Teeny Tiny Tales #5
As winter creeps closer, I cling to summer memories. 11.20.24 through 11.26.24
I've always been interested in writing, but time is a precious commodity. I found that writing these little stories to be both pleasurable and stimulating to my aging brain. I've decided to write a microfiction piece every day and post all of them here: The few I think are good, the embarrassingly silly, and the indifferent. I hope my efforts might inspire others to let their creativity out to play.
If you're interested in trying out microfiction, check out
’s Substack (link below). He's created an amazing community where you'll find a lot of wonderful stories and supportive, friendly writers.See you next week!
Teeny Tiny Tales #1 - Teeny Tiny Tales #2 - Teeny Tiny Tales #3 - Teeny Tiny Tales #4
November 20, 2024
Personal Microdosing - 100 mg of Compost
is celebrating his new book today (🎉), so we were on our own for prompts. I very imaginatively (😂) came up with this idea while mulching the asparagus and top-dressing the raspberries for the winter. I truly do love my compost. 🐛
I so love my compost, it's rich with leaf mold
And apple cores, orange peels, riches untold:
Like chicken poo, horse muffins, old rotten straw,
Fruit pits and coffee grounds, French fries from my car,
Crushed, empty egg shells and grass clippings, old into new,
All blended together into a mysterious stew.
I use it for vegetables, berries, and fruit,
Trees and the pasture, and flower beds, too.
Everything's recycled so new life can grow.
Everything goes in, buried deep down below.
I so love my compost, it can never be sold,
Its value is priceless, it's Nature's black gold.
November 21, 2024
Microdosing - 100 mg of a Nomad
Lighter than down, brighter than flying quicksilver, in early May the hummingbird dances at my window, begging for fast-food nectar. Soon his friends join him. I watch them for hours, fascinated by their aerial ballet. They stay all through the summer, until the September chill kills the blooms and drives them south, flying to places I'll never see: To Georgia and Texas and Louisiana, to Mexico, some all the way to Central America. The tiny nomads leave me to my winter dreams of haunting iridescence and graceful, flashing speed. Farewell, feathered meteors... I'll be waiting for your springtime return.
November 22, 2024
Microdosing - 100 mg of a Car
I knew I shouldn't have flipped off Camero Guy, but he was tailgating way too close. Now he was in full road rage mode. I took the next exit, knowing it led to a little town with minimal road maintenance. He fell behind a bit, veering to avoid the potholes, but still too close. I took the next right, leading to a road that I knew faded to rutted dirt. He fairly flew until his low slung car bottomed out, stuck fast. It was getting dark, so I dialed the police: Camero Guy would probably give the bears belly aches.
November 23, 2024
Microdosing - 80 mg of a Bet
Featured in The Batch of Microfiction #31! 🤗
If you sit there, my pet,
Your life is forfeit.
The danger is all very real.
If you think I'll forget,
A surprise you'll get.
I'll not make any deal.
You might take the bet,
But I've never lost yet.
My intentions I never conceal.
I'll cast out my net,
But I warn you, my pet,
I intend you to be my next meal.
For a spider is set
In her ways, I regret,
And flies offer too much appeal.
November 24 2024
Personal Microdosing - 40 mg of Night
Night is creeping.
Night is leaking,
Cold beneath the doors.
Late night walking
In the darkling,
Chilling toes on floors.
Winter freezing,
Winter teasing,
Ice, then sun, will burn.
Nighttime too long,
Soon we'll all long
For springtime to return.
November 25, 2024
Microdosing - 80 mg of Proximity
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The first time I saw the 'possum, he was in a tree at the edge of the woods. I said hello.
The second time he was in the barn, nestled in the hay. I shooed him out with a broom.
The last time, he was in the hen house, eating the remains of my favorite pullet.
Love and hate. War and peace. Life and death. So much depends on proximity.
My eyes full of remorseful tears, I raised the rifle.
November 26, 2024
Microdosing - 100 mg of a Lantern
I remember telling Grandfather magic wasn't real. He grinned down at me, "Let's just see about that."
He led me out to the old pasture. At first I could see nothing, but then I saw them, hundreds of fireflies, each bearing a magic lantern, blinking and swirling, putting the ancient stars to shame. So I believed.
Fifty years later, I know about bioluminescence, but when I step outdoors on a warm summer night and see the fireflies dance, I remember Grandfather's teachings. If I listen very carefully, I can hear him chuckling among the crickets - I still believe in magic.
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These little ones are just super fantastic, at times funny, at times lovely. And magical, yes. Totally magical.