June 2009

MICRO 100

ISSUE #6

JUNE 2009

My apologies on the late arrival of issue #6 of Micro 100, it has been tough goin’. I have done some strenuous thinking and have come to the conclusion that it would be in my best personal interest to discontinue this literary blog for the time being, until I can put one hundred percent of my time, attention and energy back into Micro 100. This is not a termination, rather an indefinite hiatus. I would like to sincerely thank every single person who has submitted material and made this little endeavor one of the greats. Thank you. Please enjoy the final issue of Micro 100.

Have a good one,

Dustin LaValley, Editor

6-2-09

Contents

PROSE-

ALIVE by Mark Anthony Crittenden

AT THE DEPOT by Angel Zapata

BEST MOMMIES by Rebecca Nazar

DOWNLOAD by Jameson T. Caine

INSIDE JOB by Codi Brock

INVITATION by Jeremy C. Shipp

THE DOCTOR by Neil Colquhoun

TIME FOR TEA by Kevin G. Bufton

WALKING YOUR DOG by Luca Penne

PROSE

ALIVE
Mark Anthony Crittenden

107 words

It came to him like a bolt from on high. Not a feeling really, but more the absence of it; the cessation of all this stagnation that had mired him unceasingly his whole life. It purged him and flooded his every synapse with sublimely radiant energy. It was ironic that he should feel this sudden release from the drudgery of his life in such a black and soundless vacuum. He was almost glad he had come on the cruise. He watched dimly as the liner went down fathoms below him and the sharks circled closer to rip him to pieces. "I'm alive," he screamed inside. I'm Alive!

AT THE DEPOT

Angel Zapata

22 words

After the train derails, we desperately search through the wreckage. Luckily, six men and women survive. We take turns drinking their blood.

BEST MOMMIES

Rebecca Nazar

24 words

“Mom, where do babies come from?” the boy asked.

“Why the very best mommies snatch them from playgrounds or hospital wards, my little one.”

DOWNLOAD

Jameson T. Caine

147 words

It turns out that mine was the one hundred millionth download from the popular OrbisTerminus music website. How cool was that? I got a message saying my song selection would be accompanied by a special gift just for me. Naturally, I scanned it for signs of viruses, but it was clean.

Yeah, right.

It seems my special prize was the last bit of a program called the Legion Protocol which had been downloaded in millions of tiny fragments all across the planet. Mine was the final piece of the puzzle. Once I made the mistake of clicking on it, it activated and reached out to all its component parts throughout cyberspace.

Who knew that a simple music download would kick start the apocalypse? All I wanted was the new tune from Morbid Winds. Instead, I got the destruction of every computer system on Earth.

Seriously not cool.

INSIDE JOB

Codi Brock

130 words

Red and blue lights flash as the yellow tape fences off curious bystanders. Cops and other “authorities” swarm around the mangled household, many of whom had to step outside due to weak stomachs. Inside, blood splatters the walls and bodies litter the floor. Everyone asks the same thing.

”How could anyone do this?”

I continue about my work, chuckling internally. As I take pictures of the crime scene, more of my colleagues dart outside. The poor fuckers. They barely make it outside before vomiting. This is what the city calls its best of the best? A little mutilation never hurt anyone. At least, not for long.

“How could anyone do this?”

I chuckle because I know how. It wasn’t easy to get the blood to splatter that way, you know.

INVITATION

Jeremy C. Shipp

248 words

Mama shames her way to the ninth layer of my inner hell. And even after all these years, I’m not ready for her. Because in this moldy basement, I’m still a boy, and my armor won’t fit.

So she unzips my torso.

Yanks out my innards.

Rummages through me with ravenous fingers.

“Your organs are filthy,” Mama says. “How often do you wash them?”

“What are you doing here?” I say. “This is my sanctuary.”

She snorts out a blast of hospital air. “You’re confusing words again, dear. Sanctuary’s don’t smell like cat urine and eat away at your soul.”

I don’t tell her how wrong she is. Instead, I say, “Leave me alone.”

She sniffs at my spleen. “Don’t blame me for this encounter, Steven. You invited me here.”

“That’s not true.”

But she shows me the rosy invitation printed on gold vellum.

“Shit,” I say.

Then Mama finds the heart.

Extends my baby teeth from her fingertips.

Masticates.

And she finds you, of course, because I’m too weak to protect you. She lifts you by your hair, and you say something about walls and emotional reactions and quality time. But you’re so small to me now, I can hardly hear you.

And I hate myself, because mama’s still so colossal, even in her tiny urn.

“She was supposed to be safe here,” I say, crying tears that taste like kisses.

“God,” Mama says. “You always were such a whiner.”

Then she chuckles, and swallows you whole.

THE DOCTOR

Neil Colquhoun

142 words

“Now, there's nothing to worry about. Just you lie there and relax. Let me do my work.” The man donned his white coat and went to the sink. He scrubbed his hands clean, taking great care not to let them come into contact with any non-disinfected surface. It was important in his line of work, he knew that.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, casting a glance over his shoulder at the patient strapped to the trolley. She looked scared, he thought. It was not surprising. She didn't answer his question.

He worked the tension out of his neck, rolling it in a slow circle. He always felt this way before he conducted an operation and afterwards, he felt relieved.

Every operation of his was a success. He was probably the best in the world.

What do you expect from a serial killer?

TIME FOR TEA

Kevin G. Bufton

100 words

You can tell a lot about a person from the way they take their tea.

My father is a clumsy man and refuses to dunk his biscuits, in case he should make a mess. My mother holds her cup in one hand, her pinky finger extended, to appear delicate and refined when, in truth, she is neither.

As for me, I always take my tea with my family. They haven't moved for nearly three months and the smell is getting rather bad, but I still make them a fresh brew every morning.

I'm not sure what that says about me.

WALKING YOUR DOG
Luca Penne

272 words

Walking your dog, a shaggy lump, across the Hanover green embarrasses me. He stumbles over curbs and trips on the feet of pedestrians, who laugh or pity him. To hide my blush and look tough enough to intimidate husky Dartmouth athletes, I borrow a helmet from a drunken motorcyclist and wear it boldly enough to make the Hell’s Angels shudder. Besides, if anyone still laughs I can’t hear and can hardly see them. Meanwhile your dog befriends other dogs, butt-sniffing and wagging all over. A few hardy souls find him cute, and stoop to pet while asking unintelligible questions.

At Lou’s Restaurant a Great Dane sprawled on the sidewalk bares his teeth and won’t let us pass. I try to reason with her and a crowd gathers. Perhaps the motorcycle helmet scares her so I remove it and kneel to let her sniff my paws. She doesn’t like what she smells and snaps like a giant turtle, rending the air. I retreat and your dog draws me backwards while the crowd roars and shame bleeds me weak in the knees.

The last day of summer dies in purples and pinks like the clothes of expensive new students. Your dog trots along toward home with a nonchalance I’d like to emulate. When he sniffs a gaggle of women bearing lacrosse racquets they smile and giggle. Brutal in their trick green and white sweaters, they carefully ignore me. You dog smiles back at them. He thinks his awkward gait regal, and is proud of his tousled coat. He’s the only example of his tangled breed and knows it, proud to bear those mismatched genes.

MATERIAL COPYRIGHT © THE INDIVIDUAL AUTHOR(S)