Congratulations to the eight winners of Writer Advice’s 2024 Micro Fiction Contest! We’ll start posting on January 8th.
Why? It’s a mystery right now, but I promise it’s a good reason.
Here’s the schedule for the work will appear each week.
- On January 8th we’ll publish Suzanne Miller’s “Perfidy.”
- On January 15th we’ll publish SD Powell’s “Buggered.”
- On January 22nd we’ll publish Julie Greenberg’s “A Rave.”
- On January 29th we’ll publish Pamela Jean Bruschi’s “Hilary’s Hilarious Hopes.”
- On February 5th we’ll publish John Schembra’s “Leavin’ on a Jet Plane.”
- On February 12th we’ll publish Jaime Gill’s “The Gift.”
- On February 19th we’ll publish Darlene Kapur’s “What Megan Wants.”
- On February 26th we’ll publish B. Lawson Hull’s “Packed Away.”
FYI all of these are winners. We no longer rank them first, second, and third place.
We love these stories and hope you will too. Please come back weekly to read, enjoy, and share your reactions if you choose to do so. Many thanks!
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Packed Away
By B. Lawson Hull
Mr. Baker was a practical sort of person, so he could tolerate the cold; after all it happened every year, but the darkness, blind and relentless and thick as the sea, so complete that his eyes conjured forests of shapes that weren’t really there, the dark was the hardest part.
Even the silence could not match it, because the silence at least was broken. Far below Mr. Baker’s two-story patisserie there were booms and shuffles, the clopping of monstrous footsteps, and voices; the voices of giants that controlled the darkness, and the light.
It was all Mr. Baker could do to get by. The earthquake that had uprooted his bakery had left it at a precarious lean; the oven didn’t work, all the lanterns were dark and dead, and the other villagers were impossible to get to. Most, like the lovely Miss Milliner, were hidden behind vast smooth walls without seams of any kind. Only the train station was nearby, its ticket office lights extinguished just like those of Mr. Baker’s shop.
Outside his window even the paper twisted ground was frozen in memory of the tremors that had tossed the village apart. leaving just room enough for Mr. Baker to crawl through a tunnel to the train station, where he could sit on the bench with Mr. Engineer.
“Won’t be long now!” Mr. Engineer said one night, but Mr. Baker was too despondent to believe him. He was certain this time they would be lost in the dark forever.
And then the giants returned. The cardboard sky opened, and there was light. Mr. Baker slipped inside his front door in the nick of time before the ground crackled and broke away; the bakery was flying, and when it was set down again, the world was glorious.
The miniature village was restored, the wintery street white and bright and beaming with Holiday cheer. Mr. Baker’s oven fire roared to life, the streetlamps winked on, and peering through the kitchen windows he espied the little hat shop across the train tracks, and Miss Milliner waving happily. Against the odds, Christmas had come again.
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Lawson Hull has always been a storyteller, growing up on works of historical fiction, fantasy and adventure. He studied acting, art and literature, settling on a degree in Renaissance history from UNC. Lawson lives and works on Nantucket, an idyllic place for his love of history, research and writing.
EDITOR’S NOTE: We were confused right up to the surprise ending. Then everything fell in place beautifully. Thanks for sharing this fabulous POV.
What Megan Wants
By Darlene Kapur
“Here’s your father, an hour late again. Wear your seat belt, Megan honey. See you tonight.”
“Hi Dad.”
“Hey kiddo, get in, how ya doin’? We gotta cut our visit a little short ‘cause I got a big deal cooking in L.A. tonight. But today’s all about you so let’s do Great America, ride the roller coaster—deal?”
“That’s not what I want, Dad.”
“I hear ya, I hear ya. Listen, let’s run over to Santa Cruz, check out the boardwalk, grab some cotton candy, I’ll even win you a teddy bear.”
“No, that’s not what I want.”
“So, how’s your mother doing? She looked good last time I saw her. She seeing anyone? Never mind, none of my business, right? How ‘bout a movie; you still into that Frozen stuff?”
“That was two years ago, I’m 14, Dad.”
“Listen kiddo, this divorce crap is rough on me too, but I’ve got a new friend. Her name’s Cinnamon. Isn’t that a kick? You’ll like her. She’s a hot dancer, could teach you a few moves.”
“No, thank you.”
“No problem, no problem. Hey, you hungry? I’m starving, let’s grab a bite to eat. Bet you still like those chocolate pancakes at IHOP, and then I gotta take you back. Our plane leaves at five. Cinn’s bringing her kid along and we’re taking him to Disneyland. You’ve already been so I knew you wouldn’t be interested. Tell your mother her check’s in the mail ‘cause things are finally looking up for me.”
Megan watches the SUV leave their trailer park as her mom gives her a hug.
“Your dad said he’ll be here in two weeks to spend the whole day with you, Meg. Won’t that be nice?”
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Indra Kapur’s prize winning work appears in Ink Spots, One Universe to The Left, and Vision and Verse. “Daddy’s Girl” appears in The Best of The Best: 2024 Literary Review. Her debut book, In Any Given Room was published in 2022. A Year Without Men was published in 2023.
EDITOR’S NOTE: We love how the motivations of both the mother and father are shown so exquisitely in the dialogue. The nuances are excellent!
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The Gift
By Jamie Gill
Trembling, sweat-slicked, adrift on exhaustion and ache.
Your squall tugs me back and the midwife offers you—an unwrapped gift. I press your skin tight to mine, as if to push your squashy perfection back inside.
My second birth. I forgot labour’s horrors and the intensity of this connection. We were one and now are two—but love can’t be cut like an umbilical cord. Limitless love, enough to fill worlds.
At last the midwife speaks, oh-so-gently. “Say when you’re ready.”
Two shapes wait outside, blurred through frosted glass and tears. Your parents. I tell myself this is love, too.
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Jaime Gill is a queer, British-born writer living in Cambodia, where he works for non-profits. He’s been published in Orca, Litro, Phare, BULL and others. He won a Bridport Prize and the Honeybee Literature Prize in 2024, and is a Pushcart nominee. More at www.jaimegill.com Illustration by Sewkhy Tan.
EDITOR’S NOTE: We love the compression and the way the narrator digs into his feelings at that exact moment. Satisfying and eye-opening.
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Leavin’ On A Jet Plane
By John Schembra
Passenger airplane taking off on sunset
Early in the morning, after a fitful night of off-and-on sleeping, I was awakened by someone sitting on my bed. I opened one eye, not willing to come fully awake at that point, and was surprised to see my father sitting there, dressed and ready to leave for work. I closed my eye as it was apparent he didn’t realize I was awake. He very gently brushed the hair off my forehead and away from my eyes. He took my hand in his and just held it, sitting quietly next to me. I laid there not moving or reacting, as he sat there for a few more moments. He arose and slowly walked to the bedroom door. Stopping, he turned toward me and said, very quietly, “I love you, son. Be careful, and stay safe.”
As he turned to leave, I replied, “I love you, too, dad.” He paused for a moment, and I knew he had heard me. If I didn’t know better, I could swear he was crying.
Sixteen hours later I was in Vietnam.
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Award Winning Author of : M.P, A Novel of Vietnam; Retribution; Diplomatic Immunity; Blood Debt; Sin Eater; An Echo of Lies The List; and Southern Justness; www.jschembra.com
EDITOR’S NOTE: We love the father’s actions, the brevity, the impact of the ending. Such a good story, and since it’s memoir, I’m grateful the author is back.
HILARY’S HILARIOUS HOPE
By Pamela Brusch
Hilary’s hopes were suspended above her keyboard, ready to take on any challenge she chose to place on the blank screen above it. Her head was choked with thoughts, saturated like a sponge, overflowing with unwritten words. Her mind was drowning in a sea of letters that she couldn’t unscramble fast enough to form into coherent sentences; sentences that were impatiently waiting for Hilary to create. The computer monitor in front of her was staring at her, demanding that she wait no longer to display her unspoken creations on its empty surface.
Hilary had been at the mall yesterday and had stood before a window display at a popular bookstore. Stacks of books from the ‘New York Times Best Sellers List’ crowded the space and were doing their best to stand upright. Notices of upcoming events, where ‘you could get a signed copy,’ were randomly taped to the window. Hilary had been disappointed to discover that the authors’ main purpose in choosing the title for his or her book was one that would attract the most customers in order to make the most profit – books about ‘How to Succeed in the Business World’, ‘Secrets From an Ex-Government Official’, ‘Hidden Affair of Local Celebrity Exposed’, ‘How to Improve Your Sex Life’. Readers were waiting impatiently for the next bestseller to be published so they could have something to talk about with their friends and their colleagues over the dinner table; something to be displayed on their glass-topped coffee tables.
Whatever happened to the great American novel? Whatever happened to novelists like Faulkner, Steinbeck, Galsworthy? Lee Harper, Charles Dickens, or Joseph Conrad? Authors who wrote with such passion and in such intricate detail that you believed you had just passed one of their characters on the street, or perhaps he was a neighbor who lived at the end of the road you lived on. Perhaps you entered a building or someone’s home for the first time and you knew what you would find further down the hall because you had previously visited it as a guest of the author.
The screen before her remained empty. And to think for a minute that she was capable of writing the world’s, or at the least, the next great American novel! Well, that was just crazy, right? That was just hilarious. Hillary began to laugh uncontrollably, and then she began to cry.
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Pamela Brusch is a retired nurse who lives in the woods of Maine. She respects nature and enjoys reading, writing, creating ‘U-neek’ art, and her grandchildren.
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EDITOR’S NOTE: We think many readers will identify and be grateful that someone else feels this way.
A Rave
By Julie Greenberg
Photo Credit: Creative Common
Her boyfriend guides her through a swarm of bodies. Lights bounce off walls like lightning. Heads bounce to the beat of the music. A DJ wearing a marshmallow helmet conducts his audience in a chant. The jumbotron flashes… Magnolia, Marry Me! The crowd echoes back, “Magnolia Marry Me!”
“Look at that!” she yells to her guy, “someone else has my name,” as she dances her way towards the exit sign, alone.
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Julie Greenberg works as a gallery educator and teaching artist for a nonprofit arts organization in Los Angeles. She has a teaching credential, BA in creative writing, and a library service credential. Mirroring her diverse professional career, Julie refers to her writing resume a genre jukebox, covering a multi-genre of publications.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Again, every word counts. This single delightful moment is unexpected and filled with irony. How does the ending make you feel?
Buggered
SD Powell
“I think we’re lost,” he said.
It was out of character for him to lie on a Sunday, especially after mass. But it was worth a trip to the confessional, an irritated wife—even car repairs. The sinful deception designed to end his nagging curiosity took months to plan. In front of him, the road stretched straight for miles. Perfectly spaced trees looked like pawns on an infinite chess board.
“You’ve been getting us lost for years, you old coot,” Rose said, as if she were telling him where he left his shoes again. She looked out the window at the rows of trees, all the same size. “I think we’re in the experimental orchard.” She pointed a crooked finger towards the passenger window. “I saw a sign a while back.”
Tires whispered over desolate pavement. The polleny scent of the blossoms calmed him.
“Hey, Rose, look at that.” He leaned forward and pointed at something stuck on the windshield.
“What? A bug?” She rolled her eyes and her eyelids fluttered. His myopic focus was driving them into the ditch. She grabbed the dashboard. “Watch the road, Ira.”
He swerved back to the center of his lane. Rose’s shoulders and head swooped in a gentle semi-circle.
“Not just a bug. I think it’s a bee.” A hint of glee showed beneath the surface of Ira’s weathered face. He leaned forward to look at the windshield again. “See? There’s part of its wing, and some of its abdomen.”
“Watch the road, old man!” Rose said, but curiosity drew her in. “A bee? I haven’t seen a bee in—I don’t know how long.”
His smile blossomed, deeply lining his freckled cheeks. “It’s a bee.”
“How can you tell? It looks like snot with a few bits flapping about.” She looked closer, aligning her bifocals. “I think you’re right, honey. Wow, a real one.”
“Look, there’s more.” Kack! A small winged creature hit their windshield and left a star-shaped crack. Springs and bits of wing shimmered in the sunlight. “Damned robees!”
“Well, you engineered them, dear,” Rose sighed. “Why did you bring us here? Did you miss them?”
Ira’s held back his bark and growled his reply. “I wanted to see if they messed with ’em.”
“Oh? What did you—” Another suicidal, metallic bee pockmarked Rose’s side of the windshield. She flinched.
“Yeah, look,” Ira said, pointing his shaky finger at the shiny corpse. “They engineered a protector drone.” The muscles in his jaw pulsed and tensed. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“Some kind of kamikaze bee?”
Ira ignored her and mumbled, “Damned military.” He hit the brakes and made a U-turn. “Okay, I’ve seen enough of this horse shit.”
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When he’s not pondering conspiracies of treasure buried by purple woodland creatures, SD Powell likes to hike, travel, and write fiction ranging from novels to micro-fiction. He was awarded finalist in writeradvice.com‘s 2023 flash fiction contest, and top ten percent of Oxford’s 2024 Flash Fiction Legends.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Of course I love stories about older couples that ring true, and the dialogue here is right on target. I love what I learn about these characters and the world they live in. Another excellent job. Feel free to send comments or questions, and I’ll forward them to the author.
Perfidy
By Suzanne Miller
I shove open the rusty door where my husband’s been holed up and find him barely conscious under a pile of blankets, lids swollen, waxing a distinct greenish-yellow pallor. He looks surprised, but not half as much as when I drop the photo of him cradling a newborn infant onto his heaving chest. His eyes dart between my face and the photo, now lying cockeyed atop his covers. His jaundiced skin turns stark white. He slaps at the photo until it flutters to the wide plank floor. I turn, retracing my steps, the door blowing wide behind me.
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Suzanne Miller, a recently retired attorney, writes flash fiction/essays on the Connecticut shoreline. She is spending her newfound freedom polishing up her stories, and has recently published pieces in CafeLit, The Rumen, Krazines/Moss Piglet, surely, and Wild Greens. Find her at “Flash Light”, https://substack.com/@suzesq/posts
EDITOR’S NOTE: Every word counts. Implications are clear, yet there’s room for interpretation. Congratulations on a job well done. Feel free to send comments and I’ll forward them to the author.
