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fiction Flash Fiction Micro Fiction poetry prose writing

Two Eggs

First of all, the eggs in my dream were not in their carton. They stood upright, transfixed inside my fridge, side by side as if a married couple on their porch.

Who knows what they were looking at? Perhaps each other.

Observing them, they struck me as enigmatic, and so of course I thought of that painting American Gothic.

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fiction Flash Fiction Micro Fiction writing

No one likes to memorize math

A large sculpture in the library lobby purposely leaned at a slant on a pedestal to give it the effect of falling. It made me think of nodding off.

People sat at tables — some read, some spoke, but it was hard to make out what anyone was saying.

Their indecipherable voices carried up high to the lofty ceiling and dissipated like smoke — maybe from burning incense?

The sounds in the lobby reminded me of churches, with their drafty, cavernous interiors. There, too, voices murmured, only they were prayers.

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fiction Micro Fiction prose writing

Mr. Mustachio

Mr. Mustachio is basically a walking / talking, bristly & dark-haired mustache who is debuting a cable TV show.

A round beverage coaster who wears a sombrero on occasion, his show will be titled, Drinks Are On Me. He will discuss cocktails and other mixed libations during segments, which will be filmed on a kitchen table.

He also will share stories about the times he’s had at the 24/7 dive bar in Las Vegas where he used to work, until a customer slipped him into his pocket and brought him home, where he is now, unfortunately, used primarily for coffee, tea and sometimes domestic beer when friends are over.

Overall, the show is a way for Mr. Mustachio to relive the days (and nights) that he loved so much while working at the bar.

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fiction Flash Fiction Micro Fiction prose published writing

Publication day in formercactus magazine

My micro fiction piece Coffee Lover is included in formercactus’ issue 4 , dedicated to micro and chock full of contributors.

She accepted the dishwasher job at the cafe because she liked the way soapy water smelled as it mingled with coffee, creating a creamy & fragrant mahogany brew.

Permalink to my story is here.

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Micro Fiction poetry prose snippets writing

boston ivy

The building in Bronxville, N.Y., where he lived helped me fall madly in love with him: close to my apartment, ivy thriving on masonry walls and cobblestone stairs. Crispy honeylocust and Norway maple leaves speckling the sidewalk in fall. Across the street, a clothing shop called the Yum Yum Tree, along with mom-and-pop eateries and a gift shop. A Chinese takeout with fast, friendly service & phenomenal fried rice.