Posts Tagged ‘microfiction’

The Sandwich Incident in 3 Acts

April 28, 2009

I
Little Billy Baxter took off down the hall. His sloppy, stupid mushroom cut flopped up and down with every step.
“Get over here you little son of a bitch!” I launched myself out of my seat and hesitated for a moment. When he disappeared around the corner with my sandwich, I darted across the cafeteria floor, throwing tiny little Jenny out of the way with outstretched arms. Behind me, things went silent and I could tell I had become the center of attention. There was a gasp—eyes locked in. My stomach growled deep below grit teeth.
I ran down the hall and cut a quick left, nearly taking down little James, who wore high socks and smelled like sour milk. The sound of the wind rushed passed my ears. At the end of the hall I could see him. He had a good lead, but his stubby little legs couldn’t take him too far. Not from me.
“Hey you! No running in the hall!” Mr. Harrison with the red face did nothing to stop me. Billy went right. I was gaining on him and I could see his little left hand clutching my beloved ham sandwich. The thought of his little bony finger imprints on my two previously flawless, fluffy, and wondrous pieces of white bread made me crazy with anger. My stride grew longer and my fists tore through the air.
He was a few yards away and I could almost smell it. It was either the ham or the smell of Little Billy Baxter’s imminent death. I reached out, stretching my right arm as far as it would go. It strained. When I felt his little collar in my hand, my heart started to pound. I yanked at it with all my might and heard the fabric tear as I heaved him onto the ground. There was a light thud and the sandwich exploded in all directions, escaping his weak grip. I screeched to a quick halt and looked down. There was a long trail of peanut butter leading to one of the pieces of white bread, indented with little Billy’s desperate handprint. Red was everywhere. Strawberry Jelly I suppose—no wait, blood? That’s when I remembered that I had already eaten my ham sandwich that afternoon. Silly me.

II
Today is my special day. After all, it’s my birthday. My mommy told me that if I got an A on my spelling test yesterday, she would pick me up early from school and take me to Happyland Ranch. I got every word right, even ‘biscuit’—after all, it is Happyland Ranch; the happiest ranch in the whole wide world! I couldn’t wait to ride the pony. Last year the pony had pneumonia and some man named Elmers had to come and take him away. That’s what my mommy said. This year, my mommy said that the pony was happier than ever. There are sheep that go baa, and you can pet them too! There are even little yellow ducks. Geez I love ducks. This is my special day.
I looked up at the clock. She was coming at 12:30 to get me. I couldn’t believe I was going to leave school early. I sat at my table with Jenny and my best friend, Benjamin, waiting for mommy to come. I wasn’t hungry that afternoon. I was all filled up on my mommy’s special vanilla cupcakes that she baked for me and my class; they had rainbow sprinkles. My favorite.
When the little hand… no wait; the big hand got to 30, I said bye to Jenny and Ben. They had pudding all over their faces. I couldn’t wait! The last time I got to go home early was when I had pneumonia.
I was so excited that I got up and ran down the hallway, I couldn’t help it. I took my peanut butter and jelly sandwich with me in case I wanted it later. I think Mr. Harrison said something to me when I passed him, but nobody likes Mr. Harrison anyway. My daddy says he used to touch children, but my teacher touches me all the time. She gives me hugs and one time she even put a little, yellow star sticker on my shirt for me when I gave Jenny my apple juice, because her mommy forgot hers. Poor Jenny.
At the end of the hall, I could already see my mommy’s blue car outside. I thought I saw her waving and smiled.
Then I heard someone running behind me. Maybe they were going to Happyland Ranch too. That’s when I was choked and thrown to the ground. My new collared shirt that Grandma got me, with yellow stripes and a ‘Happy Birthday!’ sticker from Mrs. Stankowitz ripped in front, right down the middle. I lost my sandwich and my nose bled everywhere when my face hit the ground hard.
It’s my special day.

III
Big Heath looks like he’s thirty, but he’s just thirteen. He’s big, freckled, has red hair on his head (and face) and likes to kick his dog. He probably couldn’t tell you the difference between right and left. I don’t know why I hang out with him. He’s a terrific asshole. Not that he’s terrific, but he’s terrific at being an asshole. He’s the only thirteen year old I know who smokes Marlboro Reds.
I remember one time he peed his pants in Mrs. Barbarito’s math class. He didn’t do it because he had to pee that badly, he did it just to be funny. I didn’t think it was funny, but everybody else seemed to. I didn’t think they had a choice. I pretended to laugh; otherwise I might end up like Michael Deever, who forgot to laugh at one of Heath’s stupid jokes. After school, Michael opened his backpack and found a dead, bloody raccoon. Nobody knows where he found it to this day.
Heath doesn’t have any real friends; people are just afraid of him and act like they’re his friends. If he were to disappear tomorrow, I don’t think anybody would care. There would be an unspoken relief in the air and I think the meatloaf would taste just a little better.
That’s why it didn’t even faze me when Heath got up from our lunch table and ran after some little second grader, ten minutes after eating my goddamn ham sandwich, which he makes me give him every day. I started telling my mom that I’m really hungry and now she makes me two. I usually sneak out and eat the other sandwich on the playground just before lunch. She wonders how I’m still so skinny.
Oh man was he in trouble that day. Principal Connell nearly beat his ass, himself. Apparently Heath thought that the little kid took his lunch—my lunch. What a moron. I watched him eat it right in front of my face. I heard he gave the kid one hell of a nosebleed when he punched him in the face—or threw him on the floor, depending on who you ask. I heard it was this little kid’s birthday or something. Man, that really blows. His parents got called in as usual and did nothing as usual. The school suspended him for like three days and he had to write a written apology to the Baxter family. When he was back in school, I asked him what happened and he said he thought the kid stole his (my) sandwich, so he roundhouse kicked him in the face and flushed his bloody face down the toilet. Yeah, okay.
Big Heath is a terrific asshole.

A ham sandwich.

A ham sandwich.

Flip Bondy

April 21, 2009

Here’s a little piece of microfiction for your enjoyment. Although some optimists may disagree, I’m convinced it will never be accepted for publishing elsewhere, so here it is, bound by the blogosphere:

Flip Bondy was a fine young innovator. He was a go-getter and family pets enjoyed licking him. His parents bought a second fridge when he was a child, just to show off his good grades. Flip Bondy was bound for success. After all, he ate his toast with the butter side up.
It was his lucky day in 2020 when NASA chose him to develop the adhesive to hold together the most important spacecraft mankind has ever built. It was to be a marvel of modern technological design. The idea was ambitious. We were to launch all of our planet’s garbage, nuclear waste, Bluetooth headsets, junk mail, hair metal, shoe pebbles, apple cores, etc. etc. deep into space to be forgotten about and never spoken about again.
It took six years of hovering over various glue samples at his desk, careful formulation, rigorous testing, and hovering over even more glue samples to develop the adhesive. Despite his terrible headache, it was clear that his efforts paid off. On March 15th 2026, Adh-Easy X-Treme  HappyMagic X-Core was ready to hold together man’s most important undertaking. Flip Bondy was elated. The press lauded him for his efforts and pretty women asked him on dates. In four years, Clusterf*** I, as the spacecraft was affectionately named, was on the launch pad.
On March 15th, 2030, the world looked on with wondrous, optimistic eyes and gleaming smiles. From this day forward, the world would be free of fruitcakes, fanny packs, splinters, DMVs, clothing tags, flat tires, unopenable soy sauce packets, etc. etc. Mission control began the countdown. Five—four—three—two—one—Clusterf*** I lifted off the ground seamlessly and for the first time, the world was completely burden free. A split second later it erupted into the most expensive, most toxic and most inconvenient fireball in history.
The whole surface of the planet was littered with AOL CDs, isotopes, used tissues, drunk uncles, burnt chips at the bottom of the bag, etc. etc. Scientists in caves peeled scented JC Penny flyers from their faces and deemed the earth unlivable, the water undrinkable and the air unbreathable. Lucky for everyone, the fine young innovator, Flip Bondy was busy at work. Within weeks, he invented a world renowned oxygen system for people’s subterranean homes. At last, the people of the world could stop holding their breaths. Things were looking up for Flip Bondy until he one day, still high on glue, forgot to pay his oxygen bill. He died face down on the buttery side of his toast.