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.
Fernanda Heng was attempting to break the Guinness record for Most Marshmallows Stuffed Up Nostrils.
Biagino Shira’s passion was hamster drag racing.
Harper Maura operated an ostrich adoption agency.
Maximillian Elixabete performed headstands in town centers eight hours a day, five days a week.
Bill Smith collected vintage fountain pens.
Aimi Fatmir had perfected juggling on pogo sticks on trampolines.
Svetomir Maryam revelled in scuba gear sky-diving.
Abhinov Cloris launched an entrepreneurial venture selling multi-zippered t-shirts that could change sizes.
And then there were the Thompsons, who enjoyed reading by the fireplace, cooking Epicurean meals, and feeding the local avians.
After a curt admission from St. Peter, I was allowed through the gates of Heaven.
I was expecting a perfunctory issuance of a harp, halo, and toga, but instead recieved a sword, shield, and chaimail.
“Combat practice begins tomorrow,” I was instructed.
“We will be prepared for the next Empyrean War and if you recieve any disruptive literature, you are to report it immediately as per Archangel Michael’s orders. Disobedience will not be tolerated. Failure results in banishment to Hell.”
That night, a hooded figure approached my windowsill.
They left a single small pamphlet that read “The Trees Of Knowledge.”
Vintage fountain is where it’s at. The moderns are slick, but they have no personality. Now, Waterman vs. Parker? There’s a debate! I love my 1928 Wood-Grain Waterman Ideal 52. Only cost me $450 too! A veritable steal. I sleep with it under my pillow.
But the Parker 51 is my specialty. Greatest pen ever made! I’ve three gun safes full of them.
My crown jewel? An absolutely beautiful 1941 smooth sterling capped P-51 with a fine point nib owned by Henry Wallace himself! Only $6500!
To me, it’s priceless.
Some call it a silly hobby.
I call it history.
No-one knew from whence they came; a materialization seemingly from the aether itself.
There were only a minute few initally, mere curiosities, but soon their numbers exploded and the island alighted with a frenzied bio-luminescence.
Such was the spectacle of phosphorescent fervor, visitors would come from miles away to watch from the shore, delighted and transfixed.
Then one summer, as abruptly as they arrived, they mysteriously vanished.
Travellers to the island found no evidence they ever even existed at all.
Some speculated about “collective hallucinations”. What did they know?
They were real.
And, for a time, the island was magical.
Haha! Love a good pun meme.
Patently false. C’mon. Fact check dude.
How relaxing. Beautiful landscape.
New Marvel? Hell yeah!
Oh no. Heart attack. In hospital. Critical condition.
Puppies! LOL Who doesn’t love puppers? lmao
If true, then we need to be seriously worried. That’s a huge breach in security.
Subway Ad. Why? There’s one on every corner ffs.
FOOD PICS! Looks sooo delicious.
Cool concert? Interested!
What can I say? Wish I could do more.
Pop culture mashup! These are the BEST!
Lovely profile pic.
Oh, fuck off!
Congrats! You should be proud!
I’m so sorry for your loss.
At last, his arch-enemy was before him. He had studied the weaknesses, memorized the tendencies.
With a fluid motion, the ball was perfectly elevated. Kinetic torsion daisy-chained: torso, shoulder, elbow, wrist, culminating in the racket connecting with maximal velocity.
The serve screamed over the net, tattooing the baseline.
Focused, he strode to the ad-side and delivered yet another blistering flat serve.
Ace again! 30-Love!
The third serve topped 145 m.p.h.
A brilliant topspin slice ended the game.
He kvelled with jubilation!
Meanwhile, his rival was similarly exhulting, neither realizing they weren’t even playing on the same court.
Nothingness packing a suitcase and a dream; deck of realities in pocket, cruising down Probability Ave. in a streetcar named The Void, sporting a “Have Cool, Will Occassionally Differentiate And Exponentially Expand” sticker.
Wearing zeros for shades while infinitely-sided fuzzy dice dangle from the rearview mirror.
Spitting cosmological constants like sunflower seeds, in a state of cool chaos; logical insanity.
Multi-dimensional prismatic jacket woven from the fabric of spacetime donned while mocking those stuffy squares, Causation & Agency.
Sometimes, after a night of “The Ole Metaphysical”, a pile of random mathematical equations and physics gets black-out drunk vomited out, unceremoniously.