The Fable Online Microfiction Volume I August, 2015
Editor-in-Chief Sarah Kedar
Associate Editor Cassiopeia Lancaster
Š2015, The Fable Online|Contributing Authors Typeface used for cover creation by Justme54s
Contributing Authors
Alison McBain Dhana Nandini Garry Gunnerson James Butt John Cambridge Josh Sczykutowicz Pavelle Wesser R. Harris S. Kay Stefania Hartley Sylvia Heike
About the Author Alison McBain lives in Connecticut with her husband and two daughters. She has work published/forthcoming in Flash Fiction Online, Abyss & Apex, and Saturday Night Reader, among others. Her story "The Maybe Baby" won the Patricia McFarland Memorial Award from Flash Fiction Chronicles, "Definitions" won Bop Dead City's third annual flash fiction contest, and "A Body At Rest" received an honorable mention by Allegory's Managing Editor Ty Drago. When not writing, she practices origami meditation and draws all over the walls of her house with the enthusiastic help of her kids. You can read her blog at alisonmcbain.com or follow her on Twitter @AlisonMcBain.
Case Closed “Obviously, the butler did it.” The detective casually waved a hand in the air to encompass the man whose face was turning red.
“Why?” his boyish assistant asked.
“Well, he dresses in a tux and is British. Plus, his little black mustache. Or is it mustachios?”
“Either.”
“Exactly. What more do you need to convict him?”
“I protest, sir,” said the butler, sounding like Anthony Hopkins.
“See?” The detective buffed his fingernails on his jacket. “Case closed.” With that, the butler reached into his jacket pocket and produced a pistol. “Not closed yet,” he said angrily and shot them point-blank.
Faster Lily focused intently on something out the window. “What are you looking at?” asked her mother, who was driving. “A unicorn running next to the car." “You!” Her mother laughed. “What a great imagination.” After dinner at grandma’s house, they piled back in their car to go home. Lily stared out the window once more. “Another unicorn, sweetheart?" “No. The unicorn didn’t reach grandma’s. It got tired and slowed down.” Her mother smiled. “What’s out there now?” “A dragon,” she said. “He’s much faster.” “How nice, dear.” The little girl sighed. “No, not really. Not for the unicorn, it wasn’t."
About the Author Dhana Nandini Rajaruban is a Computer engineer by profession, working at Tata Consultancy Services Ltd. India. She is a core member of TCS-Bibliophile club. Her microfictions have appeared in The Fable Online, and Postcardshorts. She has also authored technical books which were published by renowned publishers of India as well as by online publishers like Bookboon.com.
Unfulfilled Prayer
I surmised that, at least, this winter's zephyr would remind you to get in touch with your decrepit parents, but again you remained stiff-necked not to contact us. You promised us a phone call every day before you left for your sojourn in Europe. Yet, this is the third year in a row you have reneged on your covenant. Though I upbraid people for what they say, peeps keep telling me that you have departed for your heavenly abode due to German wings crash. My orison carries just a simple yearning that you prove, your mom is unerring.
About the Author Garry Gunnerson lives in the city of Windsor, Ontario, Canada just south of Detroit, with Valerie, his wife of many years. Following a successful career in sales and marketing, Garry now devotes his time to Tai Chi, travel and writing short fiction.
Snipped So there's this woman at work I'm crazy about. But she's deathly afraid of getting pregnant and it's against her religion to use protection. I'm twenty years into my marriage and the better half is over forty. So I tell the woman I'm impotent and get the snip on the sly. I mean she was really hot. So six months later the wife tells me we're expecting twins.
Free to Good Home Boy’s trike, blue. Only used once. Minimal damage to frame.
About the Author James Butt is an Information Architect for a Telecommunications company in Halifax, Nova Scotia. A graduate of Dalhousie University in Halifax, his time is split between the excitement and spontaneous nature that is family life, and the crafting of short fiction based upon those experiences.
Terrorism You approach the garbage can with your dust bin and notice a small house fly swept up with the dirt. Stunned by the sweeping bristles of your broom, it struggles amongst loose hair and sand. You pity its weakness and think of killing it outright, or perhaps reaching down to free it from the waste. You ignore its vulnerability; your action is indifference. And you hope, after depositing the still living creature into the trash, it does not regain its strength and return to the skies, with vengeance on its mind.
About the Author John Cambridge and his wife live in British Columbia, Canada.
Return of Spring End of March, snow starting to melt. Water dripping off the eaves. Snow banks shrinking. Finally, Elmer thought as he drank his coffee by the kitchen window. His eyebrows shot up as he recognized the slop pail with which he’d sent his wife to feed the hogs in the November blizzard. Her fingers still clutched the handle. “Bout time you showed up.”
About the Author Josh Sczykutowicz is a young author from central Florida. This is his first published work. He can be contacted at joshsczykutowicz@gmail.com
Encased In You There was beauty in her dark spaces, wavering beneath the surface like a glass of red wine in tired hand, legs crossed on this leather wing-backed chair. I saw something real within. She was a mansion consuming all of me, rooms unending and hallways leading into the next set of displays, her deepest thoughts and darkest desires pouring into me, a flood of honesty drowning me within basement walls. She has been my home. But she will also be my tomb. I allow this. There are things we have done to ourselves, but these you have done to me.
About the Author Pavelle Wesser has written flash fiction, science fiction, horror,micro fiction, and short fiction for various venues. Originally a New Yorker, she currentlyresides in New England, where she stays up into the wee hours of the night attempting to compose ever more flash fiction.
Nightmares Without Borders You have entered into an agreement with the Department of Shame and Contention, located at the crossroads of Nothing and Nowhere, the terms of which are detailed in ink so red it matches the shade of your blood, which deepens as it spreads like slow-acting poison through your veins. Pursuant to the current Act of Hostility, time will beat out your remaining years with the steady rhythm of its cold, black, empty heart. Welcome to your private hell, where screams remain unheard, prayers go unanswered and bitter tears remind you that Betrayal knows no Boundaries And Nightmares have no Borders.
About the Author R. Harris is categorically NOT mutated from a raddish. You can find her on her blog here deathrayconference.
That damn cat Not wanting to wake anyone you don’t bother turning on a light, but just after starting down the stairs your foot connects with something warm and furry. You reel perilously but grasp the banister rail just in time to prevent a headlong plunge. The warm furry thing skitters past and into one of the bedrooms. That damn cat! Still afraid of waking your husband or worse, the baby, you can only mutter curses as you shakily continue your descent. In the living room, you switch on the lamp, only to see the cat blinking sleepily at you from the sofa.
About the Author S. Kay writes one tweet at a time. Her debut book "Reliant," an apocalypse in tweets, will be out October 2015 from tNY.Press.
Cited Submitting that paper to the International Relations of Robotic Forestry Journal, I never expected protestors and media crews on my lawn.
About the Author Stefania Hartley after obtaining a first class (cum laude) BSc in Biological Sciences from the University of Palermo (Italy), in 1999 she moved to the UK, where she completed a Postgraduate Certificate in Education (PGCE) at the University of Bristol and obtained Qualified Teacher Status (QTS) in 2002. Consequently, she has been an examiner for the English exam board OCR, marking Science, Biology and Chemistry GCSE exams and she have taught Science and Biology to 11-18 year olds in secondary schools in England, before moving to Singapore in 2012 with her husband and three children. Here, she I have worked as a media and communications officer for the Archdiocesan Commission for Catholic Schools. Currently, she write free-lance on Science and Education topics as well as fiction for children. Examples of some of her published articles: For Asian Scientist (Science magazine, Singapore) http://www.asianscientist.com/2015/03/in-the-lab/spontaneous-eyeblinknicotinic-receptor-snp-chrna4/ http://www.asianscientist.com/2015/02/health/diet-location-kids-gut-bacteria/ For Catalyst (Science magazine for 14-19 year olds, UK) http://www.catalyststudent.org.uk/cs/publication/search? searchTerm=stefania+Hartley For GeoExpro (Geoscience magazine, UK) http://www.geoexpro.com/articles/2013/09/don-t-wake-up-mungibeddu
The Mole On His Neck “You’re lucky your employer lets you go home,” say the girls. Tonight I will hold, I will touch, I will kiss my husband and children. It’s the smell of his skin that I missed, and that lovey mole on his neck. Mascara, perfume, I’m ready. Will he notice my wrinkles? Plane, train, boat. I smell of diesel. Will he notice the dust stuck on the sweat? Hugs, tears, kisses, children taller than me. Where is he? Still out fishing, they say. I cuddle and kiss my sister’s new baby. My heart stops: a mole in a fold of the neck.
Say It Trembling, the child grabs a handful of Mum’s skirt. “Come on, don’t keep your sister waiting. Say it,” urges Mum. Sitting on the floor, surrounded by scattered Lego and a half smashed tower, big sister crosses her arms in expectation. “Say what?” asks the child. “You know very well!” says sister. “It was by accident.” “No, that’s not what you need to say,” says Mum. “Let’s make peace,” says the child, hopefully. “Not enough. Try again.” “I love you,” says the child, tears welling up. Mum says, “Off you go to the naughty step until you’ve learnt to say ‘sorry’.”
About the Author Sylvia Heike lives in Finland. She writes short fiction, poetry, and is working on her first novel. Her work has been published in Mad Scientist Journal, SpeckLit, Melancholy Hyperbole, and otherpublications. Find out more at www.sylviaheike.com or follow her on Twitter @sylviaheike
Honeymoon in Atlantis Lydia tucked a bikini into her suitcase. Her honeymoon in Atlantis awaited. They’d had great difficulty agreeing on the holiday package. She wanted to visit the “Glory Days” of the ancient city. Larry insisted “Underwater Atlantis” sounded more exciting. Finally, Lydia had conceded and booked a special discount package online. The newlyweds stepped through the portal and into an underwater room. The ruins of Atlantis, teeming with sea life, loomed beyond the glass. But where was the bed? All they could see was two wet suits hanging by the airlock. “What package did you book, sweetheart?” Lydia gulped. “Dive In.”
Unraveled Shamal gripped the fringed edge of his flying carpet, barking orders, but his chariot still plummeted downwards. A loose thread flapped against his face. He clasped the hole to stop the carpet from unravelling underneath him. The carpet slowed, and he managed an emergency landing in a grassy field. Cattle approached, and Shamal grabbed his red carpet and fled. He ran even faster when he realized the animals had horns. He sacrificed his carpet and tossed it to the beasts. The bulls ripped it to pieces. The next day at Magic Rides, Shamal picked a new carpet in Egyptian Blue.
Siren Song A sweet melody drifted through the briny air. The captain peered through his telescope. An island loomed ahead. “Change course,” he commanded, but the ship wouldn’t listen. He wrestled with the wheel, but it wouldn’t budge. His crew abandoned ship and swam ashore. “Wait, she’s mine!” the captain yelled, removing his boots. “Don’t leave me,” the ship begged him. ”The siren wishes your death. We’ve sailed together for fifty years. I even learnt to speak, all for you!” “What’s to talk … when she sings?” The captain jumped into the waves. The ship sailed home alone, wailing to the siren’s tune.