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Story Hour
The Hearth Fire and other stories (Updated 5/24)
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<blockquote data-quote="ForceUser" data-source="post: 1559241" data-attributes="member: 2785"><p>The following story is a piece of microfiction. Microfiction is a subgenre of the short story, wherein a complete tale is told in 700 words or less. Happy reading.</p><p></p><p>-----</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>“The Window”</p><p></p><p><strong>Michael wrote</strong>. The old Smith Corona typewriter clacked obstinately as he pounded the well-worn keys, putting his strength into each difficult stroke. The dingy lamp on the hutch cast orange streamers across the small room, and a dirty windowpane reflected it back inside, as if the darkness beyond refused to intermingle with impure low watt radiance. A smoky curl caressed Michael’s cheek, crawling up his arm from the ashtray that crouched against the Corona 4 Professional. He yawned, then rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.</p><p></p><p><em>“It’s a good story, Mike, but it lacks focus. I’m sorry, but we’re going to pass on this one. Yes, I know how long…I know. Look, you okay?”</em></p><p></p><p>Michael glanced blearily around the room. At the foot of the bed sat his suitcase forlornly, half-unzipped with contents spilling out in a jumble. Underwear, tee shirts, jeans, junk. He stared at the clear plastic baggie. Almost out. He knew of nowhere in Fort Stockton that he could find more. The bag was well traveled, having arrived with him from Orlando in a dusty Toyota with cracked vinyl seats. </p><p></p><p><em>“I’m leaving, Michael. I told you if I found out you were on this sh-t again that I was leaving.”</em></p><p></p><p>Outside on the llano, the wind picked up and rattled the tiny four-paned window. From here, it looked like the gateway to nothingness, a tiny pinprick of existence, beyond which lurked a black hole in space that hungered to suck him from his tiny room into oblivion. </p><p></p><p><em>“Yo, man, I tol’ you not to be smokin’ my sh-t. Motherf-cker! You tweakin’ right now. Oh, you think you all that? You gonna draw on me? Motherf-cker, I’m gonna…”</em></p><p> </p><p>Michael continued writing, and soon fell into that state of consciousness wherein the words just flowed, unconcerned with the vast sea of night around his small oasis of orange, fifteen-foot square puke green tile floor and hot plate with day-old refried beans blackened on its surface. He wrote of longing, and loneliness, of fear and regret, of irresponsibility and of knowing what’s right and doing otherwise. He wrote of sorrow, of cowardice, of lost time and true intentions. Above all, he wrote miserably of hope. The typewriter dinged and clacked like a whirring oracle, and he the interpreter of bones and chicken guts.</p><p></p><p><em>“F-ckin’ take it, man. F-ckin’ go. It ain’t my sh-t, it ain’t my money. Stop f-ckin’ pointin’ that thing at me! I tol’ you I ain’t gonna tell nobody it was you shot Big Rob. I swear. I swear! I ain’t tellin’ nobody! I…”</em></p><p></p><p>He wrote until the tips of his fingers ached from pressing hard upon the sticky old keys, until those familiar red-and-blue lights flashed through the window, a sickening staccato in counterpoint to his last feeble strokes. His hands shook as he signed off; the earth shook as the hellish whup-whup-whup of a helicopter accentuated the tumult outside. Voices blazed like fire through the walls, amplified and incomprehensible from feedback. He nodded, then took a final puff on the nub of his cigarette.</p><p></p><p><em>“License and registration, please. Do you know why I pulled you over? Hey! Keep your hands where I can see…”</em></p><p></p><p>He glanced at his work, but the words seemed blurred and distant. He took the 9mm out of his belt and walked to the door. Candy-colored lights strobed outside. Michael looked at the desk and felt a twinge of regret for not having time to proofread. Then, gun in hand, he flung open the door and stepped into the night. The world swirled around him, darkness as daylight.</p><p></p><p><em>CLICK. “The hunt for an alleged killer continues… CLICK. “…is considered armed and…” CLICK. “Tonight on Nightline, a patrolman’s family mourns as…” CLICK.</em></p><p> </p><p>Garbled words wafted toward him on the porch. Michael suppressed an involuntary shiver, then pointed the gun toward the brightest lights and squeezed off three rounds. When oblivion came, it came like thunder.</p><p></p><p></p><p>*</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ForceUser, post: 1559241, member: 2785"] The following story is a piece of microfiction. Microfiction is a subgenre of the short story, wherein a complete tale is told in 700 words or less. Happy reading. ----- “The Window” [b]Michael wrote[/b]. The old Smith Corona typewriter clacked obstinately as he pounded the well-worn keys, putting his strength into each difficult stroke. The dingy lamp on the hutch cast orange streamers across the small room, and a dirty windowpane reflected it back inside, as if the darkness beyond refused to intermingle with impure low watt radiance. A smoky curl caressed Michael’s cheek, crawling up his arm from the ashtray that crouched against the Corona 4 Professional. He yawned, then rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. [i]“It’s a good story, Mike, but it lacks focus. I’m sorry, but we’re going to pass on this one. Yes, I know how long…I know. Look, you okay?”[/i] Michael glanced blearily around the room. At the foot of the bed sat his suitcase forlornly, half-unzipped with contents spilling out in a jumble. Underwear, tee shirts, jeans, junk. He stared at the clear plastic baggie. Almost out. He knew of nowhere in Fort Stockton that he could find more. The bag was well traveled, having arrived with him from Orlando in a dusty Toyota with cracked vinyl seats. [i]“I’m leaving, Michael. I told you if I found out you were on this sh-t again that I was leaving.”[/i] Outside on the llano, the wind picked up and rattled the tiny four-paned window. From here, it looked like the gateway to nothingness, a tiny pinprick of existence, beyond which lurked a black hole in space that hungered to suck him from his tiny room into oblivion. [i]“Yo, man, I tol’ you not to be smokin’ my sh-t. Motherf-cker! You tweakin’ right now. Oh, you think you all that? You gonna draw on me? Motherf-cker, I’m gonna…”[/i] Michael continued writing, and soon fell into that state of consciousness wherein the words just flowed, unconcerned with the vast sea of night around his small oasis of orange, fifteen-foot square puke green tile floor and hot plate with day-old refried beans blackened on its surface. He wrote of longing, and loneliness, of fear and regret, of irresponsibility and of knowing what’s right and doing otherwise. He wrote of sorrow, of cowardice, of lost time and true intentions. Above all, he wrote miserably of hope. The typewriter dinged and clacked like a whirring oracle, and he the interpreter of bones and chicken guts. [i]“F-ckin’ take it, man. F-ckin’ go. It ain’t my sh-t, it ain’t my money. Stop f-ckin’ pointin’ that thing at me! I tol’ you I ain’t gonna tell nobody it was you shot Big Rob. I swear. I swear! I ain’t tellin’ nobody! I…”[/i] He wrote until the tips of his fingers ached from pressing hard upon the sticky old keys, until those familiar red-and-blue lights flashed through the window, a sickening staccato in counterpoint to his last feeble strokes. His hands shook as he signed off; the earth shook as the hellish whup-whup-whup of a helicopter accentuated the tumult outside. Voices blazed like fire through the walls, amplified and incomprehensible from feedback. He nodded, then took a final puff on the nub of his cigarette. [i]“License and registration, please. Do you know why I pulled you over? Hey! Keep your hands where I can see…”[/i] He glanced at his work, but the words seemed blurred and distant. He took the 9mm out of his belt and walked to the door. Candy-colored lights strobed outside. Michael looked at the desk and felt a twinge of regret for not having time to proofread. Then, gun in hand, he flung open the door and stepped into the night. The world swirled around him, darkness as daylight. [i]CLICK. “The hunt for an alleged killer continues… CLICK. “…is considered armed and…” CLICK. “Tonight on Nightline, a patrolman’s family mourns as…” CLICK.[/i] Garbled words wafted toward him on the porch. Michael suppressed an involuntary shiver, then pointed the gun toward the brightest lights and squeezed off three rounds. When oblivion came, it came like thunder. * [/QUOTE]
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