Micro-Fiction
These mini stories are pieces I wrote for contests or as writing class assignments. Micro-Fiction is typically 100 – 1000 words. Creating a complete short story within the confines of a limited word count is a great challenge. They’re fun to write but take more time than one might think, despite their brevity. For those intrigued enough to attempt to write flash fiction, I recommend the practice highly. It forces one to get to the action and to put in only necessary words.
Straight espresso. No whip.
Ghosted
500 word Ghost story – Prompt: Rolling across the floor and Pet Leash
Her house was once a rustic retreat: an ancient Afghan draped over the cracked, leather chair next to the wood burning fireplace. Sun-faded yellow gingham curtains in the kitchen danced in the afternoon breeze. She kept the windows open year-round, demanding to breathe in only fresh air. I spent many afternoons curled up with Aunt Bette, watching raunchy movies and drinking good tequila. That was her poison. She hasn’t been gone six months, but I still feel her in the weathered boards of the sagging front porch. I sit on the rough-hewn stairs, avoiding the papaya-colored porch swing. Can’t sit there. It’s not meant for one. Without a hint of a breeze, the swing slowly comes to life.
It wasn’t your time, Bette. You were too young.
I indulged her despite mom’s disapproval. She and Bette were never close. Mom resented her wild sister’s life choices. Thought she was frivolous and undisciplined. I envied her joie de vivre and hope for a similar trajectory… aside from the cancer thing.
Aunt Bette could work magic with a camera and was paid to travel to the ends of the earth, capturing the nomadic lives of pony herders in outer Mongolia or racing camels across the Sahel with the Wodade. I spent a summer with her after one of those trips. I loved being locked in the dark room, assaulted by the stench of chemicals as she pulled shiny, dripping photos from tubs of developer, revealing unforgettable images.
Thwunk….Thwank.
What the f***?
I jump up. “Hello?”
Footsteps… from inside. Bette always said the old place was haunted, belonging to her spry great grandmother who ran an apothecary from a back shed nearly one hundred years ago. I never believed her. Those spirits kept quiet when I was around. I wondered if it wasn’t the morphine messing with her mind when she’d start talking to someone out of the blue.
I step inside after extracting my key. A velvety exhale caresses my face with the softness of a silk scarf and a hint of tuberose… Bette’s favorite flower.
I glance out the living room picture window, where acres of switchgrass sway golden beneath a melting sun. I swear one of the old dairy goats, attached to a frayed lead rope, stands by the dilapidated blue barn. There haven’t been goats on this property in a decade. When I look again, it’s gone.
I duck into the kitchen where a light flickers on. Need a drink. It’s gonna be a long night. A door slams upstairs. I drop the glass I’d been filling with water, shattering on the terra cotta tiled floor.
Maybe something stronger.
My hands shake as I reach into the fridge, wanting the tequila. There’s a bottle still hidden in here somewhere in the back. Instead, my hands find the grapes – frozen grapes. From the fridge? I fumble them, laughing as they roll across the floor like marbles.
Touche, old gal!
Bette used to freeze grapes and suck on them when her mouth was too sore to eat. Said it was like sucking frozen eyeballs. One night we had a frozen grape spitting contest to see who could projectile their grape the furthest. Bette won when she nailed the window, breaking it. That probably still needs replacing. I image there’s a lot that needs repair in this old house. Now it’s on me to resume loving this place, now that she’s gone. It’ll never be the same, but maybe I can breathe life back into these walls.
Upstairs Bette’s bedroom windows are open, as the faded linen curtains billow and dance. Less than a year ago, I was snuggled in this very bed with Bette, watching Stripes with Bill Murray, sipping Herradura from her Waterford crystal rocks glasses. There’s no longer the stench of stillness and death. I’m grateful.
On the way downstairs, the hall light flickers on.
Bette, no exorcist shenanigans tonight. Deal?
In the kitchen I find the shattered glass sitting on the counter in one piece, with two fingers of tequila. She still knows me.
Cheers Aunt Bette.
Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin
Postscript: This was my first stab at a ghost story. I’m not sure where the frozen grapes idea came, but I love that element in the story. Unexpected uses of the prompts usually are well regarded. Interestingly, one of the judges was concerned that Aunt Bette was an alcoholic and prone to reckless behavior. I never even considered that a part of her character. It just shows we all have baggage we bring when we read and when we write. That’s what makes this exercise so engaging for me… all the ways a piece can be interpreted and received. Endless possibilities.
Parched
250 word Romance – Prompt: Unrolling something and Final – 9th place
Her:
The teardrop has a queen-sized bed in front and kitchen with mini-fridge and stove-top in the back. He unrolls the double mummy sac.
“No five-star resort?”
“Only stars will be ones we’re sleeping under.” His eyes twinkle.
There’s a riot of color: red rocks, golden sandstone mesas and splashes of fuchsia prickly pear, against a bleeding indigo sky.
After unpacking we lay together, his hands pressed to my belly. The belly where Sadie lived. Now a cavern, echoing loss.
We spend days hiking the canyon as the sun warms us, heading toward the trickle of the Colorado River. At night we make love under a starry canopy, as wind rustles though the junipers. We tussle again before breakfast.
Too soon we return home. Empty house. No newborn cries or diapers to change. Deathly quiet. Final…. Devastating….
Him:
One night she pulls out Aunt Linda’s antique China and crystal. The table’s bathed in candlelight. Gliding, as if on ice, in a silky blue dress, she slips from my grasp. Disappearing into the kitchen, she returns. The distinct stench of liver assails me. The blood-red organ jiggles.
Smiling, she hands me bread and the butter dish. When I lift the lid, a test strip gleams, two pale pink lines waving. I swing her around in celebration.
I slide my hand inside the buttons of her dress, relishing warm skin, to discern any movement of the tiny being growing inside.
Nothing like surreal sunsets and magical Milky Way to sow a seed.
Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin
Postscript: I initially wrote this as a longer piece – maybe 2500 words or so for a Vocal media contest about an arid landscape. I like this stripped down version better. This is also a part of a longer story – Rolling in the Deep. Sometimes when I’m stumped by a prompt, I think back to characters I’ve already flushed out and try to put them in a more abbreviated piece – hoping I’m able to demonstrate their character even with a dearth of words. It worked with this story, as I made it to the next round in the competition.
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Diary of a Midwife
100 word Hist. Fict.- Prompt: Changing a diaper and Upper – 1st place
I dig my heels into Penny’s flank, riding the Upper Creek, saddlebags flapping. Hazel had a rough delivery two nights ago. Twins. Bitty things. They’s sucklin’ when I left. Not no more.
Her husband takes Penny as I rush inside, to caterwauling. The babies fuss, screamin’ themselves purple. Lucy’s soaked. I change nappies, then glance at Hazel. Pale, eyes droopin’, metallic tang… scarlet bleeds through the sheet.
“Enos, get that wagon hitched!”
I return weeks later, babies in tow. They’s thriving and tolerate the formula. Sorry Hazel ain’t here to see ‘em.
The cabin sags, forsaken.
No Enos in sight.
Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin
Post script: Thirty three years ago, following four years of undergraduate studies at Denison University, I moved to Hyden, KY where I worked as a literacy tutor for the Frontier Nursing Service, an organization providing health care in the remote mountainous region. Mary Breckinridge founded the organization in 1925 after witnessing the positive impact of nurse-midwives in Russia where she lived for a time while her grandfather (VP John Breckinridge, under President Buchanan) served as Ambassador.
Despite the 65 year gap from the time I was there (1990-91) and Mary’s early days of bringing in nurse-midwives from England, I too saw the benefits of access to quality healthcare. I interviewed folks who’d been delivered by an FNS midwife. I heard stories of women saddling up in the dark, fording creeks and rivers, saddlebags flapping as they rode up mountain hollows to aid in the delivery of a newborn or to treat various illnesses with tonics and medicinal herbs.
This story is inspired by the work of those early midwives and Mary Breckinridge.
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Soaked
100 word micro flash Romance draft – Prompt: Spraying something and Attempt
Words burst, as if sprayed from a hose, onto paper. Jetstream messy and angry… things she must say but lacks the courage.
How could he?
Arms encircle her, whispers nuzzled into her neck.
“Janie?”
She attempts to cover what’s soaked into the page.
“Really? No?” His voice, thick.
Spinning her chair – kind brown eyes find hers.
“You should have asked.” Tears streak as she muffles a sob. “I can’t live there.”
“You don’t have to. We’ll sell. You matter more.”
His hands soothe circles over her swollen belly. “You both do.”
She crumples the paper and takes his hand.
Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin
Postscript: I did not submit this for the NYC Midnight contest. I never felt I was able to adequately portray the conflict and resolution in this story. I still grapple with how I could have made this better. Instead I submitted a piece entitled, Dandelion Wishes. I welcome your thoughts.
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Red Eyes
250 word Horror – Prompts: Hitting a snooze button and Past
Midnight:
Beady red eyes are back…by the barn. I saw them two nights ago. Red eyeshine means predator. These eyes are too low for a wolf or dog. It slinks, gliding across rutted ground, as if on ice.
All the windows and exit points are secure. Sally’s asleep, finally. I need to keep her close. I creep back to bed, wrapping my arms around her frail form. Damn glioblastoma. She’ll never be the same. I miss our early days.
Carefree and frivolous… no longer.
Three AM:
A dull thud startles me from sleep. Earthy musk fills the room. Peering out the window, eyes are still there – closer. When I blink, more appear… gazing up. No whispers on the air – just gray and flat. What do they want? Their forms hidden in shadow reveal eyes only, probing, curious.
Curled in sky blue sheets, Sally snores, blissfully unaware.
Head and limbs heavy, I stumble back to bed.
Sleep, glorious sleep.
Half Past Five AM:
Bzzz Bzzz Bzzz
Thwack!
I hit the snooze button. Groggy, I reach for her. Fingers sticky, bits of fluff. No Sally.
Squinting, scarlet and baby’s breath blue swirl together reminding me of Sally’s favorite gelato, Fairy Floss.
Coppery tang, sodden sheets… my eyes fly open.
Sally?
No, please no.
Dragging myself to the window… carnage and viscera – everywhere.
Crimson pools where fox kits once romped.
Sally… in her bloodied nightdress… stares up… soulless eyes…
Cackles with glee…
Blood dripping down her chin… like ice cream.
Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin
Postscript: I’d hoped to make it to the second round of the NYC Midnight contest with this one – but no such luck. This was my first attempt at writing horror. The piece Bleeding Hearts was another attempt/draft that I never submitted. You’ll notice similar imagery in them both… Fairy Floss…Which do you like better?
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Impossible Love
100 word Romance – Prompts: Dancing and More
Sunlight undulates in waves across slender shoulders. The alabaster sheet rumpled, just covering, as she lays curled, a ridge of muscle and skin. Half-moons, dark beneath sleeping eyes, reveal ragged truths lived.
Five years sober after fifteen years not. Teetered on the edge – nearly tumbling. Pulled back too many times.
I couldn’t let her drown. Like a twin, her cravings were mine. Her anguish, mine.
Love impossible.
Charlie’s death woke the feral beast within. There, all this time.
Dragging feet.
Stumbling.
Walked, limping
Dancing
Each step… one more from the precipice.
She unfurls, eyes open.
Fierce and radiant.
My moonbow.
Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin
Postscript: I chose not to submit this piece and instead submitted Boxed Wine. Again I struggled to clearly show the beginning, middle and end of this story. The middle is messy and the end falls flat. My trouble is that I hadn’t figured out the whole story when I attempted to write this. It was incomplete – and still is. But the only way to write well – is to keep trying. Write something not so great. Just keep putting words on the page… and sometimes the story falls into place.
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Water Horse
100 word Fairy Tale – Prompts: Grooming a horse and an apple.
I ate the apple, the whole thing, though I know I shouldn’t have.
Dandy looked at me in disgust as it was meant for her. I picked up the currycomb, rubbing her neck to apologize. She nickered and snorted, not sure my grooming was remorse enough.
I realized my mistake, cramping, pain.
Poisoned apple?
Had I missed some sign of the witch?
My eyes blurred, dropping to the ground.
Stinking breath and cackling. She’d finally found me.
But Dandy, dear Dandy, recognized her menace, splashing water from the trough, caused the witch to dissolve to nothing…
Ending her ghastly spell.
Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin
Postscript: This was my first attempt at 100 word micro flash for a class assignment. When I first wrote this – I didn’t use paragraphs – just clumped everything together. Play with paragraphing and spacing – it can make an enormous impact in how a piece is read and interpreted.
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Slippery Slope
250 word Romance – Prompt: Swaying and an umbrella Note: This piece is a scene from a larger novel length story, Rolling in the Deep
He follows, along the slick, rain-soaked mountain roads, maneuvering slowly.
***
Driving rain obscures her rearview mirror. Her mind’s on other things. Fuzzy images of her mother holding her, feeling safe. Such contradiction. Faded photos on the dash remind her why she’s come. She pulls over, twisting her engagement band. Deep breath.
The dingy trailer droops on the hillside, perched precariously. It threatens to join the river of rubbish rolling off the mountain.
***
He parks behind a hummock of trees, watching.
She exits the beat-up Bronco, bending into the wind and rain, her thin t-shirt soaked. She trudges up the slippery slope.
He wants to protect her but she can’t know he’s here. Drenched, dark hair plastered to her skull, she shivers violently.
He’s tempted to run after her.
Rain slaps the windshield as he wipes condensation from the truck’s windows.
***
She pounds on the flimsy trailer door.
Plumes of cigarette smoke escape when the door opens. A skeletal woman, drink in hand, sways in the doorway, scowling. There’s no invitation to come inside. With trembling hands, the woman takes the photo offered. After a long moment, she lets out a cruel laugh, blowing smoke into Annie’s stunned face. She shreds the picture, dropping the bits into the swirling sludge.
Annie shudders, wilting like a flower starved for sunlight, as the door slams shut.
***
Wrestling an umbrella from the backseat, Ryan plunges into the maelstrom.
Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin
Postscript: Rolling in the Deep is another novel length story I’m working on. I wanted to capture the devotion of Ryan’s character in his care for Annie – by showing this little snippet when she visits her estranged mother after many years. I realize some of the necessary backstory not present in this small excerpt, negatively impacted the judges experience and reading of this piece. I’m glad i submitted it because I got invaluable feedback.
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Glory No More
1000 word Political Satire – Prompt: Press Release, Public Restroom
In breaking news, reformed Senator Johnnie Johnson (Pronouns: HE, HIM, HIS) called a press conference from the men’s room of the New Orleans Louis Armstrong International Airport, Concourse B, across from the Ignatius Reilly Lucky Dog stand. The Senator had just returned from a sexual reorientation program in Memphis after being publically disgraced at a Buckee’s Truckstop restroom three months earlier. He was arrested after soliciting sex from an undercover detective. He avoided conviction through a legal loophole. Since his discharge from rehab, Johnson became a founding member of the new Reformed Christians for Christ, a conservative, pro-family and ex-gay advocacy group. In the spirit of being reborn, Senator Johnson invited reporters to marvel at his plans for a major remodeling of public restrooms.
Reporters and gawkers crammed into the men’s room, startling a few surprised urinal users who had not been privy to the sudden news conference. Zipping up with red faces, yet curious, they stayed as Johnson produced a flimsy cardboard architectural model of the proposed restroom renovation he’d titled: Glory-Holes No More – A Return to Decency
Senator Johnson called the meeting to order, banging his gavel on the 3rd restroom stall, welcoming the assorted spectators into the slightly rank, enclosed space smelling like Bourbon Street on a Sunday morning. “Welcome friends, thank you for coming out today to hear about my proposed public restroom remodel. My hope is this plan will bring us together as a nation, to right our moral compass by eliminating sexual temptation and predation. I was once lost, but now am found.”
Senator Johnson, sweat dripping from his temple and seeping through his once crisp white shirt, sniffed, wrinkling his nose and checking his gag reflex, continued, “Public restrooms are the gateway to Sodom and Gomorrah, part of Satan’s grand scheme to lure respectable God-fearing Christians into a life of debauchery and sexual depravity. Believe me, I know. I once walked that road of sin. There is no glory to be found in glory-holes!”
Senator Johnson referenced the “glory-hole” phenomena sweeping the American public restroom scene, stating the need to bring “Christ into the chamber (pot) to cast off our sins.” For those not up to date on current kinky sex jargon, a glory-hole is a “hole made through a wall or partition to enable people to perform sex acts anonymously…” (Merriam Webster) Mr. Johnson does not want anyone’s “johnson” to become prey for this kind of lascivious activity, as his had once been. “It’s against God and country and decent Americans need to protect our morals and assets from this kind of wickedness.”
The Senator went on to state current statistics of glory-hole busts around the country. Apparently Atlanta is a hotbed of glory-hole criminal activity, with New Orleans a close second. His voice rose and shook with indignation, “Just try googling the word “glory-hole” and you’ll find a dark world of perversion and backdoor sex at your fingertips, on that laptop you have sitting across from your innocent, blue eyed two year old, as she num nums her cheerios. The indecency. It’s right there in your family room. Our children’s futures are at stake. And I have a plan!”
Senator Johnson’s plans were simple: concrete and steel enforced stalls from ground to ceiling, thus preventing suggestive under-the-stall hand gestures or the ability to drill holes for peeking, thrusting or other such base pursuits. “This bold and audacious proposal has economic benefits as well, stimulating the flaccid steel industry by providing jobs to Americans, for Americans and by Americans,” the Senator exclaimed, lustily.
Mr. Johnson and soon to be ex-wife, Luci, who was decked out in a candy apple red dress that hugged her voluptuous curves, had invited religious leaders to attend in hopes of rallying the faith community to support his master plan. Ironically there was not a robed or collared religious leader in sight in the men’s room on this hot Sunday morning.
WDSU reporter Greg LaRose, asked Johnson about his known alliance and friendship with “Wide Stance (Larry) Craig” of Minneapolis Airport Potty Sex Scandal fame. Clearing his throat, Johnson stated he had long since distanced himself from the former Idaho Senator. “I was heartbroken and alarmed to hear of Craig’s backside politics and his subsequent fall from grace. But I’ve been there. I know the temptation he found in that restroom in the Minneapolis airport. I truly believe the Devil was at work and these bathrooms are the real problem.”
Pushing back his mop of gray matted hair, damp and dead bird-like, he went on to describe public bathrooms as dens of hedonism. “Even the word bathroom – bath – it’s like an invitation to take off your clothes. If we take temptation away, then the good, honest American people will no longer have a reason to commit these despicable acts. Nothing good happens in public bathrooms! Please join me in helping make this proposal a reality.”
Mr. Johnson picked up his gavel at the end of his fiery speech, and slammed it down on the soapy, stained restroom counter with flourish, startling reporters and spectators alike. He gathered his papers and cardboard model, that had become waterlogged from sitting in a puddle of God knows what, and bowed, seemingly waiting for applause or a flurry of questions. Confused and bemused faces met his gaze with stunned silence as he awkwardly stumbled from the men’s room, trailing a roll of toilet paper from his shiny black leather Cole Haans. Mrs. Johnson was nowhere to be found. Someone suggested she had slunk out earlier. “I think she was hankering for a Lucky Dog.”
Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin
Postscript: This was my very first ever NYC Midnight writing contest attempt. I was intimidated by the Political Satire genre. I don’t read them and I’d never written one. So I researched other examples and got a feel for the style. It was daunting until I decided to go for the ridiculous and have some fun. No, I did not make it to the next round. And yes the judges had lots of critiques for me to consider. Ultimately it was a blast writing this inane story – full of sexual innuendo and absurd imagery. Is it great literature? No. And that’s okay.
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Sailing Home
NYC Midnight 1000 word Romance, Prompt: Sailboat and a deer antler
He walks into the old stone church, noting the dramatic temperature drop. He finds a seat as the scent of frankincense and lilacs mask the stench of an untimely death.
Damn it, he was too young.
The church is packed. He looks for Charlie but can’t find him. Last he heard, Charlie was dating Sam’s kid sister. He looks again – no sign of his former roommate. He spots Raina sitting between her parents in the front row. He recognizes a few others but wonders why Charlie’s a no show. The three of them had been inseparable.
A large silver urn holding Sam’s remains gleams atop the altar. It’s shininess offends him. He thinks back on their Academy days – always trying to outdo each other. He could never compete with Sam in the water. The man was a fish.
At the graveside, he bumps into Raina.
“Kyle, it’s good to see you. Thanks for coming.” She pecks him on the cheek.
“I’m so sorry Rain – can’t believe he’s gone. How’re you holding up?”
She nods, red eyes brimming. He hugs her.
“Shit, we’re too young to be dying like this.” She sniffles into his shoulder.
He’d forgotten what a knock-out she’d grown into – dark, wavy hair, turquoise eyes and the body of an athlete. She’s no longer Sam’s annoying little sister, prone to falling out of trees and tattling on her big brother.
“Charlie here with you?” he asks.
“Not anymore. He showed up drunk. Asked him to leave.”
“Back to his old ways, huh?” He admires her simple black dress. Still a knock-out.
“You could say that.” She looks down.
“You okay? I mean aside from losing your brother?”
She straightens up, forcing a smile. “I don’t know.”
She glances back at everyone gathered around the cemetery. Her parents are walking to the limousine. He takes her arm, guiding her in that direction. She stalls.
“Can we get out of here? I can’t face …” She stares at the long line of black cars.
“Really?”
She nods.
“Come with me – though you may not appreciate the wheels…” He wraps an arm around her, liking the feel of her tucked into him.
“The Harley?” She smiles.
“Where you wanna go? The house?”
“No – not yet. The marina?”
He may be crossing a line, but whatever she wants…
“You got it.”
She climbs on behind him, laying her face against his shoulder and wrapping her arms around him. He’s glad he rode the bike.
He takes the scenic route to avoid others seeing them on the Harley together. Her toned legs press to his, her dress riding up as they cruise along the ocean highway.
She directs him to where her Laser is docked. She slips off her black heels and walks barefoot up the pier. She motions for him to join her as she unties from the dock.
“I’m not exactly dressed for sailing, Rain.”
“Hand me your shoes. I’ll put them in the dry bag. Your pants might get wet, but they’ll dry. Come on. Let’s send Sam off together.”
He hands her the leather brogues and climbs aboard. A deer antler is tucked into the well of the boat.
“That Sam’s?”
“Yeah, his first and only kill. He kept it to never forget. Gonna sail to the Point – his favorite surf break and leave it for him.”
“He’d approve.”
She tacks expertly through the no wake zone. A sultry breeze dances with her auburn waves. He realizes she’s wearing a swimsuit under her dress.
“You were planning to do this all along weren’t you?”
She smiles. “Yeah. Want to avoid the scene back there. Know this is bad form, but at least I didn’t show up wasted.” As they come about, she ducks and gives him the tiller. “Aim for that point – two o’clock.”
“Yes ma’am. What’s goin’ on with Charlie? Still together?”
She sighs. “He thinks we are. Can’t say it’s working for me.” She lays her hand over his, guiding the boat. He stares at her sun-kissed legs, muscles taut to counter-act the rocking boat. Salty sea spray and almond oil mingle in the air as she leans into him.
Balancing as the boat bobs in the waves, she holds the antler out for him to grasp. “Here’s to Sam – best big brother a girl could have. I miss you…your laugh and terrible jokes…” She gasps as tears streak down her face.
He pulls her to his chest, lifting a flask from his pocket. He offers her a sip. She sputters, laughing.
“Sam, sorry we didn’t skydive Baja or climb El Cap together. We love you and miss you,” he says, choking up. Tossing the antler, they watch it sink into the inky depths.
Still holding her close, his lips graze her forehead as they scan the horizon, looking for any sign of Sam. Slowly she looks up to meet his eyes.
Damn, those eyes. A current pulses through him when their lips touch. She tastes of sea salt and Tic Tacs.
“Rain… sorry. Shouldn’t have done that,” he says gruffly, pulling back, nearly tipping the boat.
She laughs, “Why? Cuz my brother just died?”
“I’ve wanted to do that a long time but maybe the day of your brother’s funeral isn’t…”
She pulls his face down to hers, kissing him again. “DON’T… apologize.”
Running his hands down the length of her, he recognizes the outline of her bikini beneath her black dress. He’d like to stay out here with her forever.
When they make it back to the marina, she stares at her phone.
Eight missed calls and one text.
Where are you?
***
Charlie’s at the dock, watching from his car, as they tie the boat, flirting, touching. He’d like to confront them – make them account for their betrayal.
He feels the weight of Sam’s note in his breast pocket – the note telling him to get his shit together or leave his sister alone.
The empty bottle of Jack rides shotgun as he drives away.
Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin
Postscript: This was one of my earlier NYC Midnight contest submissions that didn’t make it to the next round. I re-edited here to clean up the writing. In the original version I filtered a lot through the main character’s POV. He watched as she did something…. By removing that filter, I saved words and made the action stronger.
Wildflowers Press 
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