Archive for the 'MiniStory' Category

10-word Stories

Jun 24 2016 Published by under MiniStory

I sometimes like to try out contests/submission themes with interesting premises just to extend my creativity. Here are some six-word stories that I recently wrote for a contest (unsuccessfully, but I had fun, which, in this case, is all I ask for). They’re actually a lot harder than expected.

  1. Red. White. Blue. Blood. Snow. Eyes.
  2. Feet protruded from the open grave.
  3. She kissed me. He followed suit.
  4. He promised forever and then delivered.
  5. It wept as she unplugged it.

Have you ever tried writing six-word stories?

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For Love & Perfume

Aug 08 2011 Published by under MiniStory

He handed her the object he held loosely in one hand. She looked at it confused and them back up at him. 

"Tell me how much you love me."

She opened her mouth to speak but before any words could spill from her lips, he held his hand up to stop her.

"No," he said emphatically and grabbed her hand, the one holding the object he had given her, "Tell me how much you love me."

She frowned, frustrated and confused.  He poked again at her hand and she dutifully raised it to examine the object closer. It looked like a fat pencil, capped with a flimsy plastic cover. She slowly uncapped it and was hit by a tartly sweet scent of lemons and summer. She looked up at him, understanding dawning in her eyes.

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Mystery Girl

Jul 25 2011 Published by under MiniStory

“She looked at me!”

“No way! Not you!”

“No really! I swear I saw her looking at me when I walked by her today. And that smile…”

“You got one of her smiles?”

“Yeah. But I have no chance. You know she’s with that mysterious guy that no one knows about.”

“I bet you she’s just making that guy up! I mean no one has seen him.”

“I know but hey, man, you never know. I mean she’s pretty mysterious herself.”


Their voices, brash and young, drifted off to a murmur and the man looked up, distracted by his thoughts, thoughts put into his mind by the two young men striding across the courtyard.

He was curious.

That, in and of itself, was not unique. He was a curious man and he did not shy away from this quality of himself. What was different this time was that he was curious about a woman.

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My Grandfather, Dead

Jul 11 2011 Published by under MiniStory

Hate. Hate was running through her veins. Well, the girl reflected, maybe it wasn’t hate but it was certainly extreme dislike. Loathing perhaps? Definitely dislike. And right now, all of this dislike was directed at one person.

Her aunt. That bitch.

This dislike was a very uncomfortable feeling. The girl wasn’t used to disliking anyone. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had disliked someone else this intensely. She was usually easy-going. A pushover maybe. She thought about that word a bit in her mind. No. Probably not a pushover. Definitely not used to hating anyone though. The feeling sat in her stomach, burning, simmering, a strange sort of heat. It was strangely satisfying. Perhaps she was a masochist.

The girl shivered a little. The room was cool, icy even. That was to be expected in a morgue of course. It was a small room, and she was facing the silver doors that held the bodies. That held a certain body. She shivered a little again, this time not with the cold. The security guard tried to joke with her but her solemn face staring back at him dimmed his cheer so he busied himself with whatever he was doing. As the body slid out, almost soundlessly, she caught her breath. She didn’t know what she was expecting but she certainly wasn’t expecting herself to be standing here, watching her grandfather rolling out on soundless wheels with an icy blast of air seemingly propelling him towards her.

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Jun 27 2011 Published by under MiniStory

They wheeled him in quickly. Too quickly for him to make out his surrounding, white and grey and green flashes of movement flying past him. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like he was paying attention. No, he was focused inwardly instead, praying, hoping. What exactly was he hoping? He himself wasn’t sure of it. He just knew that it was the thing to do when one found themselves in these situations. His heart jumped in his chest erratically, dreading what was to come even though he had been reassured many times by official looking doctors who seemed to have a lot more knowledge than he would ever have. They said everything was going to be all right and that everything would go swiftly, that everything was routine, but he was still afraid.

He knew he had to go through with it, in order to fix him, to make what was wrong in him right. Still, the vague specter of death floated in the back of his mind. Anything could go wrong. Even though all his research said this surgery only had 0.1% of death, still, that meant some people did die. Maybe this was the time something could go wrong. His heartbeat jumped up another notch, keeping time with the rapid squeaking of the wheels bumping under his prone body. Doors opened before him, closed behind him, and yet, they kept moving.

Suddenly, everything came to a standstill and he found himself in a white room. Metal gleamed all around him. Computer screens with obscure symbols glowed green. A figure loomed next to him saying words that were muffled. He struggled to understand, but then, something clamped over his mouth and nose. This shock caused him to gasp deeply, drawing in a strange smelling gas up inside of him. He tried to expel it, but it was too late. His body began to freeze slowly. Not with cold, just with non-movement. It was impossible to twitch now and a feeling of claustrophobia descended on him.

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Monday Evening

Jan 10 2011 Published by under MiniStory

She comes in every Monday evening, exactly an hour before closing.

Some days, she wanders dreamily among the shelves until the closing announcement, a finger sliding lovingly along the multicolored spines of the books. Her eyes, heavy-lidded with sleepiness, scan the shelves for ones that catch her attention. She pulls down the book, reads the description, flips through the pages, and ponders whether or not to add it to the growing pile she carries nonchalantly balanced in the crook of her right arm.

Other days, her steps are purposeful, her stride long and steady despite the spindly towering heels she always wore. She walks quickly to the shelves of requested books on hold and pulls down the stack wrapped in rubber bands and scrap paper with her name on them.

He doesn’t like those days so much, because she’s in and out within ten minutes and it doesn’t give him time to track her with his eyes, to ponder or dream of the possibilities.

Her dresses always swirl around her knees as she goes up to the checkout desk. He likes to watch her come towards him, her intelligent eyes gleaming with recognition, and he pretends for just a moment that she’s here just to see him. She says hello in her low musical voice, asks how he is doing. He smiles at her and says he’s doing fine, just fine. His hands are quick as he scans the books into the computer system. He doesn’t pay attention to them. They know what to do without him telling them. Instead, he pays attention to her, asking how she’s doing, asking after her family, what she’s been doing in her life. She regales him with quick, humorous bits and pieces that he stores in his memory to remember later when he’s alone at home. Too soon, he finds his hands empty, the books neatly piled on the counter. She takes them into her arms, holding them close and he looks at them longingly, enviously. As she turns to leave, he quickly calls out to her the due date of the books, and she always, always turns back, flashing one quick crooked smile in his direction, says thank you. He always, always says your welcome but she’s already gone with her long easy strides, heels clacking on the linoleum, the heavy glass door swishing closed behind her.

One day, he thinks, as he does every Monday evening. One day, I’ll tell her I’m in love with her. He knows he won’t. He always sees the simple silver band on her left hand, right before she walks away from him and he knows he won’t.

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