Micro-Fictions

Prompt: Rude Pasta

She’d barely dropped the noodles in before they began splintering, falling apart, wisps rapidly disintegrating into mush, fogging the water. Beige bubbles billowed forth, threatening to spill and she pulled the pot from the burner, turning the dial down. Scowling, she scanned her grandmother’s recipe. If only she could call and explain. As she was muttering about rude pasta, having refrained from cursing to not insult the late matriarch's legacy, she identified the flub. That was eight eggs, not three, and an old flour splotch to blame for the wasted dough. Dumping the lot, she set out for the store.

Prompt: "What's The Cure?

We exchanged pleasantries as I accepted her card, mixed her drink, and placed her usual on the coaster. 

I didn’t ask about her day anymore, as she’d lie. She didn’t mention her toddlers screaming, running amok, the husband who couldn’t be bothered to cook, clean, refused to ferry them to daycare. She didn’t speak of the disrespect she was expected to swallow, the parents calling, emailing, showing up unannounced in protest at this grade, that detention. 

We pretended I hadn’t shadowed her before leaving all that behind, seeking my cure behind the counter, while she found hers in the glass.

Prompt: Band / Song Name

He’d been climbing for so long, he wondered if the name on the edge of his lips belonged to him, or another, left behind. There’d been others in the beginning, or was that the end? The end of all he’d known. It was the same now, anyway. Same grey sky, clouds ever trailing, same shade as the mountain goats half-concealed behind scraggy bushes, peering over the valley below. Night gave way to day gave way to night. To break up the monotony, he sang, mimed the strumming of an instrument whose echo lingered longer than the faces in his dreams.

Context: The Brazos Writer's Group has weekly micro-fiction prompts.