Micro Fiction March Writing Challenge

Inspired by my friend Ian, I wanted to take part in this challenge to write a piece of fiction every day. These texts are based on prompts, made up by Challenge Initiator and former teacher Oliver Davies. He explains the rules of the challenge in this article.

Whenever I visit my in-laws in The Great North, I notice how the people of Canada love saying “Livin’ the dream”. As a nation, they have collectively decided that this is the only acceptable answer to the question “How are you?”. Definitely one of the better cultural phenomena I’ve seen. Writing this felt a little uninspired, but I dedicate this labour of love to you, oh Canada. I’m not necessarily proud of this story, but to fall back on a similar classic: “It is what it is.”

Living the Dream

My doctor keeps calling it an illness. I guess he just means it’s not the norm. It’s been labelled as depression, but it feels more like I’m the only one around who can lift the veil of reality. A peek behind the curtains of fake happiness, empty promises, and pretense of hope. I don’t want to participate in this sugarcoated play but seeing the reality of wet cotton candy isn’t exactly fun either.

I am talked into a vacation by the professional feelings feeler in the tweed jacket. If I promise, we keep having out sessions online. Away from people, seeing the great force of untamed nature still intact, he recommends Canada.

A long boring journey with the worst humanity has to offer, I get my bearings in this strange new land. I can’t put my finger on it, but this place feels like a bizarro version of all the countries I’ve ever visited.

Anyone I talk to, seems to have the same answers ready. Whoever I ask how they’re doing (one of those empty polite gestures I despise), they all answer “Living the dream, bud”. When they ask me how I’m doing first, they seem to genuinely care. It’s weird. It seems off.

I open my laptop to have the dreaded talk with my personal emotional baggage handler. Most of the talk goes uneventful, until I mention the uncanny feeling I’ve been having. He usually rationalizes, but this time he jokingly says, “How do you even know for sure that’s an actual place?” I don’t laugh and get nervous when the screen starts to go grainy. The therapist adds “Are you living the dream?” When I suddenly stop hearing his voice through the computer. I hear him everywhere around me “When does it start being a nightmare?”

(298)

The third piece of today, I’m back in the game! I do notice I’m not as sharp anymore, as I went over the word count again. Today we picked up my dad’s remains, so I think I have an excuse to bend the rules a little (something my dad loved to do). Writing 3 different stories all afternoon while it’s been snowing out has been a nice distraction.

The saying ‘Honour Among Thieves’ always reminds me of a line from the MF DOOM song Deep Fried Frenz. I tried to write a story towards that sentence, which worked. I realised late I ran out of words, but I kind of like the way it turned out.

Honour Among Thieves

Benny and Dominic warm themselves around the small fire they built in, an abandoned building. Dominic opens his third can of cold hotdogs of that night. “Come on, Dom. That’s the last one we got.”

“Shut up, Benny… That rat boss of ours might have turned against us, but you still answer to me.”

“I’m not sure I wanna answer to nobody. No offence. Will you finally tell me what happened back there?”

“You’re a shitty driver, that’s what happened!” Dominic barks at him with a mouth full of hot dog.

“You guys were supposed to not be tailed by an army! They shot my tire!”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s not all your fault, it’s that sham of a man who calls himself the boss. He fucked me over, is what he did!”

“You were always so loyal to him; I thought you trusted him.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it. That lowlife wouldn’t make a worthy enemy.”

The men stare at the fire, while Dominic drinks the last hotdog water from the can and Benny tries not to throw up the acid from his empty stomach.

“From the whole crew, why only me?”

The flames reflect off Dom’s blank stare.

“Loyalty, boy. You’re the only one I trust. The rest would shoot me through the eyelid.”

“You’re getting sentimental, old man.”

Dominic shushes Benny, as he crawls to the window.

“Goddamnit, they found us!” Dom whispers, “Guard the door, boy, we can take them.”

Benny hides behind the front door, with Dominic right behind him. He tries to contain his breathing. As the door opens, Benny feels a sharp pain on the side of his spine. He gasps for air, as he feels his lung fill with blood. The world fades away as he is gently lowered to the ground. The last thing he hears is a whisper, “Honour among crooks, trust among royalty.”

(314)

I love a good con as much as the next nerd with an active imagination. To think of one myself though, is a whole other story. All I keep falling back on is the Community episode and modern classic: Grifting 101. Trying to shake that influence in my story, I based this one on the closest I have ever been to a con and the shortest job I ever had: door to door salesman. This was fully legal, albeit “iffy” at times. I was terrible at it and miserable doing it. I’m glad the experience comes in use now. Sort of. I tried to take this one a different way, but I ended up to the point, maybe even boring. At least I’m not ringing doorbells anymore.

Ring Sting

You ring the doorbell, hyping yourself up. You know what you’re doing might be deemed a ‘Confidence Trick’ by some judgmental folk, but how could that be the case, if you have such little confidence to begin with? You’re a scrawny young man, trying to sell cheap fake energy contracts and you’re only making 50 bucks for every sale. Even if you admit it’s a scam, it’s at best not a lucrative one. The trick, though, is to match the level of irritation your target shows, which makes you seem more likeable and hides your own insecurity.

This door, a friendly woman opens. Ready to be cussed out again, like the last three houses, she surprises you with her kindness: “Just who I needed! You guys help with these high energy bills, right?” Stumped with the ease of the hardest part, you step into her house.

She makes tea, offers you cookies and you talk about all the funny anecdotes in your line of work. It has been a while since someone has been this interested in you. You’re starting to feel bad for selling her this phony contract, but she’s already in the system. You can’t think about those things. You suddenly see time has flown by. You need to hit all the houses in your route, or you don’t get paid.

The woman understands, “You have other people to help out!”. Running out the door, she reminds you to not forget your work tablet. “And bring a cookie for on the road!” You can’t think about how caring this woman is now, she’s about to get billed for thousands of euros. Never mind that, not your problem.

Two unanswered doors down you notice your phone and wallet are gone. The trick was to match the gullible salesperson’s confidence…

(300)

10-03

Behind on this challenge, I am doing my best to get back on track. I hope today I can write 3, so I can pretend I never failed. This was the most challenging prompt yet, as I haven’t written academically in a while. Luckily I have a wife who is doing her Master, so she gave me some pointers on how to sound smarter.

Stumped on the content for this, I defaulted in a subject I have written about this month before and might have to go back again. This one’s for you, Froofroo.

The 1/9 Life of the Human

Since the dawn of man, the human condition has been a topic of discussion. Some might argue that the more knowledge acquired, the more questions arise. These mysterious creatures are overall friendly. However, as argued by Fruitcake (2004), this is far from the norm. He discusses the advantages humans have in their own created habitat. In addition, their shortcomings (i.e., nude skin ¬– akin to the sphinx breed of our own –, poor hunting abilities, loud movements known to disrupt naps, etc.) are elaborated on in detail.

The classification of the Human is difficult due to the heterogeneity of their individual tendencies and characteristics. There are, however, three main behavioural tendencies described in in the work of S.H. Gérard (2011), namely Feeding, Petting, and Disappearing. Possible explanations for these tendencies have also been explored by earlier experts in the field, such as Garfield et al. (1978). Although this research layed the groundwork for future human studies, they mainly focused on the (now mostly outdated) Lasagna Perspectives.

The current essay will further explore themes of recent research and attempt to create a framework for further understanding of the subject. The Keyboard To Walk On (I.B. Sean, 2017) is used to describe the theoretical framework for understanding the seemingly sporadic lack of comprehension seen in the human brain. In contrast, this study uses the framework as described in Clothes Should Smell Like Piss (V. N. Biertje, 2014), a more radical view on this subject matter.
(243)

I’m out! Due to unforeseen circumstances yesterday, I did not write my piece for day 7. I am, however, still participating voor spek en bonen (for bacon and beans; unofficially competing, without the possibility of winning or losing). I’m still going to try my best to upload these every day of March.

I’m sure we’re all aware of the irony of writing Rewind a day after losing the challenge. I have trouble with time travel. I love it when it’s done well, but I can also be easy to confuse. So I decided I wanted to get away from that. I got kind of weird with this one, I hope you like it.

Rewind

Working at a secondhand shop is everything you’d expect. Busy days contain people dropping off their regrets, usually during spring exodus. Calm days consist of rearranging old stuff, stacked to the ceiling.

Today was one of the latter. Everything was dusted, tagged, and filed. All that was left was repeatedly checking if the sign on the door was still on ‘We’re Open!’. I was getting restless. Also, creeped out by consistently locking eyes with the mannequin across the register, I decide I’ll be doing some personal crate digging.

A cardboard box the size of a microwave in the back had my interest piqued since it came in today, it looked and felt empty. Opening it revealed a single VHS-tape, an As-Seen-On-TV commercial tape. I guess that was the future of catalogues in the ‘90s.

Nothing better to do and curious of how easily I would have been pursueded 30 years ago, I pop it into one of the old tape players, hooked up to a grainy TV. I see the last frames of the film, ‘Be kind, rewind’, my ass. The dusty machine starts whirring when I have to be the one to press Rewind.

Smiling white people using appliances backwards speed across the screen. I notice a flash of a darker room, that doesn’t seem in line. I press Pause and Play, trying to find it. There it is! My soul leaves my body when I recognise this very second-hand store. Someone walking through it, something is off about their body and movements. It’s as if this person’s head is on backwards, so their whole body moves the wrong way. What kind of person would play a sick joke like this? Deeply focused, inches away from the screen, I see a glimpse of the face. It’s our mannequin.

(299)

You may have guessed that English isn’t my first language by the occasional strange choice of words, almost correct grammar, or the fact that this whole website is in Dutch. I do love learning new words and I’m not ashamed to say I had to Google ‘procession’. Un underwhelming meaning to a cool word in my opinion, which might be why it did little to inspire me. I recently had the chance to drive an actual hearse as part of a procession, in real life. But that’s not what this story is about.

The Procession (End of the Line)

Owning a car without air-conditioning isn’t the worst thing in the world. Driving it at the slowest pace possible, in 29 Celsius, behind 8 of your family’s vehicles, one of which containing your dead great grandmother you never met, might be. Barry loved the heap of crap he drove everywhere, but not on days like this. He would be too busy moving the fans in hopes of drying some of his back and butt. “It could be worse, you could have been the one in the coffin.” He groaned to himself, immediately following it up, “Must be nice being that cold.” Barry quickly checks if he is still alone in the car.

He learned a lot this past week. Traffic laws concerning a procession, are only friendly guidelines and don’t hold up in court. Also, there are virtually no rules in the type of vehicle used as a hearse. Barry proudly nods at his own newly acquired trivial knowledge.

Almost forgetting about his impending heatstroke, another heated standoff is starting to unfold at the front of the glorified traffic jam. It looks like a rival funeral procession needed to cross the other way. Both hearse drivers expected the other one to be the bigger… hearse driver. Neither one budged, resulting in them bumper to bumper, in the middle of the road.

Barry can’t get a good look at the commotion but hears – through all his open windows – cursing, yelling, honking, and crying. Barry is about to get out, but the commotion stops, and traffic starts going. Awkwardly, the cars of both tribes weave through each other, gesturing apologetically.

Arrived at the funeral home, Barry realises these crying people aren’t his family. He looks for the photo of the deceased, maybe this one he met before.

(297)

I might have taken a million train rides in my life. I might be one of the few people who actually enjoys sitting there, watching the scenery (or other people’s phone activity, it’s not an invasion of privacy if I don’t know them) and listening to my music (or conversations of strangers).

I’m aware that the things I find amusing about all the people I watch, might not be the best content for fiction. Maybe it’s the hours of Red Dead Redemption 2 I’ve been playing recently, but this train ride took me elsewhere than my usual destinations. I did want to stay in current times because I’m a modern-day public transit aficionado. Also, not up on my public transit history.

I wrote this after a tiresome Sunday, at night. I’ll have to reread it in the morning to see if it still makes sense. I’m proud to say I aced the word count: 300 words on the dot!

I hope you enjoy where I ended up as much as I did. If not, there’s another one scheduled in a couple of hours.

Life on Rails to the West

I locked my bike, the way a cowboy would hitch his horse. I’m an outlaw today. Only I didn’t cross the desert on my steed, I rode my bike through the Dutch rain. An outlaw, nonetheless.

I need cash, I don’t even have enough to get on the train. I slip through the gates behind an old man. Did the security see that? Is that plain looking man undercover? He looks too plain. He passes me without looking up from his phone. No need to get frazzled over that, now.

The train is late. Surely everyone notices my armpits gushing with sweat and my dripping face. I can’t take off my hat either it’s a rolled-up ski mask I need later. I also need the gun in my inside pocket. Did that woman just notice me feeling the outline of my pistol? It’s just a toy gun. But a gun, nonetheless.

I’ve never committed a crime before. Robbing just anyone is dangerous, not to mention unimaginative. No, robbing a train full of rich people, that’s how they used to do it.

The platform is way too busy with people who were late, and not very rich looking. Let’s hope they have something.

I’m waiting a couple stops, find my moment. Cities, suburbs and nature shoot by me, slouched in my seat.

“Ticket please.” I shock out of my daydream.

“I forgot it at home…”

“I’ll let you off with a warning, but you need to get off at the next stop”

I pull out my gun, a hail Mary.

“Sir, interesting lighter, but there’s no smoking here. Now get off before I change my mind.”

“Yes sir” I cower.

I look around the train station, almost deserted. I wonder how far west I went, but it sure looks wildly tame.

(300)

I don’t handle carte blanche well, but I do love writing in rhyme (I do it all the time). This was enough of a restriction for me to think of a concept I enjoy. I feel like this idea could be worked out into a bigger and more carefully crafted conceptual piece, but I like where I ended up.

Divine Tragedy

I went to hell and back

All I got was this lousy t-shirt

I’m all for stupid knick knacks

But this one ain’t a keeper

The drive went fast, with ease

Snacks I brought for days

I packed sandwiches with cheese

Ate grilled cheeses on the way

It turns out sulphur stinks

I don’t like to sweat my balls off

Went to a bar, for drinks

All they served was Molotov’s

I wrote a postcard about my stay

But the post office line was long

You might think I should’ve anyway

That’s too bad, you’re wrong

The gift shop got me pensive

A break from screams in pain

But the mugs were too expensive

All the keychains were the same

All the sights I saw

And all the souls I met

All the food was raw

And all the bread was wet

Again I was getting peckish,

Stopped at a gas station

All they had was licorice

Another shit vacation

I should’ve gone to Rome

At least not all the locals would keep bleeding

I think I’ll just go home

Dante’s travel review: misleading

(184)

As expected, I had trouble with this one. Unexpectedly, I went over the word limit again. This time by only a little. I abandoned the idea of writing the story in one go, since this one needed a lot of edits, cuts and rewrites. I find it weak to hide behind “Not my best work”, but I guess today I am (weak), and it isn’t (my best work). Based on a true story.

Fronk

In an apartment far from here, on the second floor, lives a creature named Fronky. He spends his days the way he enjoys: taking long naps, sniffing around to eat anything that smells appetizing and reorganizing his trinkets to and fro different rooms in the house. He makes sure he stays healthy by climbing on things and running down the hall when he gets the chance. Only to be herded back in by one of The Humans.

When Fronky sits at the window, admiring the overview of the strange land around him, he appreciates it for what it is. A nice view. The desire to go outside has left long ago. Fronk remembers when he used to adventure in The Outside. He got viciously attacked, blindsided by something mean. He’s not scared, but what’s the point in looking for trouble in the cold? Besides, what would those bumbling, lovable human oafs do without him?

One day, he Fronk finds an open window. There are many smells out there, which tempted brave Fronky to indulge. When suddenly, a mighty flighty bird flaps his menacing wings right in our hero’s face. A paw slips, claws fail to grab anything. “Land on your feet!” he thinks. But Fronkies don’t land like cats.

Such a fall and all he had was a scratch on his nose! But relief doesn’t last, as the wind whirs and cars roar. “Maybe I am scared,” Fronky admits, as his eyes dart to find a way back in. “The Outside isn’t for everyone, there’s no shame in being afraid.” a big burley red cat groans “Let me help you back up. That was quite a fall.” Fronky nods, his limbs still shaking. “The name’s Burt, let me ask the nice neighbours.” Burt climbs to a window, effortlessly. “Excuse me! Can you people come out? Somebody needs you!” A neighbour comes out, “Oh honey, you’re hurt! Here, let me take you back home.” As Fronky is picked up, he feels safe. Burt is nowhere to be seen.

Fronky didn’t think it was possible, but The Inside has never felt more comfortable. Burt still walks by; they have a chat from balcony to street. Burt prefers The Outside, Fronk doesn’t understand. That’s okay, though. These new friends know that The Outside doesn’t exist without The Inside. It’s good to face your fears sometimes. To see The Other Side. Anyway, it’s time to have nap.

(403)

Today is Selamatan for my dad, which snuck it’s way into this text. It’s an Indonesian thing, to have a big meal with loved ones after 40 days of grief. Today marks that day, ending the first part of grieving. January 21 was the day of his accident. Obviously I’m still in full grief, with every day different from the last, which explains that those feelings found their way into today’s piece of fiction. Also I more than doubled the 300 word limit. The last stop was apparently further than expected. Or the bus was delayed.

The Last Stop

I’m dressed to be standing at the bus stop in March after midnight, but here I am. The single lantern above me is lighting enough of my surroundings to make out about 6 meters of road on each side of me and knolly grass in the other directions. I can’t seem to get my eyes adjusted to the light to make up where I am or where I came from. There’s no bench to rest my aching leg or any type of shelter from the sharp wind. Is there even a bus coming? Should I just start walking? I wouldn’t even know which direction or where to. Besides, I haven’t felt my toes for hours, I’m wondering if I’ll even get out from under this light.

A double beacon of yellow headlights suddenly approaches out of the thick mist. A bus without destination sign. As it came to a stop in front of me, my lungs filled with fumes from the engine, leaving me with the nauseating taste of a mouth full of used coins. The door opened, I peeked in, but couldn’t see the driver. “Where is this bus going?” I asked with an unexpectedly coarse and high-pitched voice. “All the way to the end,”, a raspy but friendly voice answered, “you’ll see when you need to get off”. As I enter, I can make out the driver in the dimly lit vehicle. A bigger fellow in a cotton uniform. His name tag was a pen written piece of paper that just said Ron. “Find yourself a seat, son. The roads around here get bumpy.” His smile made me feel at ease, I did what he said, after giving him the only money in my pocket.

I didn’t realise there were several other passengers on the bus. Most just blankly staring through the window, into darkness. An old lady smiles at me and asks, “Why don’t you sit down here, I could use a friend.” I do, and notice she is wearing slippers and a robe. Seeing my observance, she chuckles “Looks like we both didn’t dress for the weather. Good thing it’s nicer where we’re going.” The moonlight shimmers on the water we are crossing over a wooden bridge. “Where are we going?”

Before getting an answer, the bell chimes and a couple gets off, seemingly unaware of anyone else on the bus. The lady looks at them with pity, “Those unlucky souls. They don’t know what they’re missing.” Before I can vocalise my confusion, my toes start burning as the blood flow thaws them. Inspecting my frozen feet, I see I’m wearing my dad’s shoes. The lady sees it too, “And your dad always said those shoes would always keep his feet warm” “You know my dad?” “No, but I’ve heard a lot about him. I can’t wait to meet him.” I gaze at my feet as the bus bounces on. “He was wearing these on the day of the accident.” The lady sighs with compassion, “I know, honey.” She pauses briefly, then holds my hand. “I’m actually not allowed to say this, but to hell with ‘em, I say!” I smile at the sudden mischievous demeanor I see on her, through the tears that have collected in my eyes. She continues, “You were supposed to get off a stop earlier, but I heard your dad bargained you all the way through to the end. And believe me when I say, Ron is not an easy one to persuade.” Warm comfort spreads through my insides, as I see the fog clear up outside. “Thank you for keeping me company, ma’am.” She smiles at me, with that mischievous face, “You’re more than welcome. I just hope my husband gets here soon, so I have someone to talk to. No offence, but you’re not that fun to talk to.” “Alright, last stop.” Ron groans from the front.

(648)

I try to write every piece in one go, without reading back where I am and without changing what I already wrote. That worked well with this one, but reading it back I do notice a tonal shift halfway through. I don’t mind it, the story finds a way to get through before I have found it myself.

The Tide

Beachcomber Frank had a friendly relationship with The Tide. It was his livelihood. As he spent his days searching the sand, hunting for treasure – as he liked to call any washed up garbage worth anything. Anything he might be able to get some money for, up in the village. If he couldn’t get the value Frank believed an item to be, it ended up in his little cottage alone at the shore. His walls were hidden behind fishing lures, bits of U-boats, undistinguishable instruments, fossils, and some actual garbage. It barely crossed Franks mind to understand where some of the finds originated from. You might wonder “How did this male mannequin leg end up in the ocean? Or these 12 doll heads in a net?” “It was given by The Tide”, Frank would mumble, not taking his eyes off the ground. Frank wasn’t concerned with anything’s heritage or history before the ocean and the moon got hold of it. The only times Frank would fight the hump in his back to look up, was when the moon was out. Whenever she is close, Frank watches her and her mighty grip on the flow of the sea. Whenever she takes her deserved distance, Frank goes to work on the spoils she leaves him. If he would be able to give back, he would. But he understands their relationship must be one sided, as she is unafflicted by any of her billion admirers down at the shore. Ebb and flow just repeat in cycles, as the moon goes about her business. She pushes in the anything that’s near, then pulls away carefully for Frank to take what he needs. Frank feels this is a good relationship, even though he isn’t giving back now. He finds consolation in knowing he too will one day disappear into the deep. Pulled in by his one true love, to be carefully pushed onto another shore, to be found by another beachcomber, just like Frank. His belongings and finds of that faithful day scattered, to never be questioned of their origins. Back to the sea, taken by the moon, given by the tide.

(357)

Micro Fiction March

1 – The Tide

2 – The Last Stop

3 – A children’s story

4 – A poem

5 – First person train journey

6 – The Procession

7 – Rewind

8 – Fictional Academic Writing

9.- A con written in second person

10 – Honour Among Thieves

11 – Living The Dream

12 – Your Worst Holiday

13 – Only Dialogue

14 – Sorry

15 – A bright memory

16 – In the style of…

17 – Burning Out

18 – Carapace

19 – No repeated words

20 – A genre you’ve never written in

21 – Addicted To That Rush

22 – The Spire

23 – A childhood memory

24 – A moment you’d time travel to

25 – The Long Game

26 – When It Rains

27 – Horror in rhyming couplets

28 – Inspired by a video game

29 – Cancel Culture

30 – An ordinary moment from yesterday

31 – All Good Things…