Micro Fiction - Edition No. 1
Four really short stories: Hated in a week, The Mountainside, The Pig Farmer, Those who left
Over the past few weeks, a friend has been challenging me to write short stories, I mean really short stories. Aside from unfinished novel introductions, I’ve done nothing similar before. I think this short style presents an interesting exercise; I was reminded of how great shorts can be after reading Oscar Wilde’s collection. The Selfish Giant, The Devoted Friend, The Remarkable Rocket, The Nightingale and the Rose are among my favourites. Wilde has a talent for efficiency; his work seems effortless even when squeezed into such a short space. If I have achieved even a fraction of that same feeling, I will be happy. Enjoy!
1. Hated in a week
"I hate you." The words came spitting from the soul, burning with anger and ugly like the mole on my cheek. It wasn't so much that the words hurt; I think the little old lady who spat them could have said anything; I would have felt the same. It was all in her eyes and the syllables she chose to accent.
My week started tenuously; I wasn't to know then that I needed a crane to move into my apartment. It was the usual thing here, apparently, but even so, it had cost a pretty penny. However, in the face of its commonality, I was more confused by my new neighbours. I could almost hear them tut as they looked on.
Then a few days later, I was responsible for a convoy of trucks, delivering and collecting. Another frosty reaction awaited me. Heads peered out windows and doorways, waiting for my eyes to see them before they shook in disapproval.
Final, Wednesday gave me some peace, and I retreated to the confines of my new apartment. It was a day filled with banging, measuring, and drilling. No one complained then.
Thursday brought a few more deliveries and some more drilling.
The weekend came sooner than expected, and those who turned up to celebrate my new home ended up merry on the street below. It was then that I first saw the neighbour who hated me. Her grey hair is defiant against black curtains.
"Shut up, I hate you," she screeched, as loud as her voice would allow her to.
2. The Mountainside
Again I climb to the mountainside; it is here, between wild pines and jagged rocks, where I dance.
Like plucking the strings of a guitar, Time arrives, then leaves, vibrating in the air until it can no longer. Whether stale or fresh, the air never hangs alone. Time plucks another note from its strings, one by one replacing each other, forming a line of music reaching back as far as man. The sun rises to its melody and sets in harmony. The rain plays to its beat, slapping stones, slates on the roofs and the skin on my scalp. There is no escaping its song, for it has found its way into everything; soil, rich or depleted, thoughts, praised and deleted. But it is here, among the wild pines and jagged rocks, where I hear it the loudest.
3. The Pig Farmer
Market days had the potential to turn good men ugly. From all over, they would come searching for the best hogs to feed them through winter. Those from the north thought the pigs with the flappy ears would deliver more piglets and therefore be the best. Southerners believed the pinker the pigs, the richer they would become. Those from the West measured the feet, convinced hoof size correlates to healthy children. The Easterners believed the brighter the eyes, the more intelligent their leads would become.
One strange year, the men gathered eagerly around the market, ready to snap up the pigs that fit the bill. But when the pigs were brought to be inspected: no one found what they wanted. There wasn't a pig with flappy enough ears, bright enough eyes, pink enough skin, or large enough hooves. The men were stumped; they had relied on their criteria to choose. Now they had no way of telling which to pick. Such was their belief in their source of fortune that the men concluded such perversion had to be unlucky. One-by-one, they decided the fate of their people would be better off without a pig altogether. They could make it through one winter.
Every pig that year remained at the market, and the farmer wept into his hands at the awful mess he had made. But as winter crept on, the Northerners had no piglets, the Southerners grew poorer, the Western children became sick, and the Eastern leaders lost their intelligence. And all the people were left hungry.
The following year, all the men returned to the market earlier than usual with thinner waists and shallower pockets. But when they arrived, they saw no pigs and no farmer. They asked the local people what had happened. "Didn't you hear?" The people said. "The farmer was destroyed last year, but as the snow fell, he started to read, then when spring came, he put his new knowledge to the test and delivered more piglets than ever. With all this extra stock, he made more money than he knew what to do with. And to top things off, his sickly child miraculously recovered. Now he lives in the Manor on the hill and no longer sells pigs."
4. Those Who Left
There was once a group of friends who grew up together in a forgotten village. They dreamt of eternal youth, running through the corn fields until their feet hurt before resting them while watching the sky fill with stars. Once they were old enough to wonder what lay beyond their village, their dreams began to change. They heard stories of houses stretching into the clouds, women who were more beautiful than angels and shops filled with magical tablets. One by one they left, searching for and finding the wonders they had heard so much about. One bought a house in the clouds, another married the most beautiful woman, and the third had a collection of magical objects. After a while, they began to miss their forgotten village and return as they had left, one by one. Each returned in new cars, wearing fancy clothes and smelling like royalty. One day, not long after their return, one of them suggested running through the cornfield again until their feet hurt, and they collapsed to watch the stars.
“What a splendid idea,” one said, and they all agreed. They arrived and began to run, quickly realising their feet had become soft and were now bloody. Then when they stopped exhausted and laid down to watch the stars, they realised they could not see any.
“What a difference a few years makes,” they said.