For our final Facing the Page Together session in May, we issued a microfiction challenge. We circulated 3 photos and asked for stories up to 250 words in length. Read our creative results.
Under the Watercolor Sky
By Louise Rachlis
We always found something when we walked on the beach. Tossed from a cruise ship, long-stemmed roses That floated to shore. Pebbles in the sand Arranged like a heart. Now a monster sand castle Built with care Fragile signs of love That we could share.
Flight Paths
By Jennifer Tiller
“I wish you would quit your squawking, Albert said, his tone weary. “You know it was time they left the nest.”
“I know,” Eleanor replied, a sob catching in her throat. “It’s just,” she swallowed hard as the sob rose. “It’s just the place feels so empty.”
“Empty? The place feels roomy, the place feels great,” Albert said stretching out a little to prove his point. “And, we don’t have to keep running out to get food all the time.”
“Well, I guess things are easier with just the two of us.”
“Darn right.”
Eleanor bent over and pecked the old post where they were perched. She knew Albert was right. Still, she just couldn’t sit with it. “But what are we going to do now, just the two of us?”
Albert let out a frustrated sigh and remained quiet.
Eleanor hated when he refused to engage. “Albert?”
“Okay, here’s the thing Eleanor. Maybe we don’t have to do anything. Maybe we can wake up and not have every hour of the day filled. Maybe, just maybe, we can try winging it for a bit.”
Eleanor swallowed an ant and considered Albert’s response. A warm breeze ruffled her feathers. She looked out over the ocean and felt her wings relax. A day with no plan. Well, she could try it and see. She turned to Albert. “Feel like bobbing on the waves for a bit?”
“I do,” Albert replied.
Together they lifted off and headed out over the water.
Slow Haste
By Arlene Somerton Smith
Baker drained his ale and picked up his briefcase. With a nod to Joe behind the bar he passed under the words HASTE IS SLOW imprinted on the pub archway. The slogan had inspired the completion of his latest mission. To survive, MI6 agents had to master the art of meticulous planning and methodical completion of tasks, building to the moment when ZAP, they could make a hasty strike at the target.
Mission complete, with his cargo safe in an innocuous bag that wouldn’t attract attention on the underground, Baker made his way along the dark London streets to the Westminster station. He slipped down the steps and waited, back against the wall, for the next train.
Thirty-two minutes later, he exited and headed straight to his rendez-vous, where he would brief his partner. When he opened the door, Amanda looked up from the latest edition of The Economist. Her eyes landed on the briefcase and she raised her eyebrows in question.
He nodded. “She’s asleep?”
“Yes, she left out the cookies for Santa and then conked out,” Amanda said. “I can’t believe you found one. Gabby’s Dollhouse has been sold out everywhere for weeks.”
“Haste is slow,” Baker said. “That’s the secret to a successful mission.”
Dream Castle
By Adrienne Stevenson
"Remind me again," he said. "Why are we here?"
"We're here because this was as close as we could get to New Zealand."
"Ah." He turned back to gaze out over the sea. "That's why you insisted on the sand castle."
I nodded, though he couldn't see with his back turned. "More or less in the shape of the White City of Gondor."
"That was a nice touch." He looked over his shoulder at our pitiful effort, soon to be overtaken by the tide. "Too bad there's no Aragorn here to ride to the rescue."
I stared at his hunched shoulders. Once upon a time, he had been my Aragorn. But I was expecting too much. Even Aragorn couldn't turn back the tide.
The grey horizon, setting sun struggling to penetrate the pervading gloom, mirrored the state of our marriage. There had been too many upheavals, too many failed reconciliations. All that remained was the lingering aftertaste of soured affection. Our one remaining hope had been that emigration—a new chance in a new land—might give us what we needed to repair our lives.
Enter the pandemic, then financial turmoil. By the time we might have fulfilled our plans, we could no longer afford them.
"So," I said. "Where do we go from here?"
Still facing away from me, he said, "I guess I'll start swimming. The rest is up to you."
I returned to the car, leaving him and my dream-castles to erode into the past.
Bird’s Eye View of the Coronation
By Louise Rachlis
So tell me about it, They cut the crusts off? All the sandwiches? “Yes, cucumber and watercress Ham and cheddar cheese Egg salad and tuna Tomato and basil Cream cheese and olives Butter and sliced radishes…” And Cheez whiz and maraschino cherries? And peanut butter and jam? Where can we find these crusts? “In the wake of the Coronation, Trash collection will be pushed back a day!” You don’t say! “The Trafalgar Square pigeons will show us the way!”
A Picture with No Words
By Carlo Gallina
It was a beautiful morning the day he left us. A swimmer since he was a kid, he loved the water. So, it kinda made sense he’d go that way. A sandcastle with a moat but no bridge? Or maybe the bridge washed away like the connection he once had with us. Fuck! A symbolic suicide note?! I mean how fucked up do you have to be to make a goddamn sandcastle note for your friends. Jesus Christ! I didn’t know. None of us did. He was quiet. But that was always his way, wasn’t it? Thoughtful. Shy. Quiet. That was Jacob. No one imagined how completely detached he was and that was the thing, wasn’t it? All of us, so preoccupied with our own little dramas. Not caring much for other people’s bullshit, if I’m being totally honest. A quiet mind so busy. A busy mind so fuckin’ quiet and answers? Answers?! What answers do any of us get in the end? We searched the entire beach that day. Nobody wanted to find him. I mean, who would want to see him like that. So permanent. Just wet and finished. This picture, taken by Sarah, was called, 'A memory not soon forgotten'. She was a photography major. “It’s about the person no longer there,” she told her professor during her class finals. It’s all any of us have left of him. A picture with no words.