#microfiction

[microsff]

"Listen," one guard said, "I know we have only just met-"

"No," the other guard said, "we've worked together for years!"

"-but you can trust me when I say-"

"I can't, you have the curse that's opposite from mine!"

"I don't care for you at all."

"Well, I… oh… I love you too."

[witchpassing]

“Do I have to undress?” 

“No,” says the clockmaker, taking the cigarette out of her mouth with spindle-jointed fingers. It’s hand-rolled - meticulously - and unlit. Noticing this feels like brushing against a joke you don't quite understand. “I can just do your wrists, your elbow. Touch up the patina on your fingers. But your hip needs work, too, and there's no getting around it for that.”

She gives you a slewed, undercalibrated smile, a little too much teeth, a face a doll shouldn't make. The wrong of it is comforting. “It's okay, daisy-bell. We're all girls here.” You get the joke this time.

[absentwriterdoll]

Squeak!

A doll that squeaks!

It squeaks when you hug it, when you pat it, when you say hello to it, when you call it down for dinner - at everything, it squeaks!

Today it doesn't squeak.

It looks a bit down, even - which is saying a lot, because it always seems so chipper.

So its witch picks it up and carries it with her! Brings it with her for the day! Shows it places it doesn't usually see!

It seems to brighten up a bit, even if it doesn't continue squeaking yet.

While its witch was hoping for a bit more, she's just happy it's feeling a little better

And she gives it a little hug!

And it gives a little squeak!

[ecstarry]

@jegulus-microfic / resist / 290 words / @fromagony

It was just ice cream. The weather was unbearable, and James had assured Regulus that some refreshment would ease them. So, Regulus simply obliged. They were at the Potter’s beach house, and Sirius and Remus had gone for a swim. However, James insisted he would much rather go for a drive and a treat.

So here they were, James wearing a simple white shirt—a dangerous choice for someone whose favorite flavor was chocolate—under a heat that was sure to melt his ice cream entirely in minutes. Regulus ordered a lemon popsicle, but he could barely pay attention to his own treat as a luscious scene started unfolding in front of him.

James’ tongue was stained with chocolate, the ice cream melting faster than he could eat it. Brown smudges adorned the corners of his lips, making them look even more inviting. Regulus cleared his throat as he watched James's tongue spread across the flat surface of the cone. James looked up once he heard the sound. 

James fucking stared at him as he tilted his head to catch some drops of ice cream with his tongue, preventing them from making a mess.

Resist. Resist. Resist. 

“You okay? Is the heat getting to you? You look a bit flushed Reggie,” James said with a smirk. 

“Fine. Have you finished making a spectacle of yourself or can we go back to a place with an air conditioner?” 

“Always such a princess,” James teased, almost as if he was daring Regulus. 

Regulus took the bait. He leaned in, close enough to see drips of sweat on James’ neck, licked his thumb, and wiped the corner of James’ lip with it.

“You got kind of messy there,” he remarked, playing the game right back.

more microfics here

[strangelittlestories]

“Has anyone seen Bells?” Asked Queen Aisha of the Bloody Republic.

“The court jester?” Replied Monarch Estragon of the Everflowering Forest.

“Jest her? I hardly know her.” Quipped Aisha. Estragon groaned. “But seriously, yes, she’s gone missing and I need to find her before we all kill each other.”

Aisha paused, then added.

“And there is also a separate matter, a very serious matter, which I need to discuss with her.”

---

In the parliament of royalty, comedy was no laughing matter. Every nation of the world sent their king, queen or monarch to represent them; almost nowhere else could you find such an incredible concentration of power. Whether inherited, proclaimed or elected, every royal who was worth talking about was there.

And where there were royals worth talking about, you had best believe that you would also find a jester.

And not just any jester, but *the* jester. The winner of the grand satirical tourney. The mirthster with the sharpest wit, the most dextrous contortions of mind and body, and the constitution to withstand immense pressure and inevitable poisonings.

The current jester, known only as ‘The Bells That Herald Ruin’, would often claim to be the single most important person out of all the assembled political powerhouses. Only she was not bound by the shackles of diplomacy. Only she could speak the truth in that house of lies, damned lies and hubristics.

And she was currently lying facedown in the gutter.

---

“C’mon.” Queen Aisha said, lifting the bloody jester up off the floor. “It’s time to court.”

“Right, yeah…” The Bells That Herald Ruin mumbled through a mouthful of blood, whiskey and teeth, none of which she was sure were her own. “I’m the most imp’tant p’son there…y’know?”

“Oh, no. You can’t see the royals in this condition.” The Queen carefully wiped some blood off of the jester’s brow.

“You should see the other guys- demons- … fuckos.” The Bells That Herald Ruin abandoned her attempt to catergorise the entities with which she’d been brawling. She decided, instead, to concentrate on nestling as closely as possible into the crook of Queen Aisha’s shoulder.

“I could hardly miss them.” Aisha said as she stepped carefully over one of the other groaning and bloody bodies in the gutter. 

“So why’d you say it’s time for court if’n we’re not going … court?”

Queen Aisha took a moment to judge the jester’s level of injury and inebriation. She bit her lip.

“I said it’s time *to* court. As in, I’m about to start courting your ass.”

“You … you would court the court jester? Double court? Court squared?”

“We’ll start with coffee, doofus. And when you’re recovered, I’ll take you out on a date.”

“I’ll wear my jangliest hat.”

“...please don’t.”

[moonwatermicrofics]

May Prompts

Here are the prompts for May!! The theme is vaguely centered around Hogwarts, but you are free to use it in other ways.

Find the Rules and FAQ here

Below the line break is a list of the prompts, in case you want to copy and paste them elsewhere.

1. Free

2. Moon

3. Water

4. Animagus

5. Studying

6. Clothes

7. Blanket

8. Fire

9. Secret

10. Friends

11. Meeting

12. Forest

13. Flying

14. Prefect

15. Astronomy

16. Dream

17. French

18. Music

19. Date

20. Gifts

21. Free space

22. Pain

23. Tea

24. Flowers

25. Public

26. Snow

27. Comfort

28. Ink

29. Books

30. Flirting

31. Confession

[rounderhouse]

[mallowmaenad]

the pale mech pilot (chronically depressed tgirl) slumps out of its cockpit after a prolonged battle (playing borderlands 2 for 6 hours) at the orders of its handler [NO METAPHOR HERE] shocked from having its neural interface ripped out (taking off noise canceling headphones) it is quickly rewarded with just a pulse of neurostims, (a drink of water and a handful of chicharrones) legs slack against the ground as it struggles to remember how to operate outside of its titanic metal shell it calls a body (memory foam mattress)

[thestuffedalligator]

The trees lumbered across the field.

It was a weird thing to watch. When a tree settled to rest or sniff at an interesting crocus, she could almost believe that it had been rooted to the spot for years; then the huge body would raise up on spidery roots and trundle forward with stupid placidity to follow the herd. When they all had settled to rest in the morning light, it was like the field had been turned into a misty woodland in seconds.

A sapling bounded up to her and sniffed at her wrist before bounding off again, spindly roots kicking with delight.

"It's pretty simple work," said the farmer. "We let them out to get some fresh air and sunlight, check them for blight. Every so often we have to lay out some manure, but that's pretty much it."

She watched the sapling. It stumbled on its own limbs and limped into the shade of its mother.

"It's pretty similar to raising cattle," said the farmer. "We raise them up for a couple years, and when they get big enough we take them down to the slaughterhouse and have them butchered."

"Wouldn't you send them to a logging mill or something?"

"Nope."

A chickadee whirred through the air and lighted onto a branch.

"There's good money in it, too," said the farmer. "There's a lot of demand for certain cuts of tree meat."

"You mean wood?"

"Nope."

There was a blur of branches. The tree ate the chickadee.

[prokopetz]

“I’m afraid it’s over, doctor. We’ve seen through your sinister plot.”

“It’s not a plot, you uneducated fool – it’s a scheme.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A plot is defined by political intrigue as a central feature, whereas a scheme is defined by its complexity. You can have a straightforward plot or an apolitical scheme, but not vice versa. This is a scheme.“

“I thought if it was complex it's a machination.”

“No, it’s a machination if it’s artful. I’ve never much cared for artfulness; for example, this conversation isn’t artful at all, yet it’s kept you occupied long enough for the next phase of my scheme to come into play – just as I’d planned!”

“Your scheme depended on me not knowing what a scheme is?”

“Wheels within wheels, old friend.”

[microsff]

"I want," the man said to the art robot, and then described an image in some detail. "Certainly," said the art robot. A printout came out of its chest. "Thank y- Hey! What's this?" "A list of artists who make images of the kind you describe, and who are accepting commissions."

[dizzyhslightlyvoided]

Ramona: Yeah, uh, Roxie and I are both trans women.

Scott: Oh! So that's how she's one of your "evil ex boyfriends" despite being a girl!

Roxie, six inches from slicing him to bits depending on what he says next: Oh?

Scott, oblivious: Not "ex ... boyfriend", but "ex-boy ... friend!"

Roxie: ... y'know, that's the funniest way I've ever heard any "cis" person describe it.

Scott: Oh, really? -- Wait, why was "cis" in quotes?

Ramona, as innocently as she can manage: What do you mean in quotes?

Roxie, ditto: Yeah, this is a verbal conversation.

Scott: Uhhh, never mind.

The catgirl speedrunner from the High Council of Trans Women who was ready to clip through the wall and deck Ramona or Roxie in the face if either of them tried to violate the Trans Prime Directive, like with the Vegan Police: (retreats)

[absentwriterdoll]

It shakes its head, no.

The witch asks if the doll is okay. After all, after finishing its chores, it's been going straight back to bed.

The doll shakes its head, no.

The witch asks if the doll would like to talk about it. If there's anything that she can do to help.

The doll shakes its head, no.

The witch asks if the doll would mind if she joined it.

The doll hesitates for a moment.

But shakes its head, no.

It wouldn't mind.

The witch joins the doll and holds it close against her.

It shivers.

[frostgears]

flight deck

you don't have to tell your handler that you're coming in messy after a bad mission. she's tied into flight ops. she knows.

she's waiting by the flight line before the grease monkeys have all your armor off, with a lubed glove on one hand and two fat purple pills in the other.

"ssshhh, pretty thing," she says. "you did your best out there. now open," she forces the pills to your mouth. "good girl. where's that water bottle… swallow. good."

her hand is already working between your legs, reinforcing her praise. they always detach the armor there first.

the pills help. the pills leave you feeling floaty, detached, enough to ignore what they've done to you to make the armor work. you probably can't climax without them by now, not that your handler would ever let you find out.

a few moments later, you spatter your built-up tension and guilt across the deck. with a sigh, you sink to your still-armored knees. your reflex weapons disarm, automatics finally allowed to take over from your own hair-trigger awareness. they're safe now. you're safe.

the grease monkeys are also safe, emerging from behind blast shields that would not have stopped any but the lightest of your armaments. more for psychological safety, really.

"she done?"

"the fuck do you think, wrenchie?"

"i think you couldn't pay me enough to do your job."

"i don't do it for the pay," you hear your handler say, as your eyelids sink towards closed. "i do it because that thing you're all scared of? she's all mine. and every landing, i get to remind myself, and all of you, and most importantly, her." □

[strangelittlestories]

After the occupation, the princess was confined to the palace.

Once a month she'd be taken on a walk around the city, heavily guarded of course, to show the people that she still lived. It also served, of course, as a reminder of what they stood to lose if they made trouble. The princess did her best go wave and smile and give the people what encouragement she could.

The rest of the time, her life was spent in musty rooms and dusty towers. She filled most of her time scouring the castle for materials which she would sew into more and more elaborate outfits, which she would show off on the days when she was allowed outside.

Indeed, the public loved their princess and her dresses so much they'd often sketch or paint them along the route and pass the images on so that all could see the princess at least was well.

This pleased the occupiers for two reasons. First: it kept the princess out of trouble. Second: it gave them a reason to sneer and they did love a good sneer.

"What a vain creature she is!" They would remark.

"Doesn't even care we murdered her brothers so long as she gets enough satin to make her little dresses!" They squawked.

This was unfair, of course, for to call her creations "little dresses" was to call Queen Murderfun the Needlessly Genocidal "a tad piquey". Her dresses were gravity-defying wonders lace and pearl. They were thunderstorms captured in velvet and waterfalls summoned in silk. She was a wizard with silk.

Still, she bore their mockery with a tight smile and careful deference.

"Please, good sirs, my home, my people and my city now belong to you. Let me keep, at least, this one last joy."

And they sneered and they crowed most unpleasantly, but they let her keep her sewing room.

Of course, they would have known their mockery to be doubly unfair had they realised the true purpose of the princess's elaborate designs. For hidden in the intricate embroiderings across her gowns, jackets and fans, the princess had encoded secret (and very detailed) messages. When she would go on her monthly walk, the city's loyalists would line the route, sketching down the patterns to decode later.

Thus did the princess transmit all the occupiers' secrets (unearthed while supposedly 'searching the castle for old fabrics') to the city and thus did she build her resistance.

On the day the revolution finally came, she girded herself in armour of thick spider silk and whale bone. She cut a fine figure with a lacy handkerchief in her top pocket and a razor sharp knitting needle keeping her hair up.

As she waltzed through the castle to open the door for her army, the Usurper King tried to stop her and she simply unfolded her handkerchief and showed it to him.

Upon seeing the impossible arcane pattern emblazoned across it, he fell to the floor with blood streaming from his eyes.

She always had been a wizard with silk.

---

Thank you for reading. If you'd like to support my writing, you can do so at https://ko-fi.com/strangelittlestories

[shorteststory]

Happy eclipse day to all who celebrate!

I wrote this after road-tripping from Gen Con to see eclipse totality in Carbondale, Illinois 7 years ago!