Tag: microfiction

TUBA

~ B.G. Smith

by B.G. Smith

The tuba gleamed like molten gold as the young man trudged the sweltering beach.

 “Play us a note,” I called.

“No,” he replied, eyes fixed on waves.

“Come on, just one.”

“Only Grandma plays.”

Behind him, teenagers recorded with phones, their giggles scattering gulls into sunset.

“What’s going on?” I asked one.

He nodded towards another in red shorts. “That’s his cousin.”

“Our grandfather passed last week.” The boy in red shorts explained. “That was his tuba.”

“Does he play?”

“No.” The boy watched light fracture on water.

“Neither did our grandfather.”

He paused. “But our grandmother was a virtuosa.”

BRONZE MEMORIES

~ B.G. Smith

by B. G. Smith

Special thanks to Lisa F. for the inspiration.

Swish Swash. The tall man in corduroy pants walked past the bronze elephant sculpture.

Murph – the bronze gorilla – spoke first.

“You’re safe, Ndotto – he’s a regular.”

Ndotto breathed a sigh of relief through his bronze snout.

“As a small child, he came to this park with his mother.” Murph continued.

“What happened to her?” Ndotto asked.

Tatem Tiger roared, troubled by Ndotto’s inquiry.

“Easy, Tatem.” Murph’s voice softened.

“See those trees over there?” Murph asked. “The one with a hand around the other?”

Ndotto nodded.

“She’s still here,” Murph whispered, “her bronze fingers forever intertwined with the tree she loved.”

URBAN SKY

~ B.G. Smith

by B.G. Smith

Muzzle flashes lit up the twilight street. Kelvin never heard the shots.

The gunman wearing a red bandana disappeared into an alley like smoke into darkness.

A young boy in a blood-soaked “Be Humble” t-shirt stared at the urban sky with glassy eyes, his legs folded beneath him like a broken puppet. His new bicycle lay twisted beside him, clicking like a dying heartbeat.

Familiar screams echoed off the surrounding bungalows. Kelvin floated toward the sound. His mother’s anguished wails pierced the night as she cradled his body, and Kelvin whispered words she would never hear: “Please forgive me, Mama.”

ACES HIGH

~ B.G. Smith

by B. G. Smith

I removed my suitcase and backpack from the trunk and was greeted by the agent.

“Full tank?” the young man asked.

“Yes.”

“You’re going to receive a survey. If you could mention my buddy, Nate, I’d really appreciate it.”

My puzzled look was met with an explanation. “Nate lost his mother recently.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Ace.”

“I got you, Ace.” I said.

He smiled.

While waiting for the shuttle, I typed: Nate and Ace were extremely friendly…

I gave Ace a thumbs up across the lot.

He put his hands together in a prayer of thanks.

And smiled.

DOUBLE BIRD

~ B.G. Smith

by B. G. Smith

I stopped at the light, my tattooed arm out the window. A man in ragged clothes held a sign:

At least give me the middle finger

 “Clever sign.” I chuckled.

His broken eyes met mine. “Everyone else in my life’s already flipped me off. Thought I’d let the public have a turn.”

As I passed it though the gap between us, the five-dollar bill was as tattered as the relationship with my family before I got sober.

His fingers trembled as he took it.

“God bless,” he whispered.

And meant every word.

“Take care,” I replied.

And meant every word.

THE LAST VISIT

~ B.G. Smith

by B. G. Smith

The sounds in the veterinarian’s office come alive. A Schnauzer puppy whimpers in the lap of a young woman. A European shorthair hisses from a soft-sided carrier. I’ve been in a lot of pain lately—but my human family needs me—so I put on a brave face and wag my tail one last time. The entire pack is here with me today. The little one, Jenny, gives me a long hug, and I feel tiny tears fall on the back of my neck. The needle prick burns my leg momentarily before I fall asleep, staring into Jenny’s loving eyes.

JESSICA’S BIRTHDAY

~ B.G. Smith

by B.G. Smith

Jessica was born 21 years ago and is legally old enough to buy an adult beverage today. She graduated from high school, earned a scholarship, and is in her junior year of college. She’s already experienced her first kiss, her first love, and her first heartbreak. Raised by a loving mother and a man who treated her as his own, Jessica is thankful for the blessings in life. Still, her birthday celebration won’t be one of a typical 21-year-old; but a solemn remembrance of the father she never met, a firefighter who perished on the darkest day in American history.

FDNY Foundation

NYC Police Foundation

Tunnels to Towers

The Never Forget Fund

Tuesday’s Children

THE DINNER SHOW

~ B.G. Smith

by B.G. Smith

Marcia smiles at the line of customers waiting to enter Marcia’s Murder Mysteries Dinner Show. Enthusiastic reviews exclaimed, “Very realistic show!” and “Delicious stew!” But before her recent idea, Marcia struggled to keep the lights on.

Today, business is booming. Besides, Marcia figures she’s providing a valuable service to the community. After all, New York City has the largest homeless population in the United States, according to HUD. Billing six shows Friday through Sunday, years could pass before she ran out of fresh bodies. Not to mention, her customers weren’t the only ones acquiring a taste for the savory stew.

THE INFERNO

~ B.G. Smith

by B.G. Smith

The fire consumes wood like a hungry bear awakened from hibernation. The intensity of the heat causes me to recoil from its scorching anger. A crackle and pop break the evening silence; the ravenous inferno finds sustenance in its path. Room to room, floor to floor—nothing—and no one—is safe from its destruction. My wife, kneeling in the front yard of the home where we reared our children, watches history reduced to a pile of rubble and ash. I wipe tears from her cheeks and wrap her in my embrace, trying to remember when the kids visited last.

DRAMA IN ONE ACT

~ B.G. Smith

by John Sheirer

A 1950s pickup approached four ornate dining chairs alongside a rural road. Red velvet cushions accented elaborately carved legs. But the backs were too skinny, the seats too wide. The wood was stained slightly too dark, dulling the red fabric. A drizzle began as the chairs loitered along the road instead of gracing the fine dining room they seemed meant to inhabit. A block-letter sign leaned against the chairs: “FREE” in foot-high red marker. How long had they waited? Tomorrow morning when the sun rises, they would begin to smell and rot. The truck’s brake lights flickered, then sped away.