Submersible

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The SONAR tone bounded aimlessly through the massive expanse all around us, but all signs said “nothing to write home about.”

The captain sighed softly while everyone else tried to bury their loneliness in productivity.

The disparity between the nuclear-capable, inescapable, matte-black shell that shielded us was somehow more obvious with a glance through the periscope.

Even if you’re neither agoraphobic nor claustrophobic, being packed sardine-like at the bottom of the ocean can coax both out in short notice.

Ping… ping… ping…

“I see a huge object at 8 o’clock, sir” said the navigator.

So many bloodshot eyes stared in his direction at once.

“Properties,” the captain asked.

“30 feet long, moving toward hostile waters,” the navigator listed.

“Let’s investigate,” said the captain.

The vessel turned slowly, deliberately, to find the object.

“It appears to be diving,” said the navigator.

 The captain commanded coldly “Arm the torpedos,”

We all looked at each other at once itching for something to do, not forgetting that a hole in the hull the size of a quarter would let in a jet of water that could slice a man in two.

Ping… ping… ping… ping…

We were approaching now.

The captain pulled the periscope down.

“On my command,” he said holding his arm up.

Just enough light filtered through from the surface,

To show a sperm whale corpse slowly falling.

“Captain Ishmael?”

“Don’t call me that.” 

The navigator apologized profusely, and asked for information,

“Our worst enemy, another false positive,” the captain said dejectedly.

Each bloodshot eye fell back to its station,

In silent disappointment.

Migration Patterns

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Seven mallard ducks flew in the familiar v-shaped formation they take when coming from or going to far-off places.

The land they cast shadows on grew more and more sparse the further they traversed.

“What a spring this has been,” the Second Lieutenant said with pride, he was sick that day.

The group was well-fed and riding high.

“I know,” piped the First Lieutenant enthusiastically, “I even got some french fries!”

At the apex of the V,  the Colonel glanced at the Lieutenant Colonel incredulously.

“Love those things,” said the Captain.

“Guys, watch yourself out here,” sounded the Lieutenant Colonel.

“Yeah, humans were handing out bread like it was going out of fashion,” said the omega male, no one acknowledged him.

The leader stayed silent.

“We had the park all to ourselves! It was a great spring,” said the Major

There was a whooshing sound, then a smack.

The captain looked behind him, shed contour feathers twirled in the vortex of displaced air.

“Well,” the Colonel said, “seems like our idle chit-chat got our Second Lieutenant eaten by a peregrine falcon,” he said in monotone, “let’s try to keep our mouths shut for a little while, huh?”

I won a short story contest!

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I’m pleased to announce that I’m the winner of Short Tale Shrew’s 2016 spring microfiction contest! You can visit their page by following the following link.

http://wp.me/p6PWc4-4f

And be sure to follow them as well! There will be more contests, and they post excellent advice pertaining to short fiction writing.

In Microcosm

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“I’d rather be sleeping,” said John, sliding hangers back and forth, trying to find an appealing shirt.

Every day he left pieces of himself behind in his bed.

And the dust mites would eat them, as dust mites are wont to do.

He slid a t-shirt over his face, smearing his skin cells into the fibers.

He has left many impacts on the things in his life, sometimes too small to even be seen.

But they meant everything to those dust mites, who lived for generations, before he’d lay himself to rest again.

Is he still John then?

Obligate Carnivore

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I crouched low, and felt the grass rustle up against my empty stomach.

I’m very good at this; it’s what I was born to do.

There stood a hare, ears swiveling, back to me. It hopped toward a red flower.

I’ve never gotten one of these before; they’re supposed to be a lot of trouble to catch.

I couldn’t take my chances, so I used a slower approach than normal.

Right paw first, I slowly tamped down the grass so that it didn’t make a sound.

The hare picked its head up and tore the flower out of the ground; its ears scanned the surroundings.

I took another step.

The hare sat motionless.

I grew impatient, but slowly continued. My tail flowed with the wind.

The hare suddenly stopped eating, sat on its haunches.

I dropped into the grass.

It turned and walked toward another patch of herbs growing near tall grass, all the while the bulb dangled from its mouth by a length of disappearing stem. Still hungry.

When I felt sure it was occupied with eating again, I arched my back and moved forward again.

The hare dropped to the ground and folded his ears.

Now was my time to strike, his guard was down.

I bounded off, eyes widened.

He clearly sensed something, his ears popped back up but he didn’t move a muscle.

I was closing in.

Mouth agape, arms outstretched, claws extended, I leaped toward my prey.

In turn, he jumped straight into the air.

I hit the empty spot where he was and bounced a bit, then he fell onto my back with a sharp “thud,” and knocked me into the dirt on my side.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing much.”

“Not funny,” the hare said with a flick of his nose, “you caught me at a bad time.”

I hissed. He held my legs down, I was pinned.

“But I’m going to be nice,” he said.

I couldn’t do much else but listen, my stomach growled audibly.

“If you promise not to chase me, I won’t have to embarrass you.”

“I’m pretty fast,” I said.

He held his chin high, “sure you are,” he said.

I leaned forward and bit at his neck. Force of habit.

He bobbed out of the way then put his front legs on my head, kicked my face and jumped off of me.

“Last chance,” he said. The field behind him was wide open.

I looked down and noticed some dandelion seeds stuck to my fur. I licked them off and looked at him.

The hare sat staring.

“Choose wisely,”

I jumped suddenly; he ran underneath me and disappeared into the tall grass, yelling obscenities.

Now he’s done it! I dug my claws into the ground and spun around.

The tall grass extended out into the distance.

My stomach gurgled again.

It might go against my nature, but I think I’ll just cut my losses this time.

Wear and Tear

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I slouched on the couch, as she rose and fell on my chest with my breath.

We were groggy in the dim den. The switched-off cable box read “11:27″ in white hyphens.

I ran my thumb over the hole in my pant leg, when she grabbed my arm and stopped me,

“Do you have any coffee?”

“Yeah I do, want me to make some?”

“Yes please.”

I stood and stretched. She sat up, then lie flat and relaxed like a napping cat.

She wore gray sweatpants and a tank top, her hair was in a tidy samurai bun and she wore no makeup.

“Wake up!” I said in jest, her eyebrows jerked and perked.

She stood and followed me forward.

“You know the wallpaper’s peeling over there” she said, pointing at the seam where the wood-paneling ended in the foyer. It curled in some places and bubbled in others.

“This isn’t my house, I just live here.”

“It looks bad,” she said.

I shrugged.

We walked into the kitchen; I loaded the ground grains into the french press and boiled some water.

She slid her chair out from under the table, and ignored the wobble it made until it settled back into equilibrium.

I pressed firmly on the piston.

“How do you like yours?”

“Can I have a little milk and like two spoonfuls of sugar, please?”

“Of course,” I said pulling a mug from the cupboard. It was glossy white and boxlike, with a square-shaped handle on its flank.

I let the mixture steep.

“Why two sugars particularly?”

“One isn’t enough, three is too many.”

The Colombian roast had a strong, robust smell. The kind that reminds you why people drink coffee in the first place.

The stream of hot liquid from the jug made a prolonged plopping noise as it occupied the mug.

Once more I reached into the cupboard.

“Isn’t that broken,” she asked as my hand emerged.

“That’s news to me,” I said examining the cup. Sure enough, it had a chip on its side the size of a dime.

I turned and filled it with black coffee.

None sloshed onto my hand. None spilled onto the floor.

“It’s not that broken.”

I joined her at the table.

“I could easily get you a new one you know,” she said leaning foward.

“I’d love that!”

She shot to attention, back straight up against the chair, owl eyes fixed forward.

“Really?”

“I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth,” I said.

The chair tipped and bumped the ground with its lopsided leg, then slid back and to the left. She ran to grab her coat and scarf

“I’d still use this one anyway,” I announced over her mad dash.

“Why,” she asked, bundled up and out of breath.

“Because it’s okay.”