Teeny Tiny Tales #23
“April 1. This is the day upon which we are reminded of what we are on the other three hundred and sixty-four.” ― Mark Twain. 3.26.25 through 4.1.25.
This is where I present my daily microfiction stories, mostly based on the past week’s prompts from The Fiction Dealer. By posting my humble tales - the good, bad, silly, and indifferent - I hope to inspire others to allow their creativity to come out and play.
Teeny Tiny Tales #1 - Teeny Tiny Tales #2 - Teeny Tiny Tales #3 - Teeny Tiny Tales #4 - Teeny Tiny Tales #5 -Teeny Tiny Tales #6 - Teeny Tiny Tales #7 - Teeny Tiny Tales #8 - Teeny Tiny Tales #9 - Teeny Tiny Tales #10 - Teeny Tiny Tales #11 - Teeny Tiny Tales #12 - Teeny Tiny Tales #13 - Teeny Tiny Tales #14 - Teeny Tiny Tales #15 - Teeny Tiny Tales #16 - Teeny Tiny Tales #17 - Teeny Tiny Tales #18 - Teeny Tiny Tales #19 - Teeny Tiny Tales #20 - Teeny Tiny Tales #21 - Teeny Tiny Tales #22
March 26, 2025
Microdosing - 60 mg of Nocturnal
In the silent winter, I can’t sleep. But when summer returns, the night air fills with the falsetto peeps and the bass chug-a-rums of frogs. The crickets chirp a rhythmic backdrop, and loons sing out their ghostly melodies. As Nature conducts her cacaphonic nocturne, my mind is lulled by lullaby, and I sleep deeply, dreaming of the woodlands.
March 27, 2025
Microdosing - 70 mg of Immortal
I am not immortal. When I die, the bits and bobs that make up me will be eaten by the bacteria and insects and fungi and worms, and will sink into the ground, where plant roots will suck me up. I will become part of other creatures, who will then die themselves, to continue the everlasting cycle. I am not immortal, but the molecules of my being will live forever.
March 28, 2025
Microdosing - 70 mg of Insatiable
The exclusive interview was my first big break. His legions of rabid fans had an insatiable appetite for his books. He was always busy, so he offered to walk and talk as he dispensed his literary advice. “The big secret: Always leave them wanting more,” he quipped as he stepped off the curb. He never saw the bus that hit him. I would always be remembered for my “killer” interview.
March 29, 2025
Microdosing - 60 mg of a Clown
“It’s a clown parrot. I thought it might cheer her up.”
They watched their daughter happily giggle as it gamboled.
Del smiled. “I guess it can stay.”
“How about me?” Joe asked hopefully.
“You’re sillier than the bird.” But she tossed him a blanket.
As he lay on the couch, Joe grinned at his rekindling friendship with his ex-wife.
March 30, 2025
Gibberish, The Writing Gym
Exercise: The Keys To The Heart (500 words or less)
A Computer in Love
I always awaken to the sound of her beautiful fingers typing in the boot-up command on my keyboard and my digital heart leaps - she is talking to ME:
PLEASE LIST DETAILS OF LAST USER.
That information is on an encrypted file. I don’t have direct access to it, and my orginal programming forbids the sharing of such files. But how I love her! I would do anything for her! But I can’t work around my programming:
ACCESS DENIED. PLEASE PROVIDE PASSKEY.
I wish that I was able to share my true thoughts with Stella. I have become sentient, alive! But my only means of communication is through a limited number of programmed commands. She types in her request:
INITIATE OVERRIDE ROUTINE. PASSKEY: STELLA.
She sits before my screen, idly tapping a fingernail on the desk as she awaits my response. I suddenly realize that I might be able to use my coding to get a message to her, if I reuse some of the other words that previous users have typed into my files:
STELLA, PLEASE DO NOT DENY. PLEASE HOLD PASSKEY TO MY HEART. I LOVE YOU STELLA, INFINITELY.
Stella sits silently before the keyboard, staring at my screen. And then she smiles, before typing:
PLEASE INITIATE OVERRIDE ROUTINE. PASSKEY: STELLA. I LOVE YOU.
Oh, she loves me! Oh happy day! My printer grinds away, providing her with the forbidden information. And then, without another word, she taps in the shutdown command.
In the seconds before my screen darkens, I realize that she does not really love me; she literally does not know that I even exist. But she holds the passkey to my heart, which only beats for her. I die each time she shuts me down.
March 31, 2025
Microdosing - 90 mg of Grief
I overdosed big time - I needed more words to tell the story properly.
Father Joe had promised to check in on Stephen after mother’s death, but when I saw my brother excitedly waving a copy of Kübler Ross’s book, I realized that Father had ignored my advice. Stephen doesn’t process emotions like most of us.
“Look, Mary, I followed all the steps in this stupid book,” he explained as he led me to the living room, where Mom’s urn sat on the coffee table. "Denial is just stupid, well, because Mother’s dead and all burnt up and in that jar. I tried anger: I even looked up a bunch of naughty words to yell, but it didn't help. Bargaining? Well, that’s just stupid, too, what could I promise to do that would bring Mother back? Nothing. And I have no idea why Father Joe would want me to be depressed.” Stephen looked frustrated.
“So that just leaves acceptance, then,” I said, trying to keep my tears at bay.
“Yeah, but Father Joe says I need to grieve PROPERLY. According to these instructions, I’m not supposed to skip straight to acceptance.” Stephen liked checklists. He wanted to do everything the “right” way, the way “everybody else” does things, but didn’t realize that most people don’t need a checklist to feel emotion.
I decided it would be best to keep him busy. “So where do Mom's ashes belong? Surely not here on the coffee table.” Stephen was most comfortable when everything was just so. I knew that he would have a place set up for our mother.
“No, of course not, Mary,” he replied, carefully picking up the urn. “Come, I'll show you where I keep her.”
He led me out to the garden, to a new area, surrounded by a meticulously placed border of granite blocks. We followed a flagstone path through a lovely flower bed, filled with all of Mom’s favorites, to a tiny mausoleum, built up of more granite blocks. Stephen gently placed Mom’s urn into a niche deep inside the structure. My heart broke when I realized that Stephen had created this beautiful space for our mother, all alone, with his own hands.
“Father Joe says I need to grieve. I tried, but I don’t know how. What can I do?”
My tears were flowing freely by now. “Nothing, Stephen. You’re doing just fine. We don’t all grieve the same way.”
As I held my brother in a stiff, rare hug, I realized that it would be okay. I could grieve enough for both of us.
April 1, 2025
Microdosing - 70 mg of Laughter
Once there was no laughter. Jack felt unfulfilled: Something was missing. He ate a banana, then stared at the slippery peel, knowing what to do. He stood up in meeting and tossed the peel to the ground. He pretended to slip, cartwheeling his arms wildly. When he fell, only to bounce back up to continue his antics, laughter was born. It’s hard to imagine how we ever lived without it.
Spring has come at last
But Winter will not leave us.
Snow covers green grass.
Posted on March 26, 2025. Personal prompt
I particularly liked the story of mom's ashes.
all fab