Monthly Micro Shortlist - July 24
With a little surprise
The Shortlist is here!
You might notice the shortlist is slightly longer this month, you actually have 11 stories to tear into (see what I did there!). Congratulations to everyone who made it and commiserations to those who didn’t. The prompt was TEAR, and the word limit was 175. You can read the shortlist and vote for your favourite until 23.59 GMT on Monday 22nd July and the winners will be announced on the 23rd.
A Cry From the Forest
Sova stood on the edge of a crowd of trees. Through the darkness, she heard their punctuating tears, tapping the hardened earth, lightly at first, then louder as they all joined in. The air shifted nervously as its sick breath, laden with bittersweet sap, weaved through, coating everything in stickiness. It was almost time.
No one knew when they started to weep. Few had paid attention until it was too late. Some suspected it all started with a stand of trees in Brazil. Fragments of news articles,back before everything had stopped, recounted those first strange circumstances, those telltale deaths now spread around the world — the ones involving mushrooms growing out of people’s eyes.
Most knew why they woke them up. It was written in the inky blackness that dripped, then scrawled from each victim’s mouth. The word “Listen” echoed in the languages of those who remained.
Sova heard.
Thousands of tiny feet rustled the understory, each carrying the forest’s decay, each marching outward, onward. Eyes streaming, she lit a fire, and hoped it caught.
Aphrodite’s Pearls
Aphrodite picked up the pale pink pearl necklace.
''Something borrowed,'' announced her mother when the date was set. ''It was a gift to your Victorian great-grandmother from her betrothed. Every bride since has worn it on her wedding day.''
The clammy-soft pearls made Aphrodite's skin creep.
Two days to go. She hadn't told her mother she didn't want to wear them. Her fiance said just tell her. But Aphrodite could not bear to cleave her mother's heart by breaking the tradition. Neither could she bear their choking hold around her neck.
She held the charcoal disc over the candle, watching the black glow scarlet. She placed the red-hot charcoal in a copper bowl. Then dropped pieces of amber copal onto it, watching the smoke curl. She passed the necklace through the smoke seven times, purifying the heirloom.
She felt the sorrow of seven unhappy marriages. She felt the blows, bruises, betrayals. She heard the curses and the crying.
The string broke. Pearls scattered. She heard deep sighs of relief from those gone before.
Bisection
The bisected earthworm wriggles, a mess of segments that sticks to the bottom of my shoe. Poor blind worm. It’s too stupid to know there’s no point in continuing. I wish it could slip back into its subterranean darkness. Back to when it was whole.
The worm’s muscles contract and release, its insides slick and exposed like a heart.
Jay stands, arms folded, his Honda weighted with suitcases. Another woman’s scent still clings to the stubbled underbelly of his jaw, the curve of his neck, his tapered fingers. A light drizzle starts, and it dots my glasses so that, once again, my vision clouds. Should I shake his hand? Good try, better luck next time I could say, even though the odds are skewed if both players aren’t fully in the game.
His car vanishes in the grey fug, and the worm stretches, curls, like it wants to forget about the part that’s torn away and move on. Don’t they regenerate lost segments? Or maybe that’s an urban myth like forgiveness and starting over.
How Perfectly Creativity Shapes Our World, You Said
Your intense study of La Llorona—The Weeping Woman, should have shown me
more than your love of Zalce, but you had me with that opening line.
When your parents, historians both, pursed their lips at the daughter of a docker
courting their son—you a geneticist, me the product of local art college, your arm locked around my shoulders. "Beauty and talent is something this family appreciates. Supposedly."
And it's true, their halls boast regiments of paintings and prints, the library tastefully
dotted with sculptures. Your father owns several examples of Madonna and Child while your mother favours Tanner's Generations.
Picasso was your true passion. Fragments of people—eyes, ears, fingers, toes,
chromosomes, ova, fallopian tubes.
How seamlessly we slid from his rose period—a circus of charts, tests and spread-
legged speculum performances, into the blues.
But periods aren't blue. They're scarlet, crimson and madder. Alizarin clotted dreams.
Picasso would soon move on to boldly coloured Lego blocks, while Ophelia,
perfectly captured by Millais, sinks into the river. The deep dark river.
Maria Yearns To Fill The Hollowness and Create a Brighter Look
Doctor Azar studied Maria’s face intently, standing uncomfortably close, breathing heavily. Then he prodded the dark sunken shadows beneath her eyes. “You need Tear Trough fillers.” He enunciated the words with great authority.
Her expensive new hall mirror had finally exposed the lies she had been telling herself for years. Her porcelain skin and cascading auburn hair were definitely fading and, according to her husband, her small but perfect breasts were rapidly heading south.
The fabulous before and after photos on Dr Azar’s website had drawn her inexorably into his world and into his plush office. He began telling her about his extraordinary results, but she wasn’t convinced that he was a real surgeon. She couldn’t endure the thought of the “non-surgical, minimally invasive procedure with very little pain”, even to save her marriage, so she picked up her coat and walked away.
Over a chilled glass of wine that evening Maria’s friend commented on how well she looked. “Have you had surgery?” Maria smiled, her laughter lines deepening. “No, but I’m filing for divorce.”
She Wished For an Open Door
They were supposed to play Mario Kart, but Sophie had locked her dumb door to her dumb room and was playing her dumb music loud enough to vibrate the handle. Matilda hung off of it until her fingers tingled.
Recently, Sophie had been persistent about being left alone. It sucked being a sister to someone like that. So, Matilda wandered downstairs. Sophie’s backpack sat by the kitchen table and Matilda unzipped it by its keychain. Dumped its contents onto the tile.
Maths practice sheets, random doodles. Matilda went to grab a magenta scrunchy when she saw the notebook: “Top Secret.” No lock. Maybe it held the password to Sophie’s door.
It fell open in her hands.
Kissy kissy things about Mark. Something about Cassie stealing a pen. Nasty things about Matilda. The more she read, the more her vision wobbled. Don’t be a crybaby, she told herself. Sophie was just mean. She felt the paper tear before she heard it. Picked an eyelash of white off her shorts, closed her eyes, and made a wish.
The Last Loaf
Two shoppers reach for the last stickered loaf.
One hand, pale and rough with fingernails glossed in Final Reminder Red. The other, rubble-brown and campfire-ash, save for a paler band of skin on one finger where last month's shopping came from.
Both women pause. The packet’s colours are the same as the graduation gown of one ... and the flag from which the other fled.
Lips are pursed - showdown in Aisle One as compassion and need go head-to-head.
Red-nails grabs and turns on worn-down heels (lunchbox oranges matter more).
Then, in the queue, one bottle of formula behind one prize loaf, the other woman's too-big coat reveals a delicate body, a knitted baby sling, and a tiny hand reaching from within, fingers toying with a basket of date-up hot cross buns. Red chews her lip as the doughy crosses fill her gaze.
Looking back, she tears the loaf in two, and holds out half beneath a semi-smile.
And for a moment, in that small corner of the world, humanity comes up for air.
The Layers of My Daughter
The first strip comes off smoothly. It should be satisfying – no scraping at shreds, no wet sponge needed to soak away the years. Pink hearts beat between the black vinyl
either side. Underneath dance fairies and unicorns, and beneath those, elephants and
giraffes roam. I smile-wept when we covered each layer with the last.
When she was fifteen, she said she wanted black wallpaper – wouldn’t be dissuaded. For her, it was the beginning of first loves and first betrayals, the tang of rebellion sweet on her tongue, flaunting marks on her neck, and illegal tattoos. For me, hearing the front door slam, watching the hours tick by, scouring the streets, dragging her home. Crying, her vodka-breath accusations cut like glass, my retaliations savage. But now what I would give to rub that smeary kohl from her teary cheeks.
I pick at the bottom of the next sheet but I pull too hard. Only the sides rip away leaving a fragmented heart between them that one day must be papered over.
Traces
I once had a repertoire of signatures including Jenny Sinclair for acclaimed actor, JenSi for celebrated singer, and the full Jennifer Sinclair for swashbuckling navigator, sailing toward high adventure (though Miss Harper from the Home said I’d amount to nothing).
It all began with the tiny, battered suitcase that accompanied baby-me to the Home. It
held a sugar-pink cardigan, matching bootees, and a signature penned neatly on the ripped tartan lining: Susan Sin– with a halo instead of a dot above the i.
When I left the Home, Miss Harper tossed me the case along with a good-riddance
sneer. The case and teenager-me navigated many places – more low adventure than high – and now sits at the foot of my wardrobe in a saved-up-for home that is all mine.
Occasionally I finger-trace the signature, from the proud S heading the troops, to the
solid n with the kick-up flick. I never knew Susan, but I like to think she sailed toward
adventure, bypassing every single Miss Harper on the way.
Until Now
The sepia face of his mother looks back at him as if assessing his worth. The photograph is stamped with the name of the studio and the year 1913. It was in his mother’s bureau, his now, tucked at the back amongst discarded hair grips, disintegrating elastic bands and yellowing receipts. His finger follows the jagged tear along the right-hand side of the photograph where something seems to be missing, like a crucial piece of a jigsaw puzzle. He walks over to the window and holds it to the light. Now part of a second person can be seen, like a shadow or ghost - a man with a hint of the orient about him, not unlike his own sallow features. He frowns. A memory tugs and, as he looks out at the garden, it grows stronger, gathering colour and sound, until he feels the grass beneath his feet and hears his mother’s fleeting laughter as he chases a cricket ball thrown by a stranger.
Wind-up Happiness
You started coming home smelling of WD-40, grease stains on your jeans. You
wanted a change, you said, but would not explain from what.
When I caught you in the bathroom with your lower leg folded open, chrome flash of
pistons under the wet human lining, it was as if I’d interrupted you with a lover. But then, love for you had never been about the physical act. We always had to be mindful of your heart, avoid sudden surprises, excesses of emotion.
We fought that night, in our quiet, careful way. I watched a tear well up, form a
perfect droplet, fall silently.
When you came back with new eyes, told me you could see in infra-red, you
explained that the self-lubricating design rendered lacrimal glands obsolete. Crying was just evolutionary baggage anyway, vestigial.
Tonight, you pressed the long key into my hand, took me out to run laughing through
the fair like teenagers again, share neon-lit kisses on the Ferris wheel.
Then your heart stopped, and I realised what the key was for.