Flower Song

Neighbors noticed the band teacher’s yard sprout unconventional planters over the first month of her retirement: chrysanthemums ejecting from half-buried tubas, sunflowers booming from kettle drum frames tarnished green. It was Mr. Johnson who suggested putting her talent to good use. Soon, every yard played a flower song.

An Alien Land

Inside the small spaceship, the commander barks at his army. “Cover the perimeter. We wait until first encounter to attack.”

Morning in Wichita continues. Light from the basketball-sized hole in the Atkinsons’ dining room wall drifts across the broad pine table, where diagonal burns mark the path of the crash.

If Ever the Grey-Cloaked Moon

It was a dark and stormy night—the kind, like war, that mitigated irascible deeds, covering murder with the tintinnabulations of rain on corrugated metal gables; and I, enswathed in my ignominious velvet cape, navigated our city’s ever-slickening streets brandishing a penchant for justice.

This little slice of purple prose was written for YeahWrite’s microprose challenge. Click the badge above to see more examples of intentionally bad writing.

The Seventh Wife of Bluebeard

I am unlocked. I paint the ‘closet’ red so there will be no doubt, braid six wreaths weekly—one for each wife, each murder. Still, his specter looms in the wallpaper, the coatstand. Six candles flicker in the darkening room; I whisper to them nightly, thank you, thank you.