When I first stumbled upon the concept of microfiction, it resonated deeply. Microfiction Monday Magazine showed me that hundreds of pages are not necessary to tell a compelling story. By imposing a 100 word limit, brevity is a necessity and efficiency is critical. It’s the 100-meter dash of the literary world. It’s been an edifying experience trying to write stories that, mostly, clock in at exactly 100 words. I hope you enjoy. Thanks for visiting.
Know who’s wrong?
You. That’s who.
How do I know?
Because I said so.
And I’m always right.
You’re not always wrong.
Sometimes you agree with me.
Those times? You’re right.
But when you disagree with me, you’re definitely always wrong.
The best part is you don’t even know you’re wrong. Dunning-Kruger 101
Or maybe you’re rationalizing away the cognitive dissonance because your confirmation bias isn’t being adequately satisfied.
But you’re definitely wrong.
I could perfectly lay out all the reasons why, but it wouldn’t matter.
You’d stay wrong.
Man, it’s not easy always being right.
As I was out traversing the neighborhood on a late afternoon constitutional, there was a young girl, alone, walking towards me on the same sidewalk.
When she noticed me, she quickly changed direction and crossed the street.
I thought “Yes. Bravo. Avoid me at all costs. Protect yourself. Stay away. I am a strange looking man moving with unknown purpose. My tongue might be silver, my intentions malign.”
Her speed increased as we drew closer. Her head was down, avoiding eye contact. When we passed on opposite sides of the road, I silently applauded her prudence.
Do. This. Every. Time.
From the palatial rooftop, he surveyed the vast expanse of lands that would one day fall under his purview.
“But why is it I am to rule and not another?” he pondered.
Gazing over the city, he spied blacksmiths, bakers, farmers, tailors, doctors.
“What grants me eminence? I see Order and Structure, but surely this hierarchy that’s mine by birthright isn’t mere undesigned fortuity.”
“It must be that the Divine Ones created me to rule. Providence!” he surmised. “Then in a sense, I am also divinity incarnate! A diety!”
Months later, his severed head sat upon an orc chieftan’s pike.
There we were in the antechamber to the consciousness of the planet. It had permitted us passage, it’s alien intelligence desirous of a concord.
It held no malice, only a longing for survival.
How could it have predicted an occurance such as our arrival?
It was to be the first meeting with a sentient lifeform from another world. It had no understanding of the politics of humans.
When the detonations started, I recall trembling in fury and horror. An unforseen betrayal!
We watched as it’s essence faded; we watched an extinction.
The colony ships arrived out of hyperspace soon after.
A cancerous rot wormed across his face as he rested on the truck stop curb, tattered garments hanging from an emaciated frame. Two German Shepherds accompanied the wraithlike transient, vying for his attention, while a thousand yard stare intimated at ruminations cataclysmic.
He gave no indications of a mendicant, nevertheless I bought a bag of dry dog food and two hot dogs.
It seemed a futile gesture, a temporary reprieve, a single stitch in a broken life.
He accepted my gifts silently, but before taking a single bite, he split one hot dog in two and shared with his canines.
The bishop had his knight pinned. Any queenside pawn move compromised the structure. A d8 rook threatened the back row.
There was no escape. Even castling only lost a critical tempo.
His opponent sat dispassionate, awaiting the inevitable deterioration of position.
In an epiphany, he conceded and left the table.
He walked outside and basked in the sunlight’s warmth.
There was more to existence besides The Game!
He wrote terrible poetry and badly sketched scenes that caught his eye. Ugly joy.
The chessboard faded from importance; he no longer much cared about winning or losing.
The Game was only a game.
They had ceased to be human, individuation cast to the winds. In their place a malign superorganism existed, fuelled by pure negative energy.
Animus incarnate. Conscience buried under the euphoria of anonymity.
The chimera rolled, scorching the earth as it raged in the name of The Cause. Wild eyes quivered over snarling teeth while primal gutterals issued from unthinking larnyxs.
The next morning, when the fever passed and the congress had dissolved, breakfast was cooked and family lives resumed, warm and affectionate. Moreover, there wasn’t a shred of guilt concerning the innocents trampled underfoot the evening prior.