These are short stories that are around 200 words that I submitted for the website that was Musae Mosaic (they’re on an indefinite hiatus right now). I’m terrible at editing by the way.
The Inexplicable Thoughts of a Near Death Experience
Seconds before I was hit by that car it wasn’t my life that flashed before my eyes. Instead I found myself wondering if I remembered to unplug the hair straighteners. No one yelled out but I thought I heard the buildings gasp and the road brace itself for the impact. The smell of burning rubber infiltrated the air as the brakes bit hard under the panicked press of the pedal. Through the windscreen I could see the fear in his eyes. Maybe in the past he had collided with a rabbit or a fox, but never a person. Automobile meets flesh and bone. There’s only one winner here. I’m on my back, not moving like I’ve been glued to the asphalt. I can’t even be certain if my eyes are open, darkness everywhere. I can hear screaming; people and sirens. Calls for a doctor or just someone to help. I start to come around, not because of any medical intervention but the smell of someone’s lunch. I can’t get up to vomit. I think about the indignity of being covered in, and choking on my own puke. My phone buzzes beside me but I can’t reach it. Someone else does and I can hear them say, “It’s not his day. That was his landlord saying his apartment caught fire. Someone left a pair of straighteners on.”
Ifor, The Hamster Detective
A cigarette balanced between his lips, half ash and filter, ready to crumble at any given moment. He was staring at the typewriter with his hands posed over the keys. Any wrong key stroke would mean he’d have to start again. He was trying to find the perfect opening for his latest story about a hamster detective called Ifor. Words and ideas started to swim around his head, almost making him feel a bit nauseous. He was sure he fingers wouldn’t be able to keep up. Taking a breath he tossed the filter from his spent cigarette into the makeshift ashtray. An avalanche of ash had already assaulted his cardigan. A cardigan which showed evidence that this sort of thing had happened before. Still afraid to make a mistake he took a hit of his sugary drink. Underneath his glass the wet ring stain on the table displayed his total disrespect for wood. This story would be his big break, he’d said it before but he knew it this time. He said that before to. He watched as each key imprinted an inky letter on the crisp white paper. In this story the antagonist stole a precious stone, the jeweled eye of a beaver. He already had a title; “Ifor an Eye”.
Dressed in clothes he only wore for interviews and the occasional wedding or funeral, he thoughtfully nursed his second drink of the evening. The ugly eye of revenge twinkled with satisfaction as he gazed into the mirror attempting to justify his actions by recalling how they had taken something from him that could not be replaced, so he took something of theirs but somehow he knew that wasn’t the end of it. He thought he could see the lips of his reflection crack into a smile. Raising his left hand he traced the outline of his stoic expression. Reasoning that he must be seeing things he exhaled and thought how this was the first time he can remember breathing. He hadn’t heard the door or the footsteps. The glass fell from his hand, the golden nectar it contained spilled onto him as he instinctively reached for his throat to loosen the grip. In what he knew where his last moments of consciousness he wasn’t thinking of family or friends, instead he wondered whether the police would think he wet himself when they discover the stains from the spillage.