••• more featured microfiction in the wild •••
Here's a flier, you might remember. One of two micros I'd written before I fell into NOVEL-DRAGGING. :)
Bellringer
“Just mind the bell, Earl.”
“Yes, Pop.”
Uncle Danny touched the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll bring ya out a beer, ’right?”
Earl nodded. “Come and stay all ya like. I don’t much want the duty.”
“It’s important, Earl,” Pop said. “Doc Landy said it’s lead poisoning that got them layin so still, and us doin’ what was right. Who coulda known?”
Turning for the house, Uncle Danny said again, “I’ll bring ya a beer.”
Earl shrugged and looked at the bell, the string bright white in the moon’s eyeball, when all the rest was black. And dead.
Pinewood boards were stacked along the drainage rut, leaving gutted holes in the ground. Scratches on them planks is what scared Earl.
“The dead don’t rise, less’n yer Jesus,” he said to the pile of black-brown dirt.
That tether ran white as eye-flats, and into the new jumble of clay.
“Don’t get no ideas, Mr. Arthur. You just keep doin’ like y’are.”
Almost in answer, the bell nudged, then jingled. Then madlike, hell was pulling itself up from below.
“Pop! Uncle Danny! Mr. Arthur’s a movin’!”
Love it. Neat format, K!
Fine story, Nissa. Lands with poignancy drawn from a simple and clear prose. Nice work!
Thanks so much for the feature and for sharing your thoughts! I always like seeing how others interpret my work.
Here's a flier, you might remember. One of two micros I'd written before I fell into NOVEL-DRAGGING. :)
Bellringer
“Just mind the bell, Earl.”
“Yes, Pop.”
Uncle Danny touched the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll bring ya out a beer, ’right?”
Earl nodded. “Come and stay all ya like. I don’t much want the duty.”
“It’s important, Earl,” Pop said. “Doc Landy said it’s lead poisoning that got them layin so still, and us doin’ what was right. Who coulda known?”
Turning for the house, Uncle Danny said again, “I’ll bring ya a beer.”
Earl shrugged and looked at the bell, the string bright white in the moon’s eyeball, when all the rest was black. And dead.
Pinewood boards were stacked along the drainage rut, leaving gutted holes in the ground. Scratches on them planks is what scared Earl.
“The dead don’t rise, less’n yer Jesus,” he said to the pile of black-brown dirt.
That tether ran white as eye-flats, and into the new jumble of clay.
“Don’t get no ideas, Mr. Arthur. You just keep doin’ like y’are.”
Almost in answer, the bell nudged, then jingled. Then madlike, hell was pulling itself up from below.
“Pop! Uncle Danny! Mr. Arthur’s a movin’!”
Love it. Neat format, K!
Fine story, Nissa. Lands with poignancy drawn from a simple and clear prose. Nice work!
Thanks so much for the feature and for sharing your thoughts! I always like seeing how others interpret my work.