Come one, come all — this is your first challenge of the new year and what shall we dive into for January, good people? We will explore the world of microfiction. For the next six all-inclusive challenges, “Microfiction is our addiction.” We’ve been through so much during the past year and I do not foresee much of it halting anytime soon, so I believe we should get just a little more creative with our words — release what we have in us in a positive way. And, why not?

Microfiction:

It’s a subset of flash fiction — those super short stories typically told in 1,000 words or less. Definitions vary, but for the most part, microfiction is any story told in 300 words or less, and could even be as short as a few words. (At Microfiction Monday Magazine, I use the limit of 100 words. …

Locked in the basement of their home, she waits. Years of feeling used and unwanted hang at her side. He has a crazy way of showing he loves her. She feels love, though. Is it indeed that? When he caressed her cheek lightly after she cooked his favorite meal . . . When he held her close to him in post-coital bliss . . . When he showed her off at public affairs . . .

This is their life. A back and forth of safety and danger and defeat and peril. She is at the center of a damaging storyline. Can she turn the page? …

depth of the valley
pulls at my fragile heartstrings
mountains call me home

subtle wind whispers
I stop in my tracks at once
footprints are not mine

we challenge the moon
and we argue with the sun
why are we like this

a deep well within
releases its strong power
I surrender now

Author’s Note: This piece began as a haiku response to Twitter’s haiku challenge prompt. The word was “pull.”

©2021 Tremaine L. Loadholt

Winter's kiss is fatal —
she brings with her a
wrath of unbearable cold
or maybe it's bearable
and I've just grown thin-skinned
in my older age?

I sit in my favorite chair
and watch snow fall
to the ground, fluffy
chunks of purification
sing in harmony.
Music fills my ears.

I scratch my dog
and relish her satisfied
sighs as she
snuggles in closer to me —
her whiskers brush my hands.

We sit still, peaceful in
the warmth of our home
thankful to have this roof
over our heads;
a covering of life's
many blessings bestowed
bountifully.

People text. They call.
They want to know if
I'm enduring winter
as best as I can and I
tell them, "I'm fine" or
"We're good" and I just want
to be done with answering
questions that are neverending
or fill me with grief. …

I don’t know anything about the stolen jewels. I’ve heard the Mason’s have them but I’m not sure how true that is. Mr. Mason — Hal, has a French toupee — an actual hairpiece he purchased in France. They’re so rich, they shit gold.

They’re the type of folks who pronounce vase as “voz” instead of “vace.” I’d never heard of such. I had to ask Mandy to repeat herself when she was showing me her mom’s famous collection. “Voz,” unbelievable.

Inheritance . . . Money passed on that’s been in the family for generations. My people say Hal won’t tell Mandy and Erik or even his wife how much they’re all worth. I know you’ve read those articles in every big-time magazine about them. Ever notice how the figure is always different? …

Readers: The following fictional piece is one of abandonment, frequent miscarriages, and self-harm.

My body decided to terminate my pregnancy. The phone calls won’t stop. Everyone says the same thing. Everyone thinks I can just pick up and start anew. It doesn’t work that way.

I'm broken. There's no fixing me. This is the third time. It will be my last.

My name is Clara De Jesus-Mendez Moses. I am an only child to older parents. Friends say, maybe it’s my DNA. That I am full of codes and clues and puzzles that only lead to trauma. My mom was forty-two when she had me. …

An Audio Poem

Black people need more voices
willing to shout at the darkness
of every sky moving in to
silence us without our knowledge.

We should rally around those
who spit-shine their A-Game and
ready themselves for battle —
Queens and Kings walking on
coal, tipped a mere 10% for
their undying efforts.

One such woman uses her gift
of gab to stab many who have
offended us in the front because
to do so in their backs would
be an act of cowardice.

She is bold and unrelenting,
she has goals that surpass whatever
you think you can dream up,
and she's unafraid to clap back. …

Grit. Strength. Resilience.
No one tells you you'll need
to be stronger than sandpaper
on a brutally hot summer's day.
You move through life slowly,
unwilling to shapeshift, unable
to put up with some shit . . .
But you know where you stand.

The first year of the pandemic
slithered its snaky skin into
our lives — blindsided us with a
force we could not stop.
We have silly putty for leaders
and fake devils as authoritative
figures, who could we trust . . .

We learned to depend on
clean face masks, six feet of
distance, and isolating ourselves
from others.
We Zoom'd, Duo'd, Skyped, and
glued our butts to our favorite
chairs as we gained the quarantine
fifteen, twenty, and thirty pounds. …