MICRO FICTION

Robyn Bashaw, “The Masterpiece.”

“In the classroom, the project was set down on the table, and one of the small figures fell over. The child took the figure between their two fingers, but the child squeezed too tightly, and the figure snapped in two.”

Tom Campbell, “The Last Time.”

“I erased the line with my bare heel. But this chook kept on looking.”

William Cass, “Don’t Worry.”

“Her grandfather had died of kidney failure, nothing to do with a blow to the head, and it became apparent that careful attempts had been made to mask some ugly bruise.”

Jonathan Jones, “The Last Minute.”

Books expire the same as people. It was a brave thing. It was a scary thing. Sleeping rough on the streets for a year, he had learned to recognize their faces.”

Mandira Paittnak, “Night of the Golden Darkness.”

“The night was still not quiet; someone’s phone was ringing, the sound of traffic, and the air grew warm, warmer, hot like a furnace.”

Daniel Webre, “Old Gold.”

“When they switched to hi-def, and my TV stopped working, I draped the old console— twenty-six inches from Curtis Mathes—in a quilt my grandmother had left me and smashed the screen to bits with a sledgehammer.”