabay
This post was written for the YeahWrite #447 Microprose grid.
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I watch my four-year-old son spring from rock to boulder — a little mountain goat — giggling with pleasure.
“Don’t fall!” I call, my motherliness rising like bile in my throat.
He doesn’t hear, and keeps climbing — surefooted, confident.
I hope he never hears my anxiety.
This post was written for the YeahWrite #420 Microprose Challenge grid. Click on the badge (above) to read other entries, and to vote. Leave a comment for the writer letting them know what you enjoyed about their work too!
“And when will
you marry?” A thousand disapprovals danced beneath his words.
“When you find me a suitable suitor.”
“Give me your requirements.” He scrambled for pen and paper.
Rolling my eyes I listed; “Tall, handsome, wealthy. Doctor, lawyer, or engineer.”
“At your age,” he said, “isn’t sapience enough?”
This entry is submitted for YeahWrite #373 Microprose Challenge. Click the badge to read other entries. Don’t forget to comment and vote while you’re there!
Image credit: Jowhar Tirur/pexels
Arse over tea-kettle, and over I went. Legs swept from under me, roller skating mid-air like Wyle E. Coyote caught off a cliff, then down with a wallop.
Continue reading “Nuts!”
“It’s going swimmingly,” she said while catching the lifejacket and wrangling two teens.
My fingers trace the ridges on the back of her hand, puckering the skin. The silken thread of her life pulled too tightly.
“Lack of turgidity. A sign of dehydration,” my doctor-cousin informs me brusquely. But I know better. The Fates await her with sharpened scissors and a single eye.
I didn’t post in this week’s
YeahWrite Microprose #312 grid, but I love flash/microprose and wanted to play along with the other YeahWriters. The single word prompt was hand. This piece, about my maternal grandmother, is nonfiction.
They appear, carrying your fragile heart in their hands.
Shlurrpff, off the breast.
“I do myself”; an experiment in feeding.
Mismatched clothes, and shoes on the wrong feet.
Backpack on and away to school.
Friends and teams.
Is that my car?