I kind of hate writing fiction. I don’t like making up names or writing dialogue, but I’d like to strengthen those weak muscles. I took a stab at microfiction this month and hope to make it a habit. 


The beggar knocked on his door most days. Gently at first, and then with an anger he found unbecoming. She always left slowly, waiting for the creak in the door, the rush of conditioned air that never came. One night, the April monsoon let forth a tempest full of fury. Water seeped like blood from a cut between the window and the wall, and the palm trees, silhouetted by lightning, bent like reeds in a riptide. The man watched in the instants of white light as the wind peeled open the woman’s shack, the aluminum walls shining like a candy wrapper, floating on air. By morning, the storm had evaporated like mist in sunshine. And the world returned to normal, save for the knocks on the door.


Parameters: Write about a ride in 53 words. 

She stole a vista reserved for birds. Brazen and presumptuous, she soared among the black and ugly vultures, floating from a canopy bright and pretty as a butterfly’s wing. But the shapeshifting air left her motion sick, vomiting until her feet met the earth and the counterfeit wings lay crumpled in the grass.



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