Tag: micro fiction

Precious

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

Sarah Everhart sat on the floor of the produce section peeling an orange. She recognized the little girl who ran up to her, tears soaking her puffed face.

“My momma won’t get up,” the little girl blubbered. She could barely breathe.

Sarah shrugged as she dropped torn pieces of orange skin. Wailing and prayers rose from frozen foods to toilet paper. Ron Jackson gripped his wife Loretta’s hand like she was going to drop too. They ran out of the store together. 

Doesn’t know the bed she’s been roughing up, Sarah thought. “Maybe I’ll say something.” 

Half the store, dead, this time around. Here one second, gone the next.

Sarah shook her head.

“Momma!” The girl’s red cheeks stretched out. “Momma!” It was quite a spectacle.

Rolling the skinless orange around in her hand, Sarah leaned forward and said: “Your momma done deserved every single thing she got. Everything. Same with your daddy. Now run along.”

Mimi Needleman rushed up to the now not-crying surprisingly calm little girl and pulled her away. “You are evil, Sarah Everhart. Evil! Saying that to a little girl!” She turned her attention to the child, who was eyeing the orange-eating woman curiously. 

“Don’t you worry, Precious. You just keep to the Lord and He will save you from your momma’s suffering.” Mimi Needleman started to cry. “Just keep to the Lord. Now come along. Come along now.”

Sarah smiled as she ate the last bit of orange and listened to the wailing song. “Damn fools. Only think ’bout who’s gone, never do think ’bout why they left behind.” 

Then she laughed out loud, right there on the floor of the produce section. 

That sweet devil with the tear-flooded face? 

“Tiny bitch is gonna wait long, long days ‘fore she gets called home.”

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More Micros here.

And if you really like stories, check out Splinter in Books.

You know I like football

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

“Dude, like I don’t think his balls ever dropped. I mean, listen. I can’t tell if it’s a dude.”

Scott sat in the bean-bag looking at my Air Supply album. It was summer-hot outside so his socks and shirt were off but the room was cool with the curtains closed. Two Less Lonely People played.

“My dad says it’s not natural, two guys singing like that. Said they look like fruitcakes.” Scott pointed at the cover. “Kinda looks like Apocalypse Now, right? ‘Napalm in the morning.’” Scott mimicked a soldier, stiff and excited.

“Dude, it’s a sunset, okay?” I turned the page of my book, then stopped reading. “You mind when your dad says stuff like that?”

“Nah, not even. He’s just jealous.” Scott flexed his toes. Some part of him was always moving. He set the cover on the carpet and put his arms behind his head. “Not everybody earns these guns.” His biceps rolled to life.

I sniffed the air for pit-effect and went back to my book, then put it down again. I had a question.

“Just can’t keep your mind off this, can ya?” He crunched his abs. “Don’t worry, dude, just say the word.”

I shook my head. “You think Mary would like Air Supply? I’m gonna buy her the cassette.”

Scott shook his head. “Nah. She already thinks you’re a little on the girl-side. Give her Speedwagon. Gave it to Houser. He said it was awesome.”

“You got Houser?” I smiled. Scott got everybody.

His head fell back over the end of the bean bag. His Adam’s apple jumped as he talked. “You know how much I like football.” He lifted his head up. “Yeah, give her Speedwagon. Says you’re a man. Save Air Supply for when we’re old.”

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If you like micros, go here.

Poems? Some of them might even be good. Click here.

The Vet

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

Jeffrey Adamson did not want to go to bed with another Vietnam vet. He knew how they got, and as much as he appreciated their intensity and the faint smell of grease on their jungle jackets, he couldn’t handle the ride. Never knew what was coming down that road…

Continue reading.

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Checking-In: Not a Newsletter

~ Greg Beckman ~ 1 Comment

Halfway through summer here in the Greater Los Angeles area. We haven’t been hit too hard by hot weather but there’s still time to join the club.

I hope you are well, grand, and finding yourselves adventurous. Stories are my way of staying all three. I’m especially fond of micros, a new playground that keeps me honest and under-300-words-succinct. Find them here.

A few new that bought a wow:

Pomes! Just like poems, only without the pedigree. If you’ve ever adopted a dog rather than bought a breed, you’ll understand.

This time, I’m happy to report I was invited to a reading for a pome published in the latest issue of Sortes. Jeremy Tenenbaum kept ten writers to ten-minute time limits AND played some of the most eclectic interlude music I’ve heard. Only glitch: I guess I move around a lot when just sitting still and the Zoom camera did a great job of repeatedly inflicting my video feed on unsuspecting viewers. The whole evening was NOT about me; it just seems that way in the beginning.

Soooo….if you would like to see me fidget AND read four or five poems in a great shirt AND hear some other fantastic work, hit the link to the Youtube video HERE. (I show up at 1:14.55, but really do take a listen to the others. Julia Yong is especially cool.)

And just because it’s easy to get lost on the internet, I’ll re-direct your attention to a few pomes that have been published off-site. Tap a mag below and fall for words again.

That’s it! Play around with the website’s buttons. Thank you for your follow, your thoughts, your care. Until later, best of life and love to you.

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Checking-In: Not a Newsletter

~ Greg Beckman ~ 2 Comments

A way to accomplish two hugely important goals:

  • avoid spamming your email every time I connect a couple of words
  • let you know what I’ve been working on — maybe something will tickle your fancy

I’ve been writing some micro-fiction, stories under 300 words that take a minute to read but hopefully stay with you longer. If you want to try a couple, just click:

Then there are a couple of new pomes on the site I think you’ll like. Pomes are just like poems, except they love Jim Beam and leave Chartreuse — the color, the liqueur — on the shelf. Waiting. Alone.

I’m still trying to get the novel published. Thoughts, prayers, and magic gratefully accepted. Until Fate and Fame decide to show me how really, really happy I was before they knocked, I’ll direct your attention to a few pomes that have been published off-site. Tap a mag below and fall for words again.

That’s it! Until later, best of life and love to you.

*

Ray

~ Greg Beckman ~ Leave a comment

“You’re just going to have to come with me,” she said as she put the final touches on her eyelashes.  She brushed the top ones up and the bottom ones down.  “There.”

We left.  I sat in the back seat.   “I should leave him there to stew.”  She always said this and we always got Ray out of jail.  Mom would pick up the phone and talk for a while and then we’d get him out.

Ray stood outside the police station smoking a cigarette.  He leaned against the brick wall, tall and alone.  Mom said, “What the hell?”  Ray opened the door and got in.  His face was cut.  He smelled like cigarettes and something else.  

“Fine example for your brother.”  

Ray turned halfway and winked at me.  

“You stop that right now, Raymond!  I have half a mind to march you right back in there.”  Ray changed his face and sounded contrite.  “You look nice today.”  She reached across the seat to hold his hand.  I saw his jaw muscles set.  

“I’m going in there.  Make sure they clear up this nonsense.”  She shut the car off and looked at her face in the rear-view mirror.  “Back in a sec.”  We watched a policeman hold the door for her and keep looking.  She walked in with her purse under her arm.  Ray turned around to me.

“How’d you get that?”

“Got into a rumble, SmallFry.”  He asked if I wanted to go to the pool.  We talked about the high diving board.  After a while Mom got back in.  She checked herself in the mirror and started the car.

“What do you want for dinner, Raymond?”

Ray raised his eyebrows.  Mom hummed a song.  I sat in the back and hoped for macaroni and cheese.

*

The Pontiac

~ Greg Beckman ~ 1 Comment

I was the first punk not afraid to walk up the driveway. I saw him smoking in the front seat of his car, one leg in, the other leg out. He shifted his head and watched me walk up to the car door and ask if I could look inside. “I want one of these.”

He nodded. “You know what this is?” He stared straight at me. I said it was a 1967 Pontiac LeMans with all-original interior from the look of the dashboard and door panels, dials and chrome knobs and the dual-gate shifter in the center console. I touched the split-bench seat behind his shoulder and felt hard black vinyl. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth and took a drag and exhaled smoke through his nose.

We sat in his car until it was dark, smoking cigarettes and listening to the oldies station that he sometimes tapped the steering wheel to. I asked if he was born there. I told him I couldn’t wait to get out. “It’s a good town and all but nothing that hasn’t been done will ever get done.” He flicked the cigarette away from the car and we lit up again.

“You want to take a drive?”

I said sure and asked if I could take the wheel. He looked sideways at me and blew out smoke fast. “Sure do got a pair,” he said. I knew he was going to let me drive, not out of the gate but later. “She’s got a lot under the hood.” I knew he couldn’t wait. He fired her up. I never heard such a sweet sound before, not from the inside. The floorboards rumbled. I could feel it through my feet. This car had balls. We growled down the driveway and into the street. The car was hungry for the pedal, itching for it, edgy. I threw my arm across the top of his seat behind his shoulder. He grinned and asked if I was ready. I nodded and gripped the door with one hand and the back of his seat with the other before we jumped and that untamed devil roared away from his house and his life and we yelled and whooped over the engine and the wind and the darkness as we blasted out, out into a suddenly wide world.

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