It’s January (Happy New Year!) so I went through my social media feeds and grabbed all the MicroStories I’d tweeted during the month of December.
As a reminder, these represent story-essences composed using no more than 129 characters (so I could tweet them with the hashtag #MicroStory.)
Usually, I only tweet Science Fiction and Fantasy #MicroStories. December was pretty much no exception.
For really great #MicroStory action, please follow @MicroSFF, the Twitter account that inspired me to participate in this minimalist writing exercise. That feed puts out great science fiction and fantasy MicroStories all the time.
(I want to make it clear that @MicroSFF is *not* a Twitter account of mine. Their flash-fiction tweets are excellent. Mine are okay.)
Due to the crone sightings up near Widow’s Rock, mothers kept their kids indoors & the city council opted to extend witch season
Even though her fearful sisters had bound her to appease the vengeful woodcutter, Yaga didn’t care. She was no longer hungry.
The floating castle’s cisterns were not well made. When they cracked, water fell as rain. From below, we could only watch.
The birds began to return to the floating castle, after there had been silence for quite a long time.
The thieves argued over targeting the mage’s vault, rumored to have an unpickable lock. It either held rich treasure or horrors.
The Prince of Rogues devoted his life to picking the lock on the strongbox, rumored to hold Death’s Secret. It did. He died.
It’s not that wizards preferred to live in wastelands, but when a wizard settled down somewhere, disasters followed.
Even though he was financing a new tower for the seers, they were secretly writing anti-prince prophecies for the anarchists.
They surveyed the grisly scene.
“The Sorcerer did this?”
“No.” Smythe pointed to the bloody word ‘WINNING’
The studio nearly greenlit my prophecy’s 3rd draft. I had to vague-up the language & find a role for a vice-seer’s fat nephew.
The AI-Prime refused to accept the fact that it had lost. The reality defied logic.
Which is why humanity won.
The Witch Gun, when fired, would kill either the witch or the firer if the target was innocent.
Few had been fired more than twice.
The city awkwardly appreciated their super-strong but schlubby, balding hero. No fuss was made.
He didn’t mind. He was a hero.
So, who killed the Dark Lord?
– A foot soldier.
The prophecy has the prince killing him. Can we resurrect the Dark One?
The peasants prayed that the prince would soon find a wife.
Who else could have the opportunity to murder him in his sleep?
The Devil decided to delay and confer with Hell’s Lawyers. He’d never been offered someone’s clone’s soul before.
The smith knew that the real money would pour in when the dragons came for harder scales.
“The sword is yours, Sir. No charge.”
Self-evolution was the only way to survive the xenobiological attacks.
Transhumanity won the war, but lost their humanity.
After the war, the transhumans rallied to restart the old space programs, hoping to reunite with the last “classic” humans.
I wanted to mention that the Scorcerer micro-story was inspired by an awesome typo from the Twitter account of Teresa Lo. (You can follow her on @teresalo_tweets. Yes, you!)
This might have been my most productive month of MicroStorytelling. For December, my favorite flash-fiction Twitter source, @MicroSFF, did a 25-part story in tweets. One day I’d like to do something like that.
Big thanks to those who read my flash-fiction and comment. It’s very encouraging, and I appreciate it.
Image is intellectual property of my wife, Lisa, who took that picture of our pug Chi Chi. So, don’t steal it? Or you’ll have to deal with my wife? (I am fine actually if the picture is re-used for non-commercial use.) Maybe *I* should tell her I’m using her picture…
© Patrick Sponaugle 2015 Some Rights Reserved