Microfiction Stories for Fun
A Twisty Thing
Pappy drowned in a bowl of pea soup.
That ain’t dignified,”Granny said, and told the world a heart attack done him in.
Granny says lies will send a soul direct to Hell, but at 83-years-old she figures her truth-to-lie ratio is so high the Almighty won’t notice. Problem for me is I’m only 13. My truth-to-lie ratio ain’t lookin’ so good. Every time I say “heart attack” and “Pappy” in the same sentence I expect the hand of God to squash me flat.
“Ain’t your lie, it’s mine,” Granny assured me. “And I’m tellin’ you to stick with it. If you don’t, you’re disobeyin’, and that’s ten times worse than a lie.”
Granny’s thinkin’ is a twisty thing, which is pretty much what Pappy said right before she shoved his face into the pea soup.
It’s probably true God don’t like lies. But God ain’t as scary as Granny.
We’re standing at the curb watching flames eat our house.
Even now, with his eyebrows singed damn near off and our faces shining red from the blasting heat, even now, Daddy pats his hand over his chest pocket hunting his cigarettes. He finds them, and does what he’s done a million times: pulls out the pack, tap-tap-taps on the bottom to coax out a cig, puts it in his mouth, tucks the pack away ‘til next time. More taps to other pockets now, seeking his lighter.
He won’t find it. It’s sitting on the end table next to his recliner, right between the remote and an empty bottle of beer.
Well, it was there. It’s gone now, lost to the burn just like everything else in our house.
“Hey,” he says to the neighbors who stand staring at the inferno like Mayans anticipating a virgin sacrifice. “Anyone got a light?”
A Mystery Pundit’s Tale
Detectives Hoover and Bell stood outside Ringer’s Deli. They intended to question Mr. Ringer about his employee, Grey S. Moke, the prime suspect in a string of arson fires, and hoped to order lunch simultaneously.
“Drat, Bell, Ringer’s not in!” Hoover pointed to the ‘closed’ sign in the window.
“I say, Hoover, damn! I wanted a smoked brat in the wurst way,” Bell complained. “Only Ringer fixes it just so.”
“Indeed. Perhaps we’ll visit the Tex-Mex place and you can order a taco, Bell. Let’s away, shall we?”
“Wait! There’s movement!” Hoover cried. The detectives pressed their faces against the glass for a better look. “He’s dragging something. It’s a body!”
“That’s a dead Ringer if ever I saw one,” Bell muttered.
“We’d best call for back-up,” Hoover said. “You know what that villain will do next.”
Bell nodded. “Indeed. Where there’s Moke, there’s fire!”
“Get off your lazy ass and bring me the brown sugar, butter and cinnamon.”
“Do you have the flambé pan, darlin’?”
“Would I need all that crap if I didn’t?”
“Simmer yourself. I’m just checkin’. Here’s the lot of it. What’s next?”
“Here you go. Sweet like you.”
“Right. Just slice the damn bananas.”
“Alert the media! You accomplished something.”
“Stop bein’ ugly. I’m tryin’ to be nice.”
“And I’m not caring.”
“Forgivin’ you ain’t easy.”
“Why? Because I didn’t pat you on the back for doing something productive? Slicing bananas hardly qualifies as heroic effort.”
“Here’s the rum.”
“You idiot. Not this brand. Don’t you ever listen? Wait. This isn’t rum. It smells like—”
“I’ll pour it.”
“Wait a minute. Don’t. That isn’t—it’s—stop! Don’t pour it! It’s—”
“Highly flammable? I know . . . darlin’.”
Stubborn Ain’t Good
Stubborn ain’t good and I’m gonna tell you why.
See, there were this field, ten acres of tall grass that Grampa loved.
“Boy,” he said, “there’s memorable things happened in that there field.” He spat his chaw juice, hitched his overalls and tromped off.
Some buildin’ company were gonna plow it up and build a Wally-Mart store. Grampa got his stubborn on and said, “Ain’t nobody diggin’ up nuthin’.”
Well, Grampa plopped hisself in a fold-out chair smack middle of the field with a beer cooler settin’ at his feet, and he wouldn’t blink for them diggin’ machines. A three day rain come and he jest set there gettin’ wet.
Weren’t no one surprised, ‘cause Grampa were stubborn.
Rain stopped and he jest set there dryin’ in the sun. Turns out he were three days dead ‘fore anyone knew it.
Stubborn. It just ain’t good.