If you give a mouse a cookie wrapper

The owl raced the coyote for the remains of the mouse who'd been nibbling on the cookie wrapper Timmy threw out of his Dad's car. Sophia was in a car that came down the road just then, and saw the owl swoop and the coyote dash. She thought the coyote looked like a cross between a fox and a dog, and that the owl was much larger than she had ever imagined. It was a beautiful snowy-white with flecks of black, gray and brown. By the time Gloria passed, the coyote, owl, mouse and cookie wrapper were easily missed.

The Pew of Obadiah Thompson

I see everything – even when they wear their finest. I been here since 1678, back when they didn't let everyone in. Still don't, though they say they do, but ain't figured out how to spread the word. I mean, if I was a tree, which I was at one time, and whenever I stuck out a branch it got trimmed, I'd make sure to grow strong before reaching out again, but I'd keep reaching. I'd build up good and stretch out real far, and bring shade to anyone too long in the heat. Can I get an amen?

A Whole New Dog

“He's like a whole new dog, but not.”

“No, he's not. Still wants to get in everybody's business.”

“Answered prayers, oddly.”

“Oddly? He came out of surgery well, and doing great learning to navigate with only three legs.”

“Not just the cancer and leg. I meant prayers for his ability to socialize. He never grew out of this aggressive need for attention. He's so strong, I always had to keep him from jumping on everyone. But now...”

“Wow. Yeah, like a whole new dog, but he's not.”

“No, he's not.”

“Do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Don't ever pray for me.”

Mister Levi

Let me tell you about Mister Levi. I was as close to him as anyone. You know, he was a genius. Always thinking how to better products or meet people's needs with quality work clothing. But it was the little things, like me, that truly set him apart. Mister Levi gave me my start himself. He said, “Put full-pockets in back, and the front ones should be crescent-shaped from the first belt-loop across to join the top outer seam. And I want a little 'secret pocket' for my watch.” Genius, he was, 'cause I sure seen more than watches.

The Sun Also

Sun sets fast here. Winter fast. The feeling of falling into darkness, like an exhale, seemingly final. I watch her breathing. Rising. Falling. Sometimes a shake or shimmy, like ripples running through the ether. Sometimes shallow. Sometimes long moments between. I wait. She waited for me. Watched me like this, I'm sure. Not final. Not like now. Not counted in minutes. Once, she rose, blossomed, spun, floated, crested, peaked, weakened, and sank. Nearly dawn. Nearly. Cresting, my rays draw forth new mornings to watch the nights. Fast and merciful, the feeling of falling into darkness. Like an exhale, seemingly final.

We Make Do

"Sorry, folks, but we all know Pearl passed last night. Annie has the dispersal breakdown. Annie?"

"Thanks, Charles. Usually we do this after morning meds, but....yes, Millie, sorry, I said, WE USUALLY DO THIS AFTER MORNING MEDS, but because of our staffing difficulties, we make do, right? WE MAKE DO, RIGHT? Okay, Pearl had two bottles of baby aspirin with fifty-three pills, roughly six per resident; acid-reducers thirty-six, or four per; one, sixteen-ounce bottle of rubbing alcohol, or two-ounces each; a package of twelve diapers.....What? You couldn't wait? YOU COULDN'T WAIT? That's eleven, and Millie's minus one. Next item...."

This Little Light of Mine

Hi, I'm Candle, the figurative 'little light' from the song. Didn't become a song till later, you know. I only hummed it at first, and when I say 'hum,' I don't mean like an electric light. That's a whole other thing. My hum comes from contentment. You see, the thought behind it goes like this: to be 'like' a light, and not just the light. You know how marketers say, “Sell the sizzle not the steak?” well, the same applies here. It's not about being aglow, it's the process. Watch. Every time I shine without, my heart melts within.

Give a Shit

“In tonight's news: Doctors confirm cancer wonder-drug, 'Manzbesfren,' derived from dog-stool enzymes, is working miracles around the globe.”

“Yes, and there's a groundswell of support for the, 'Give a Shit about Cancer' poop drive, where owners donate their pet's waste.”

“And get a nice, by-the-pound tax-incentive.”

“I'm donating.”

“Me too. We're using the 'Nugget Bucket' they provided.”

“We're having multiple 'Crap Traps' installed in our yard.”

“Really? Don't expect loads like past days. Try a turd-turning truffle-pig instead.”

“Whatever it takes, right?”

“Give selflessly people.”

“Yes, bend till it hurts.”

He left his mark on us all

"I had a beau call Friday night."

"Are you kidding? What'd you do?"

"Rode his horse side-saddle."

"Oh, my God. I had a beau call on me last night and I rode side-saddle too."

"Hussy! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want anyone to see what he left on my neck."

"I was wondering about the bandana. What's his name?"

"Mark."

"Beige Palomino, Mark?"

"Oh, my, yes, Mark Hickey. How'd you know?"

"He left one on me too."

"I don't see it."

"Well, the Palomino did while he was grazing."

A Little Sprinkle

"See, the birds don't wait for the rain to stop, Gwendolyn, because they know the worms are coming out of the ground. Oh, and look, there goes a bumble bee. She doesn't worry about a little sprinkle while looking for clover. We can get wet too, running for the ice cream truck!"

"Hi, honey, how are you enjoying your visit with Grandma and Grandpa? Oh? In the rain? Did you wear a raincoat? No? Umbrella? No? And Grandpa got you ice cream after he taught you about the birds and the bees? Great! Let me talk to Grandma, please."

Just write a note

“Sorry, Grandma. You have to go inside the store. He won't give it to me.”

“What? Ridiculous. When did they come up with that rule?”

“It's not a rule, Grandma. It's business.”

“Well, it wasn't like that in our day. They weren't Nazis. Mom drove up, and I ran in with a signed note: 'Please sell one pack of cigarettes to my daughter.' What if I wrote a note?”

“I don't think it'll work.”

“Why not?”

“Cannabis retail is a little different from tobacco, Grandma.”

“Cannabis? Oh, honey, no, Granny wants pot.”

Sharon Sharalike

Welcome. We love company. Here, have some air. Unfiltered fresh. We save so much by keeping our windows closed. Look! I have a new cold! It comes with a cough and runny. Here, I'll give you some to hold. Yeah, just touch anywhere. It's yours. Mi casa, su casa. What? You've never had one like this before? You should join our CO-OP - 'What's Mine is Yours?' We share everything. You know what the 'CO' stands for, right? We took out the nineteen. Yeah, that stuff just like bombards you everywhere. “Watch out! Disease! Oooooh.” I'm sick of it.

Wish You Could Quit Too

“Wish I could cut back, like Sam.”

“Yeah, he's down to a carton a day.”

“That's pretty good.”

“Yeah, but then you gotta go all the way and stop.”

“I know, or it's right back to full-blown.”

“What are you up to?”

“Daily?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, cost alone is, ah, times seven days a week, good Lord. I didn't realize how much I was spending.”

“I'm four-hundred a month.”

“Oh, I thought I was bad at three-seventy.”

“Expensive habit.”

“More and more.”

“Shit. We might have to start making our own shells.”

“Or open our own range.”

“Or quit.”

Pod Casts

“Well, it's like a back-burn, you know, like where you firefighters intentionally fire up a line to stop the forest fire – fight fire with fire? Does that help?”

“Yeah, thanks. It makes sense to me putting it that way.”

“Great. Anyone else on the fence about getting the vaccine? Open forum. Yes, sir?”

“I'm still not convinced.”

“What work you do?”

“I'm a lion tamer.”

“Okay, that's a new one on the cast. I see a lot of smiling and shaking heads. Well, um, do you stick your head in its mouth?”

“Of course.”

“Before or after it's fed?”

My Favorite

Her face awoke. She was sitting in the wheelchair in the corner as always, but today her eyes beamed bright enough to remember my name.

“I told him how much of a fan you are, Mom.”

“Albert Truesdale? Oh my. You shouldn't have.”

“But he's your favorite and I was there.”

“Yes, he's my favorite, and this is his newest?”

“Yes. Want me to read some?”

“Please, Philip.”

“Okay. To Melody Winthrop from Albert Truesdale. It's in the journey, not the destination. Chapter One...”

Please don't anyone ever tell Albert Truesdale.

Dear Reader,

During Covid I was introduced to flash fiction and the 100-word micro. I'm running out of paper. I'd be happy to share more if you like.

Thank you.

Bill Sells

300 Micro-Flash Fiction Stories

All genres - Adult, usually

Good fit? - You can fit them anywhere.

Hook? - Quick reads for quick reading people

Synopsis - A range of emotion every minute

Target audience? - See 'Hook'

Bill Sells is a former newspaper correspondent turned marketing writer, children's writer, short fiction writer, poet and Senior Olympic Gold Medalist (autographs by appointment, please). He's the author of a middle-reader adventure novel and a toddler's counting book. He can be found online at some of the finest literary fiction sites.

There was no tunnel. No white lights. No dead relatives waiting for her, amidst a beautiful utopia reeking of love and warmth. She was cold, and kind of hungry.

Do dead people really get hungry? Laney thought, sitting inside of her own head. Nothing to keep her company but the pitch black.

Laney sat in the darkness of her mind, replaying the events of the last six months of her life. The last six months that ended with her six feet under. She wanted to reach out. Stop herself from making the mistakes over and over again.

Is this hell? I wasn’t the greatest person in the world but I didn’t think I deserved hell.

Her memory self falls to the floor in a puddle of blood.

They always met in that motel. The Stardust Motel. Room 218. It’s one of those motels where you don’t need a credit card. Cash up front, rooms by the hour. Boasting of an outdoor pool that no one could use, because it was always coated in a thick layer of green slime. The scent of mildew, and bad decisions drifting casually in the air. The dust fell from the post sixties mod style curtains, floating in the air like the seeds blown from a dandelion.

She remembered the gun shot. The thunderous force of its cargo ripping through her chest like Velcro. Her body hitting the musty floor of the motel room. The final bad decision in a never-ending stream of bad decisions.

She moved out of her parents house at fifteen, and in with her abusive boyfriend. Cocaine is a hell of a drug, and her parents enjoyed plenty. She ran through a train of abusive men and developed a thirst for amounts of alcohol typically reserved for two.

It wasn’t like I wanted to be an alcoholic. It’s not like college was an option, and my parents didn’t set the worlds best example.

She had been working part time in The Outpost, a dive bar in the rundown side of town. You know the one. Every town has one. The one that people avoid, and yet it still stands. The one that reeks of alcohol, and the cigarette smoke of the past.

But it was home. She sold her soul to the company store. Drowning herself in her tips.

Why did I decide to meet up with him? That’s right I needed money.

Laney had only met up with that man for a quickie and some cash. She wasn’t the town bicycle, but he was lonely, and she wasn’t seeing anyone so, no harm no foul.

How was I supposed to know that he was a psychopath?

She met Simon six months ago, when she had turned twenty. His face was sad and lonely, but his brooding eyes had a glimmer of charm hiding in them. He sat in the corner of The Outpost, where she remained after her shift to finish off a bottle of Jack Daniels and celebrate the poor excuse of her birthday. The cigarette smoke clung to the air, like a child holding onto their mother. The faint sound of pool balls, drowned out by Journey, playing on the juke box.

As they sat talking, she pulled her hair into a high, loose bun with shorter pieces of hair falling around her face. One drink led to another, which led to a bathroom stall. He wasn’t looking for a relationship, which was fine with her. The past six months had been nothing more than a quickie here and there, and him asking if he was the only one, and giving her money to get by. To which she always replied with of course.

They never bothered to talk to each other about anything deep. No philosophical late-night discussions.

How did that night go?

Simon texted her that morning. He wanted to meet up like usual. Laney got in the shower, letting hot steam open her pores, the alcohol she consumed the night before running out of her body. She fixed her face, using the makeup that Simon had bought her to cover up her breakouts, and hiding her racoon eyes.

Laney got dressed, put on her yellow sundress, showing off her tan shoulders, and headed out the door of her apartment. Getting into her beat up Jetta, she drove the twelve blocks north, towards The Stardust Motel.

Pulling into the parking lot, she did her best to avoid the needles some of the other patrons politely left behind in their endless chase of the dragon. She got out of the car, and quickly went up to the door of room 218.

“Hey” Simon greeted her; eyes averted like they were doing something bad.

“What’s good?” she smiled quickly kissing him on the cheek, kicking her heels off in the corner of the room.

He didn’t look right. He was always reserved, but he had worry in his eyes, instead of the charm that normally nestled in them. His face pale, his hair greasy and unkempt. When they met up, her clothes were almost off by the time they got into the motel room. Instead he stared at her, like he was looking through her. His behavior should have been the first red flag, but Laney chalked it up to a lack of sleep, he was always so busy doing... well Laney didn’t really know what he did for work.

“Is everything okay?” She stammered, starting to unzip her dress.

“Don’t!” He commanded. A fierceness in his eyes she had never seen before.

Laney froze, zipping back up the side of her dress. She had walked to her shoes, so she could put them on as well. “I’m just gonna go. I thought we were gonna meet up like normal but if you’re not feeling it, I’m gonna pick up a shift.”

“Sit the fuck down!” he yelled, his voice shaking. “Who else have you been meeting here? “His voice the thunder to the lightning flashing in his eyes.

“No one!” she shouted. Even though they were just fuck buddies, she wasn’t looking for love in any place. Simon was the only one she has had any sort of relations with, carnal or otherwise. Her blood was boiling.

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” he snapped, pacing across the small room. From the bathroom at the far end to the door. “The guy at the front desk said he saw you with three other people!”

The boiling blood, finally reaching the tip of her tongue, “We aren’t even together Simon! I haven’t been here since last time we were together!” She caught her breath, “And even if I was, it’s none of your goddamn business!”

She felt the sting of his hand right across her mouth. Hot tears rolled down her face, “Fuck you!” She screamed pushing by him to get to the front door.

He grabbed her by the hair, dropping her to the floor with a thud. Bells ringing in her ears. “We aren’t together!” She insisted, “Simon we aren’t together!”

“I thought this was more.” His eye’s dancing around the room, “I thought I meant more to you Laney.”

She let out gut wrenching sobs, “Simon we barely say more than three words to each other every time we meet! How could you possibly think we were more than this?”

He cocked his foot back and released. Digging the toe of his boot into the left side of her rib cage. She could hear the crack, just like the wishbone at Thanksgiving.

She began pulling herself up onto the bed, when she heard the hammer of the pistol click behind her.

“Simon. I-”

BANG!

The bullet shredding through her like a piece of paper, leaving her to float on a pool of her own blood.

Darkness.

Snapping back into her now reality, she remained in the darkness. When do I get my fucking tunnel? When do I get whisked off to the angels? This sucks. She sat in the darkness, waiting for the bright lights to sweep her off to heaven. Or hell. She didn’t care which, but the damn darkness was beginning to feel unnerving.

Title: Purgatory (working title)

Genre: Fiction

Age Range: Adult

Word Count: 1,362

Author Name: Ashley Casaus

Why it's a good fit: This is the start of the first chapter of the book that I'm working on. I think that it is going to have a lot of potential, and is something I am really excited about once it gets flushed out a little more.

The Hook: A story about a girl who dies violently, and is left to traverse the galaxy.

Synopsis: This first chapter follows Laney, and how she meets her demise. However, the rest of the book is going to follow her on a journey around the galaxy, in her attempt to finally find eternal happiness.

I am a 29 year old woman. I have loved writing from a very young age but typically focus on poetry. I have a few different mental illnesses and writing has always been an outlet for me. I was initially a nursing major, but after a mental breakdown, I decided that nursing wasn't for me, and that I wanted to go back to something I loved: English. I am currently an undergraduate and Colorado State University - Pueblo, working towards my English degree with my secondary teaching license. I play a lot of videogames and love cosplays and comic cons. I work full time, mom full time, and go to school full time. I have had multiple pieces published in our campus literary magazine, and am really excited about trying something new instead of poetry!

The weary, wan light of the moon filters faintly through the window shades. The pale, cold light casts into relief a small, ill-kept bedroom with two matching twin beds on opposite walls and two night-stands, a small lamp upon each. A wheelchair sits, crammed between the end of one of the beds and the wall, behind an old commode.

The bed on the left is empty.

A man lies in the other, listening intently to the clock ticking above the doorframe. His eyes glitter dully in the bleached half-light of the room. The night is only half-spent and he shifts imperceptibly, as someone accustomed to lying awake for long hours.

His face is gaunt and unshaven, bristly and rough—a lifeless conglomeration of skin and hair and eyes—unmoving and unfeeling in the bleak and winnowed moonlight. The night’s shadows heighten his socketed eyes and angular chin; things that once were fine, even handsome, appear somber and spent.

The man stares fixedly at the ceiling, arms tucked in close at the sides, hands upon his chest, fingers interlaced. For all of the man’s roughness and severity, his hands are a tender antithesis. Delicate and elegant, they are the hands of an artist, or a surgeon—equally liable to paint the sweeping majesty of a sunrise as to bind a wound or brush a tear. They are hands to craft a toy for a child or nurture the tender shoots of a garden bed.

The clock has finished ticking to four-thirty when the man ends his quiet vigil, unclasping his steady fingers in search of the thick, plastic cord near the bed’s side-rail. Outside his reach, it takes some moments before he is able to grasp it, and some time more to locate the rubberized grip and red button.

His fingers linger over the button, hesitant, feeling the edges. He shifts uncomfortably in bed, an act that seems to decide him, and presses the button.

A light above the door flickers on.

The man sighs audibly, unable to retract the action, and returns to his examination of the ceiling. The ticking of the clock resumes to his hearing. One minute. Two. The rhythm of the clock is indelibly etched into his mind. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Five minutes. Six. Nine. Tick. Tick. Tick. Eleven. When the door finally opens, it is a relief of those endless seconds.

“What’cha need, Mista’ Lewis?”

The voice is loud and harsh.

Mr. Lewis’s eyes flicker to the outline that fills the door, his fears confirmed. Voice hoarse from disuse, he struggles to reply and the voice repeats itself, more forcefully.

“What’cha need?”

Coughing to clear his throat, he croaks, “the bathroom.” A loud groan of dismay meets his reply.

“Day shift’ll be here in a hour. You cain’t wait?” Murmuring a soft no, Mr. Lewis continues to keep vigil over the ceiling.

“Fine,” the outline grumbles.

Ambling towards him from the door, she drags the commode beside the bed and drops the siderail. His aged body twists unpleasantly as his legs are pulled unceremoniously off of the bed.

In a practiced motion, his body is heaved upright from the edge into a standing position, body held in force by her massive form. The sharp smell of sweat and of freshly-smoked cigarette on her uniform is nauseating. Again, a practiced swing, and he is on the cold plastic seat, trousers pulled to his ankles.

“You gon’ be long?” she asks, eying him impatiently.

“No’m,” he replies, though it is a long seven hundred and thirty-nine seconds of the clock before she returns to help him off.

———————————————

Title: The Way of All Men

Genre: Literary Fiction

Age Range: Adult, or older Y.A.

Word Count: 598 (in excerpt), approximately 9,000 written

Hook: “The bed on the left is empty.” This line gives room to the question: why is the bed empty? The book brings this concept full-circle as the empty bed becomes a metaphor for all of the loss in Mr. Lewis’s life, specifically, his wife. The opening theme of abuse of the elderly is also employed to draw the reader in.

Synopsis: The book’s central character is Mr. Lewis, an elderly man who has lived in a nursing home for four years. The loss of his wife and the busy-ness of his children’s lives (which keeps them from visiting), has made him lonely and cynical. When the director of the nursing home determines that the business won’t survive financially without taking on more paying residents, all Medicare patients (including Mr. Lewis) are forced to share rooms. The dementia patient who moves into his wife’s empty bed is far from desirable, but as Mr. Lewis and Albert become acquainted, a friendship develops that alters Mr. Lewis’s perspective. The novel will examine the following social issues:

1. Elderly abuse, and why it often goes unnoticed.

2. At what point should care/treatment end?

3. When do nursing homes become predatory?

4. Does God exist and/or love His children, and if so, why does he allow them to suffer?

As all good literary fiction requires an exceptional plot apart from its social considerations, each of these topics is broached via character dilemmas and plot setbacks, not just through dialogue or verbose commentary.

Target Audience: Hopefully all lovers of classic literary fiction. (My aspiration is to write like Steinbeck, Hemingway or Hugo, though I certainly fall short).

Bio: I worked for 5 years prior to college as a CNA/EMT to save money. The time spent in various nursing homes and hospitals gave me much of my material for this book. The more interesting points of my life have been my work: I have sourced agricultural products within sub-Saharan Africa, worked as a surgical technician, in wildland fire-fighting, and am now a data analyst/scientist, specializing in healthcare data. Each of these experiences have spawned a variety of book ideas.

Education: Bachelors of Science deg. in Computational Mathematics & Statistics, Emergency Medical Technician (EMT)

Experience: Apart from placing 2nd in a collegiate writing competition, I am new to the realm of writing (in terms of sharing and marketing my work, not creating.)

Personality/Writing Style: I am a reserved individual with a dry sense of humor, who values logic and precision (cue my background in mathematics). In my writing, I prefer character-oriented lit that scrutinizes the human condition. For example, I am working on a novel about the loss experienced (by a family) in a hurricane that examines how natural disaster relief efforts too-often fall short.

Hobbies: I love to read (classical literature and historical non-fiction are my favorites) and also enjoy all things outdoorsy (backpacking, skiing, fishing, biking, etc.). Learning in general is also a hobby and lately, I have been studying for the actuarial exams and learning how to bottle food from my garden (pickles, peaches and salsa so far)!

Hometown: I have lived in Chicago, Utah, New Jersey, Idaho, Arizona, Houston and south-eastern Africa, so no place in particular is home.