Tiny Stories: Her Time Has Come

Posted by Madd_Fictional on August 20, 2021

Oh, I have lived lifetime upon lifetime, participated in events that have shaped this world, loved the best among you and the worst, but I must admit that never in all the many years of my immortal life have I witnessed anything more beautiful, touching and devastating than the living embodiment of Death gently and patiently explaining to an elderly butterfly that her time has finally come.

Tiny Stories: A Puddle of Memories

Posted by Madd_Fictional on August 19, 2021

Bailey didn’t remember the accident or being thrown clear of the car into the nearby bushes, and he was unconscious when his person was taken away in an ambulance. All he knew, when he came to, was that he was all alone, far away from home.

The concept and passage of time was slightly different for Bailey, so as the rain on his brow beat a rhythm unlocking the past, he sat at the scene of the accident, “good boy” style, in a puddle of memories, waiting faithfully for his human’s return.

Tiny Stories: Sister Pioneers

Posted by Madd_Fictional on August 18, 2021

Adelaide and Agatha Bechtel were born different from the rest of humanity but their parents did their level best to raise them with a sense of pride and dignity.

The twins were taught to ignore the stares of the ignorant masses, for evolution was on their side.

Soon the world would know the shocking truth and come to acknowledge and appreciate them as pioneers in the next stage of genetic advancement.

Tiny Stories: Shards of Torment

Posted by Madd_Fictional on August 15, 2021

The vanity mirror in her bedroom was a Venetian antique. Tin and mercury were used in its construction, which caused the mirror to develop a crystalline appearance over the years. It was a gift from Sandrine’s late husband, something he picked up from a bizarre back alley curio shop at a price far below its worth.

Although the mirror always displayed Sandrine’s reflection in the best light possible, far better than any mirror ever had, it had always unnerved her, as if it was manipulating her image to make her more beautiful than she knew herself to be. After her husband died, she should have thrown it away, but could not for the life of her explain what stopped her from doing it.

As was her nightly ritual, she sat in front of the mirror and brushed her long, beautiful hair, counting each stroke, when she detected the faintest whiff of her husband’s cologne. Sandrine looked around the bedroom and saw that she was alone, but when her gaze returned to the mirror, her husband was seated beside her in the reflection, holding her hand that was holding the brush. She screamed and for a moment it felt as if something or someone else was in control of her arm, forcing her to hurl the hairbrush with all her might at the mirror, shattering it to pieces.

Bitter nausea rose in her throat as the shards of the shattered vanity mirror twitched and trembled before shooting up from the table and floor in a maelstrom of sharp chaos, pieces binding themselves together in DNA helix fashion, building themselves from inanimate splinters of reflective glass to take on a new, sinister shape, the form of her abusive, late husband.

“Honey, I’m home,” said the mirrored monstrosity in a voice that sounded like broken glass edges scraping together.

Tiny Stories: The Girl Who Dances

Posted by Madd_Fictional on August 14, 2021

Mother Nature’s nose bleeds as the climate changes and zoonotic illnesses are on the rise and the human virus that infects the planet pushes itself toward extinction over squabbles of skin tone, religion, and wealth and the only thing holding the fabric of the universe together is Umbra, whose name means shadow, which is where she dances.

She is a shy girl with the crooked smile and nervous laugh who keeps herself to herself and stands apart from the rest of the so-called real world, moving her body to a tune of ancient magicks that no one else can hear and loving the vision of what people can become if only they can get out of their own way.

Pray the day never comes when she stops dancing.

Tiny Stories: Eyes of Pitch

Posted by Madd_Fictional on August 13, 2021

Her point of origin was unknown and perhaps unknowable. Some said she was the herald of an extraterrestrial invasion force come to test Earth’s defenses, while others postulated that she stepped directly from the Abyss to test the mettle of humankind.

As no earthly tongue could pronounce her name, she chose the pseudonym Rosalinda.

As a xenologist, considered by many to be the top in my field, I was drafted by the military to assess both Rosalinda’s intent and her threat level. All throughout my briefing, I was repeatedly warned, as per Nietzsche’s instructions, not to look directly at her, and I tried my level best to heed that warning but…

Rosalinda’s eyes were pitch black perfect and somewhere in their aphotic depths, I spotted the bioluminescence of her pain and gentleness as they came together to form the very art of her beautifully tortured soul.

She was here to destroy us all, and I, helplessly in love, was prepared to be the first in line to be obliterated.

Tiny Stories: How Do You Mend A Mechanical Heart?

Posted by Madd_Fictional on August 12, 2021

“All right, I’ll tell you, but move in closer,” IO-893 said. “I do not like discussing my personal business in public.”

“Mrrroww,” replied the bar cat as it inched toward the mecha man.

“I violated Asimov’s First Law of Robotics, you know, the one that states: A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.“

“Maow?” the bar cat asked.

“Yes, a human female named Marisol, but there’s more to the story than simple murder. We were in love, as impossible as that might seem to an upstanding feline such as yourself, and she was sick, slowly wasting away from a disease that was so new it had no name at the time and definitely had no cure. She begged and pleaded with me to end her misery. She was the center of my universe, how could I deny her request? Could you, if you were in my position?”

“Miaou.”

“I did not think so,” IO-893 said. “After Marisol expelled her final breath, I obtained a lock of her hair and wound it around my broken mecha heart, before I was jailed. 25 years later, I was granted a Presidential Pardon, provided that I returned the lock of hair to Marisol’s family, which I foolishly agreed to.”

The bar cat’s brow furrowed. “Miau?”

“No, you don’t understand, it goes far beyond losing a keepsake,” IO-893 explained. “Technology has advanced to the point where humans can be cloned from a single strand of hair. Marisol’s family has an entire lock that I aim to steal. So, are you in or out?”

Tiny Stories: The Lips of Death

Posted by Madd_Fictional on August 11, 2021

The cruel hand of Fate stole you too soon from this all too fragile life and driven to desperation by your absence, I embarked on a fool’s errand, for I am forever a fool for your love, down to accursed Hades in search of the dreaded psychopomp for a solution to my heart’s devastation.

A bargain was struck, and know, beloved, that I showed no fear and no regret when I fell to my knees and kissed the lips of Death itself in order to bring you back, thus damning my soul to be cast into the pit of Tartarus for all eternity.

Enjoy your second chance at life, my sweet, and know that regardless of what happens in your future travels, you are loved.

Tiny Stories: They Come At Night

Posted by Madd_Fictional on August 10, 2021

They come at night during the Hour of the Wolf, that gap between night and dawn when most people perish, when the sleepless are haunted by their deepest fear, when nightmares become flesh, and when ghosts are at the zenith of their power.

When they were alive they were families and neighbors who came to each other’s aid and fought for peace and tragically lost the battle before that peace had been established.

Now, these tortured souls step each pre-dawn from the void of the hereafter to remind us of how far we still must travel.

A Storybox Full of Regret – Epilogue

Posted by Madd_Fictional on August 9, 2021

Prologue Here…

Epilogue

“…I swim against the current of my final destiny and pass through each body gathered in this place to leave a personalized vivid memory in an effort to ensure I am not forgotten. The end,” Nessa said as she set the sheet down on top of the pile of paper.

“That was the last story?” Warren asked.

“Yup, the rest of these are all rejection letters. Thank you, by the way.” She kissed her husband on the cheek.

“For?”

“Doing this for me. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

“Well, if I’m being totally honest here, I didn’t hate it as much as I thought I would,” he admitted.

“Didn’t hate it is high praise coming from you. I need to mark this down,” Nessa smiled and mimed writing in an invisible book. “Dear Diary, today my husband took his first step toward maturity…”

“Okay, smartass, let’s not make a big deal out of it.” Warren was on the cusp of a blush, which he desperately tried to tamp down.

“Seriously, though, how do you feel? What are you thinking?”

It took awhile for him to answer because it was all too new to him. Warren wasn’t like his wife who instantly knew her precise opinion and feelings on things. He needed privacy and time to reflect, to take the situation apart and properly inspect all the pieces before he could assess it as a whole.

“I wish I had gotten to know the man who wrote those stories,” he sighed. It was the best answer he was able to provide at the moment.

“Well, you know I don’t believe in accidents,” Nessa said. “There’s a reason for everything, including us finding these stories together.”

“Oh, come on Ness, not this,” Warren said and he couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling.

“Come on nothing,” Nessa said, tapping her finger on the paper stack. “You know if you found this by yourself you would have thrown it out without even reading it. Think of what you would have missed out on.”

Warren started to saying something but Nessa cut him off, “Your father wanted you to read his stories so that you could maybe not forgive him as such but understand him a little better. I was meant to be here with you to help make that happen.”

He didn’t believe in fate or destiny but he knew arguing the absurdity of her theory was pointless. “You know what, I’d concede your point if we found a journal where he explained what he was going through, why he did the things he did, but these are just random stories.”

“Can’t you see they’re more than that? They’re pieces of his soul, something he felt he had to hide.”

Warren threw up his hands. “I—I can’t, okay? This is all too much to process right now.”

“I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean to push,” Nessa said.

She busied herself by gathering all the pages together and arranging them into a neat pile, to give her husband a little time to compose himself. Carefully, she folded the Kraft paper around the pile, wound the twine around and bound it with a neat bow.

“You fulfilled your end of the deal,” she said. “So, the choice is yours: which pile do these go in?”

“I don’t know,” Warren said.

“Well, I have a thought, but you might not like it.”

“Go on, spit it out.”

“I think we should try to get them published. It’s obviously what your father wanted and maybe the timing wasn’t right for him.”

“But they’re all short, I mean, shorter than the average short story…”

“So?” Nessa shrugged. “We present them as a collection.”

“Who in their right mind is going to be interested in a collection of super-short stories from an unknown writer? Do you have some insider knowledge of what’s trending with publishers and readers that I don’t know about?”

“How do you know if we don’t try?” Nessa countered. “Besides, if all else fails, we can publish them ourselves.”

“And why would we want to go through all that trouble?”

“Because you couldn’t ask for better closure than making your father’s dream come true. And I was thinking, maybe we can include the rejection letters in a section in the back of the book…or better yet, put each letter after the actual story!”

It was a waste of time, Warren knew that as sure as bread falls butter side down, but he watched how animated Nessa became at the thought of taking on the project, and although she drove him nutty a good majority of the time, he loved seeing that sparkle in her eyes.

And somewhere deep, deep, deep within the recesses of his being, the small, non-contrarian part of him reluctantly admitted that maybe, just maybe, she was right about this being the closure he needed in order to bury the resentment for his father in the past so that he could become a better father in the future.

He could even try his hand at writing himself. If his father could manage it, how hard could it really be?

MADD FICTIONAL

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