Monthly Micro Shortlist - October 24
Competitors, opponents, and rivals
The Shortlist is here!
This month’s Monthly Micro Competition shortlist is in. Congratulations to the ten stories that made this month’s shortlist, and commiserations to those that didn’t. We have ten amazing stories for you to read and enjoy. Remember to cast your vote for the story you loved the most, as the micro with the most votes wins the coveted People’s Prize!
The prompt was RIVALRY, and the word limit was 150. Voting is open until 23.59 GMT on Monday 28th October and the winners will be announced on the 29th.
Extinction Rebellion
A whine of sirens, the yellow jackets of coppers, sinister drones overhead. Shane grips my elbow, dragging me through the push of bodies on Westminster Bridge. Stink of sweat, too-loud voices chanting: No more coal, no more oil, keep our carbon in the soil.
‘You wanted to come,’ he spits, ‘so start protesting.’
Riot shields glint. As I yank my arm out of his grasp, a girl with pink dreads wedges herself between us, dangling handcuffs.
‘I’m going for the lock, you with me, Shane?’
‘Yeah, chain me up, Pink.’
She knows him. And he’s grinning at her.
‘Clear the bridge,’ a distorted voice booms through the whinny of police horses.
‘Come on!’ I grab his elbow, but my fingers slide off the slippery fake leather. Pink has found Shane’s wrist. Her handcuff, with its metal claws, circles his bare skin.
A drumfire of hooves and I am running, alone.
Growing Pains
We slumber in the darkness, biding our time for when the warmth seeps down to
where we hide. At last the thaw comes; the race is on. Drawing on what resources
we can, thrusting skywards in the fight for the light.
Our competitors tangle with each other, strangling and tearing. Nearby thorny elites
devour all around them; their victims drained, dying, falling back into the earth.
We find a gap in the crowd and drive for it, unfurling to soak up energy pouring from
above. But as we flourish, fast moving monsters who have bided their time, ferociously rise and cluster around, choking us. We can’t fight. We are lost.
In an instant and a passing shadow, the more perditious interlopers vanish. Their
bastions turned over, their supply lines dug up.
Freed, we have the space to bring our mission to fruition, and reveal our fleeting
glory to the sky.
Publish or Perish
Gwyn picked the lock to the fish lab and sneaked in, enveloped by darkness. Grad school was cutthroat. She’d received another rejection email today and her coral-growth funding ended in two months. She needed a win. Especially after her latest failed experiments.
“No finding’s still a finding,” reminded her mentor. Those don’t get published. She needed a first-author publication if she had any hope of a post-doc. And she desperately needed to identify why her corals kept disintegrating.
Meanwhile, everyone else in her cohort was already fielding acceptances. Victor’s fish
interaction study in particular was going just swimmingly. She groaned. He already had an article in the next issue of Nature.
Eyes adjusting to the dark, Gwyn furtively reached into her pocket. She’d been overfeeding Victor’s fish for days. Surely they’d die soon.
A grunt sounded as fluorescent lights blinded her. Victor glared menacingly, her corals crushed in his hand.
Simmering Tensions
My wife senses my eyes upon her and turns her gaze from my fellow competitor, Manuel. She smiles, winks twice, our personal ‘you’ve got this’ sign. What’s their sign? I wonder.
Our audience is vast, worldwide, some tune-in at squint-eye o’clock. The Supremo-Chef Finals, the pinnacle of our mirrored careers, the ultimate grudge-match.
I thumb the edge of my cleaver, a bead of blood, a blue plaster pause. Delays agitate
Manuel.
When we were kids, blades were protection, blood left to dry. Rio was brutal, still is. Pinked tourists swarmed the Copacabana, relished the Carioca vibe, revelled at the Carnival. We spilled from the hills like starving rats, vying for scraps, a few centavos, a discarded crust. The fight led us here, hunger, necessity, rancour, greed.
“Begin,” the host announces.
I regard the slippery heart before me, inhale, tighten my grip on the knife. It’s not just about food anymore.
Sindy Saves The Day
Action Man was King of the Hill, Champion of the World for three years until Sindy arrived. She appeared one Christmas with a most unsuitable wardrobe of clothes and a sugar pink convertible. Action Man sneered at her efforts to be friendly and embarked on a covert campaign of intimidation.
Unfortunately, Sindy had wiles and a repertoire including tears, tantrums and dirty tricks. It was when Action Man woke up to a full face of indelible marker make-up that he knew his days were numbered.
All pretence at peaceful co-existence vanished. War broke out and he found himself hurled into the black of a bin bag. There was a squeal of outrage then Sindy joined him. He shivered.
“Sindy, I’m scared.” He felt her slender hand grope for his in the darkness.
“Don’t worry Actie, I’ve still got the keys for the convertible.”
Surrey League, Match Four, Lloyd Park
Your lungs and legs burn as you push up the hill, mud clinging to your calves. Below: a broad swoop of grass; the white poles of the finish funnel.
Victory’s so close. You shouldn’t, but you imagine the weight of the trophy in your hands. Surrey League Men’s Champion.
Then: his breaths heavy at your shoulder. You push harder but he’s passing, too strong, a hurricane of legs flicking dirt. The curve of his thigh, the distance behind you widening, the taste of sweat and shame. You stagger across the line in second place and sag to the ground.
His face looms before you, the face that haunts your nightmares – and your dreams.
Then his hand’s in yours, too hot to touch, hauling you to your feet. The gleam in his eyes dares you to hope that, maybe, he dreams about you, too.
The Cheater
The reason I can’t beat him is simple; he cheats.
When we were walking home from school, he said “let’s race to that gate”. As I looked to where he was pointing, he shouted “go!” and charged off. He won of course.
Yesterday, playing ‘Crossie’ on the iPad, I was really thrashing his score, until he shoved his hand in front of my eyes. Once we played Jenga; he deliberately wobbled the table.
But tonight, I’ll get my revenge.
It’s hide and seek and I’m squashed under the floorboards of the shed. He’s out there in the garden, but he’ll never find me.
Suddenly my phone starts to ring and I hear heavy footsteps above me. The loose plank is slowly lifted. And there he is, phone in hand, laughing.
“Found you, ``ring ring. Come on, I’ll help you out. It’s my turn to hide now.”
“You cheated again, Grandad.”
Torn
Never underestimate your rivals.
Anne stood in the hallway, broom and dustpan in hand, staring guiltily at her open
laptop. Bold and in large font, the title...Isabella’s Bouquet, beckoned her. Notebook and iPad ready for further research.
Find me a map of Glasgow circa 1881. What clothing did women wear in the late
1800’s? Find me City Poorhouse Parliamentary Road.
Should I stay or should I go...the lyrics of The Clash swam in her head.
I’m sorry Isabella. I’ll be back. As much as I hate leaving, my home needs a gentle
touch.
You’re easily swayed. What about my story? What about your grandfather’s story.
How long must we wait.
Anne vacillated between housework and her great-great grandmother’s story.
I know...I’m so close. You’ve waited almost ten years. Time to finish.
Banishing her rivals to the broom closet, Anne took her seat at the laptop and began
again.
Turns
‘You first.’
‘No, you.’
‘So the credit will be yours, Mummy’s boy? The big hero? Not happening.’
‘There’s two of us, one parachute. You take it.’
‘No! God, I hate being your twin.’
‘Likewise. Let me go down with the plane. Then you won’t be...’
‘And get a proper slapping from mum for being selfish?’
‘Can’t say you haven’t deserved it. Look. I’ll put the bloody thing on. You hold on to me, and we’ll both jump.’
‘O.K.’
‘Hang on for dear life. Ready? I’m going to crack the door open. Steady? Here goes nothing. Geronimo!’
‘Shit, wish I’d brought my jacket. It’s freezing out here.’
‘It’ll be better once I pull the ripcord.’
‘How come you get to pull the damn string? You always...’
‘Now is not the moment for arguing. I’ll...’
‘Just cause you’re one minute older, you reckon you are...’
‘If we don’t, we’ll die...’
‘Ever the know-it-all, eh? Typical. Well, this time I...’
Why It Was Me That Ended Up Being Raised by a Wolf and Not My
Twin Wolf-Sisters
There was all the empty-crib commotion, and mother’s unwarranted wailing almost
drowning out the distant yowling, and her yanking and dragging me, and then we’re
stood on the riverbank while she-wolf’s haunches bristled, and what I said was that
they shouldn’t have been rescued from the river, even if the rescuer was a she-wolf
perfectly suited to raising them, they were put there for a reason, and I didn’t say that
it was because there wasn’t enough food for a girl and her wolf-sisters, or that a big
girl still needed her mother, or that everyone was bone-tired without sleep because
the baby wolf sisters howled when there was a moon, or when there wasn’t a moon,
and then mother’s pushing me towards those dare-snarling yellow teeth and she’s
snatching up the wolf-sisters and running off, and she-wolf mother wraps herself
round me while she licks away my tears.