Microfiction

Where I’d Rather Be by Shontay Luna

I already live where I want to. I’m already at

where I want to be in terms to placement and

residing. A ten, fifteen minute walk down the

street I once lived. Several blocks west. A few

blocks feeling like an entire planet away; and

that’s a good thing. I’ve returned; after a twelve

month jaunt in Hyde Park. God returned me to

the neighborhood where I’ve been for the last

thirty years; but on the other side. In a space

nicer than I could ever dream of. After several

nights of opening my eyes in the darkness and

forgetting where I was, a formation of months

tinged in hurt and transformation, I can finally

say I’m at the place I’d most rather be. For that,

I’m both happy and grateful.

Shontay Luna

I Felt Fine by Shontay Luna

(Today and tomorrow we are pleased to present Shontay Luna. You can call her work a prose poem or a microfiction, any way you think about her writing, it conveys her own POV–the Eds.)

I felt fine, then he called me. He called me every other day.

In my bliss-filled day of not hearing from him, I heard from him.

For every day he didn’t call I knew he’d do it the next day. If I

knew how to set my watch, I could do so by the punctuality of

him trying to invite me to breakfast while I sat peacefully in my

own apartment. Or other offerings of things or excursions as

methods of him trying to win me back. Conveniently bypassing

the elephant sized infidelity in the room. After turning him down

yet again, he switches tactics. Telling me that I shouldn’t be mad

anymore. Which I’m not; I felt fine before the call. But like clockwork,

I cried after talking to him. And I knew he was where I once lived,

near his phone. Smirking. The wound still fresh, the scab not

completely covered. I cried, but I don’t know why. I wasn’t angry

anymore, just tired. My soul compacting itself against me. How does

a soul compact? I don’t know, but mine did. Like an over-torturous

form of shrinking. An unconscious drilling of a matte-colored soul that

once shined. The words and names that tortured me at that residence

no longer having any hold since my exodus. As I consider if now I should

avoid him completely. But he’s their father. Whatever family event they’ll

be – birthdays, holidays, he’ll be there also. At the cost of being able to

see our kids and grands, his presence is a sacrifice I’m willing to tolerate

– for now.

Shontay Luna

He’s So Quiet by Christopher J Ananias

(Images by Christopher J Ananias)

It wasn’t a big deal or was it? Keifer stared at the baby for a long time. Archie was sleeping, right? He put the slobbery dog toy, next to Archie’s little red ear, SQUEAK-SQUEAK-SQUEAK. Archie didn’t move—not even an eyelash.

Better than his stupid fucking crying, thought Keifer. “Good boy.” Like Archie was the dog. Who always ran, like a chocolate streak, for the bedroom when Keifer trounced down the hall in his shiny paratrooper boots. It was rough being a dad when you’re seventeen.

It was hot, but after he jacked-off—all sweaty. Keifer preheated the oven to 425 degrees for a Tombstone Pizza. He sat on the couch, eating a thick slice with hot cheese and red sauce dripping on his olive green PTSD T-shirt, watching WAR movies.

The explosions, helicopters flattening the elephant grass, M-60 machine gunfire, were so loud, people walking by the dirty white bungalow, with big yellow dandelions sticking up, ducked for a second, thinking an active shooter was on the loose.

If the baby had been crying, Keifer couldn’t hear it, anyway.

CJA

(Ed note–CJA is also a great photographer and we would like to refresh the readerships’ memory with a few of our favorites by him–Leila and Dale)

and

CHRIS ANANIAS

and

and

CHRIS ANANIAS

Baal & the Flood by Geraint Jonathan

(Adapted from Bertolt Brecht’s Baal)

Funny, it took the prospect of God’s unleashing the Flood to instill a spirit of co-operation among the animals of this earth. Noah was quite persuasive, really. In all, there was only one creature immune to his warnings of the catastrophe to come and that was the dear old ichthyosaurus. He greeted Noah’s weather forecast with a breezy “Nope, don’t believe a word of it.” The other animals exchanged a knowing look amongst themselves. “That ichthyosaurus,” they said, “deaf to reason, stubborn as they come, always was.” The ichthyosaurus nodded in agreement, but added that, seeing as he was the oldest creature of the lot, he knew a thing or two about probabilities. And to his credit, he conceded that such a deluge as predicted by batty old Noah was indeed possible – in fact, even quite likely, given the almighty mess made of things down here. “The point is,” said the ichthyosaurus, “I wouldn’t book passage aboard that Ark if Flood were guaranteed!”

And I must say, all considered, such a sentiment strikes in me a sympathetic note – to the extent that, were a similar predicament to loom, and the first drops fall, and there still be room on the Ark, my response would be to sit down and contemplate the fact that very shortly, where earthly matters are concerned, I shall be well fucking shut of it!

Geraint Jonathan

(Image by DWB)

How to Convey the Professor to the Station by Geraint Jonathan

How to convey the Professor to the station? That was the question. Tell him a train was waiting for him – and for him alone? Remind him of his duty to the hopeless of Europe?

The landlady could not have been more obliging; she practically tiptoed around him. She blushed to remember his dancing naked in his room. But she knew an educated man when she saw one.

So: how convey the Professor to the train station? ‘Collude lightly’ is generally the advice in these situations. But more was called for in this instance, it seemed to me. The Professor was excitable, his gestures expansive. The landlady did her best, but her voice tended to rise several modulations whenever she addressed the Professor, each word enunciated for maximum comprehension. “The – Professor – likes – to –take – long –walks. Don’t you Professor? Long walks?” On this occasion, however, the Professor replied with a kiss, and blood drained from the poor woman’s face.

It was the promise of flowers did the trick, the prospect of welcome down the line. And so, come dusk, the Professor was conveyed to the station. He laughed at the faces the houses made along the way. When he saw the train, he wept for the way it waited with such distinction.

Geraint Jonathan

(Image by CJA)