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Who Writes Short Shorts? Sheri Writes Short Shorts
This is going to be an on-going thread. I'll try to post one or two at a time.
Remember that these are short shorts, microfiction, flash fiction.
First one is old.
I ran into my mother the other day. Sheâ€™d been dead for ten years, but I found her sitting in one of the vintage velvet chairs in my living room, looking just as serene and plastic as she had in her casket, except with foggy, open eyes.
â€œHello, Mom.â€ I stopped in the doorway to the living room, holding a thin vase with three white lilies. It was very minimalist. That was how Iâ€™d themed the living room: Victorian Minimalist. â€œWhat are you doing here?â€ She smiled silently, eyes glossy as a pair of marbles.
I crossed the room quickly, setting the vase on a gold-trimmed oak end table, positioned expertly in front of open bay windows. Stepping back, I eyed the hang of the curtains, then tipped one of the lilies slightly to the right. â€œIâ€™m sorry I didnâ€™t come when you were in the hospital.â€ I fluffed the satin curtains. â€œThe boudoir for the Valencia dining room showed up without a final coat of varnish. I couldnâ€™t very well let them put it in like that. You understand.â€ I turned around to see her still staring. Her gaze followed as I walked back out of the living room. â€œI did come to your funeral.â€ Her eyes were empty, a set of windows opening into a gapingly barren great room.[/font]
Second one is new.
She laid out in the floor, wide open, arms and legs splayed in every direction, as if trying to get as far from one another as possible. The wood panels of the floor were cool in the heat of the summer, seeping the warmth from her skin, hungry to steal the speed of her particles. Sunlight slanted through huge windows facing the beach, and the waves rolled up on the sand like a rug, rolling and unrolling, a red carpet to the ocean. The light fell on her in stripes, and she unsure if she is shaded with bright stripes or bright with shaded stripes. The light was warm. She could feel the heat on her toes, below her knees, her pelvis, below her breasts, her neck and the top of her hair. It seeped in from the top and out through the bottom, an endless cycle of heat, melting down through the floorboards to the sand and the dirt and eventually to the molten core of the world, her heat feeding the earth, turning the planet, ensuring life.
The door opened. â€˜What are you doing?â€™
â€˜Saving the world.â€™
She opened one eye. He stood in the doorway in a suit, briefcase hanging from his arm like an unbearable weight. â€˜Why donâ€™t you put that down?â€™
He stared at her, studied her like an alien species or a financial report. â€˜I have some work to do.â€™ He started to walk into the study as the sun crept down her body. He called from around the corner. â€˜And put some clothes on. The people on the beach can see you.â€™
She lay like a Christmas spread for a few more moments until the sunlight slid down into her eyes. She squinted, used her palm to block the glare. The world would have to wait. She got up and walked into the study.[/font]