In my opinion, when you have a piece that is 101 words, there’s a great place to submit it. First published in June 2018, this story, though fiction, has a real character from my youth: a tree.

Leavings

by DL Shirey

The dreamy, slow circle of the overhead fan. The sound of a fly making lazy pivots on this hot afternoon. “Sweltering,” Mom would have said, “But the lawn won’t mow itself.” A push mower leans against the maple we named Old Man. His leaves cover the tall grass. The rake is just outside the screen door. So are the grass shears. Mom would have made iced tea, jangled cubes in the sweating pitcher to tempt me, to show my reward for doing her yard. I’m nursing a beer instead, satisfied, having trimmed around her headstone and raked up all the leavings.

END

True story. I volunteer my time at a bookstore. We sell lots of used magazines, so it wasn’t surprising to see a stack of the British royalty mag, Majesty, show up. As I was unloading the box, there was a lonely copy of Confingo, a literary journal. I read it and thought I had something appropriate to submit. It was accepted and in May 2018 my flash fiction was in print. Confingo is a gorgeous, high-quality publication available in the UK and elsewhere. Here is the reprinted story:

Eye Contact

by DL Shirey

I thought shyness demurred her eyes each time I tried to meet them.

“I’ve had a bit of facial surgery,” she said, “When people look at me I always forget they’re not seeing what I used to be.”

She patted at the back of her head as if a hair was out of place. It was odd, the hair I mean; what I could see of it, at least. Plaited in thick ropes, it reminded me of dreadlocks, but there was no fleece or fuzzy texture to it, just smooth, bulky twines pulled up under a top hat.

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This story is one that never would have been published without a draft or two (or three) presented to my writing group. Thanks to Craig, Emrie, Mireille and Steph for the candid feedback and patience to sit through yet another revision. It was first published by Ariel Chart in June 2018.

A Harmless Prank

by DL Shirey

Morning came to the courtyard between iron bars of a skylight, brightening the floor outside his cell door. Finner dropped to his knees and touched his cheek to cold concrete, eyeballing the distance and angle from his door to Peralta’s. Finner had an idea how to cheer up his shipmate, then he wondered, are we still called shipmates on dry land?

Prisoners weren’t allowed to speak, so they wrote messages instead. Finner hadn’t traded words with Peralta for three weeks, not since their jailers confiscated the conveyance used to pass notes. When it was found, Finner took a beating, but it didn’t stop him from assembling another rig.

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Blink-Ink‘s issue #32 featured this story in May 2018. The volume was called “Curbside” and I was fortune to be selected among the 25 eclectic, succinct 50-word storytellers. Click over to the site right now and subscribe. It’s quarterly, it’s printed and it’s fabulous.

The Night Before Trash Day

by DL Shirey

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and chuck the apple core to the street below. It spatters on impact, bits of fruit glisten under the streetlamp. A stray dog trots up and sniffs. I place my rifle on the scarred windowsill and wait for rats

END

In March 2018, I was fortunate to be among the contributors to the innaugural issue of NUNUM. This journal blends flash fiction and art, so each story has a unique graphic design and can only be appreciated via their online reader.

I very much enjoyed the artistic rendering, but it made the piece a bit hard to read. Here it is in story-form.

6:58

by DL Shirey

Verle was a man of routine. Each morning his eyes ticked open minutes before seven o’clock. He’d stretch, rub his chin to test the grit of day-old stubble and wait. Verle enjoyed the sleepy silence of his curtained room, eyes half-closed, waiting to hear the clamor. A succession of sounds would start his day: the alarm clock’s buzz, the automatic grind of beans from the fancy coffeemaker, insistent bawls for cat chow.

Verle was often tempted to stop the first noise to see if it would prevent the others from occurring. If that tree did not fall in the forest, would there still be other sounds? This temptation never converted to action; it would rob him of those precious seconds of silence. At the buzz, Verle would roll across the blank expanse of Evie’s side of the bed and slap the clock silent.

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