Three New Pieces of Microfiction

Today we have three new pieces of microfiction, starting with Frida's Bomb by Marge Simon, which takes a surreal look at an alternative history involving the surrealist Frida Kahlo. Then it's over H.L Fullerton with a tale of dragons before we round off proceedings with Dale Carothers and a cautionary story for children (and adults) about wolves in forests and the need to protect your little piggies.

We've already published some of Marge Simon's poetry on Grievous Angel and her work has appeared in venues such as Strange Horizons,Dreams & Nightmares. She has also won several Stokers for poetry collections. H.L. Fullerton writes fiction - mostly speculative, occasionally about monsters - which is sometimes published in places like Buzzy, Penumbra, and Flash Fiction Online. Dale Carothers lives in Minnesota with his wife, Sara, and an emotionally demanding beagle. He writes graphic novel reviews under the name Global Ghoul for Innsmouth Free Press and has spent most of his professional life helping people with disabilities expand their experience. His stories have appeared in Ruined Cities, The Death God's Chosen, Neo-opsis, Kaleidotrope and various other publications. Find him at dalecarothers.wordpress.com

Frida's Bomb
by Marge Simon

We toured California when we married. That was before the Great Quake, before the bomb that caused it. The bomb that your father insisted came from South America, and you'd agreed with him. He said it was that "pinko feminist radical" Frida Kahlo's doing. He'd read something about her in a magazine years ago. Didn't even know who the woman really was or when she lived. But neither did you, my bride. Anyway, whether bomb or quake, California is an island to itself now, and we can't go there for our anniversary. If that ever gets here. In fact, don't plan on it. I am tired of arguing about what really happened. Tired of you, tired of being always hungry and thirsty, tired of breathing ash filled air, walking along the Nevada coast for days without a bath. If we keep walking, maybe we'll reach South America and find sanctuary. But who are we kidding? Maybe it is all Frida Kahlo's fault. She with her exotic birds, her strange flowers. Those accusing eyes. Those darkly burning eyes.
 
Some Monsters Swim
by H.L. Fullerton

A dragon don't have wings but fins her brother says and Midge believes him. Dad's taken him sailing and Eddie's seen things. Josh says Eddie's a liar, maybe he saw a shark or a ray, but dragons don't swim, everyone knows that.  Still Eddie insists and when Midge asks Dad, he just smiles and says, "Sometimes fish stories ain't about fish." Midge would like to see for herself, but Dad says little girls and boats don't mix none.  

So Midge borrows the boat - steals it, just a little - and rows to where the sea's deep enough for dragons. She casts Dad's nets wide as she can fling 'em, but catches nothing but dinner.  

A pod of dolphins squeak at her, nudge her craft with bottle noses. "I'm waiting on a dragon," she says, waving them away. They glide off, throwing her worried looks. She stares at the water as it turns choppy. Small waves crest the lip of her boat; the water colors like bruised flesh. A squall's about to hit, but she hasn't yet spotted Eddie's creature.  

She meets a turtle, a grouper she coaxes into the boat, a lost jellyfish - all warn of impending doom. Midge stays her course.  

The boat lurches, lifts, the sea beneath it falling away like rain. Midge flies - no, swims through the air, laughing.  From starboard side comes the glint of shimmery scales. Ever the fisherman's daughter, Midge unfurls her net, lets the wind toss it for her - and traps a blue-finned dragon.  

A Loss. A Loss. A Life.
by Dale Carothers

When Vallen was eleven a shewolf stole her toe.

The shewolf didn’t tear it from Vallen’s foot with its vicious gleaming canines, leaving only a bloody stump and Vallen unable to wear her rose petal slippers again. Instead the shewolf ate it after it had fallen to the ground. White and bloodless. Like a dead worm in the crackling leaves.

The shewolf was starving. Its ribcage showed through its matted pelt. 

Foul as it was, the toe proved too tempting. It calmed the shewolf’s hunger for a moment.

“No,” cried Vallen. “You’ll get sick.” She limped after the shewolf. “Spit it out. Spit it out.”

The shewolf stumbled away, in too much pain to run. Its guts already twisting, it twirled about three times and fell into the leaves.

Vallen lamented the loss of her last toe. Not because she’d miss it. She’d grown used to her own diminishment. But for what it would steal from the shewolf. Its beauty and vigor lost. Curling gray fur and shaking legs and desperate eyes. Its once dangerous grace, already in decline.

Vallen stumbled to the shewolf and lay across its ribcage. She rose, she fell, with each  ebbing breath.

“I’m sorry,” Vallen said, her tears wetting the shewolf’s hide.

Sorry for her wasting sickness. Sorry for her faerie blood. So potent. So tainted. Formerly regal, now in exile.

They found their deaths together on the forest floor. Flesh fading to reveal bone. And a wolfgirl in an ivory cage.

The wolfgirl woke in the light of the new moon. Hungry for milk-white toes.

Beware pale children. 

Guard well your little piggies.