Monday, February 16, 2009

extremely short fiction


It wasn’t until Denny was approximately three steps from the front door that he noticed it was pried open, the strike plate bent and dented, presumably with a screwdriver or other such tool, and slices of splintered wood hung in hearty chunks from the cracked doorway, some of the splinters dangling like paper from a hurriedly unwrapped birthday present.

The light from the front hallway spilled out onto the front porch and well manicured front lawn like artificial moonlight, and Denny froze in mid-step at the realization that someone violated his home. His stomach knotted up, and he slowly stepped backward to his car to look for some type of sharp or heavy object. Although he’d never been in a fight or any type of physical altercation in his life, just holding something would keep his hands from shaking so much.

Now the pieces fell into place like an ugly puzzle: he stayed at work later than usual, as a sort of test to validate his suspicions about his wife’s whereabouts. She had not answered her phone all evening, and her car was not in the driveway, despite the fact that it was 10 p.m.

The anger over possible marital infidelity, however, was overshadowed by the fact that someone forced entry into his house.

On his second walk to the front door, this one taken with much more trepidation than previously, Denny wonders where his dogs are and why they aren’t barking, as they typically do as soon as he pulls into the driveway. And as he gently pushes open the door, it’s quiet save for the sound of footsteps upstairs.


-chris miller

Sunday, February 1, 2009

Boarding Now, by chris miller


I try to keep to myself
with the squish, squeak, click
of the squeegee -- a clanky lullaby
for a weekend window washer.

The tawny young lady finds me, nonetheless,
pearly smile and slender form;
her eyes light up with recognition (she had been
looking for me apparently),

and for a moment I feel desired,

and I savor it, until

she hands me a small piece of paper,
a movie ticket
-- with the phrase, “one free admission into heaven,”
boasting a Bible verse
and touting the Great Kingdom
like a Sunday matinee,
replete with greasy popcorn
and sticky floors.

A nail-biting melodrama
with giant whales, floods, beasts with multiple heads,
and a love story to end all movies of the week.

Instead, the film likely
features myself, a B-movie actor
in life’s grainy portrayal,
immersed in a situation
where nothing exciting happens,
like one of those European flicks.

She actually saved me, in her mind,
as she moved along to the next soul to heal.
If only she knew how far from redemption I lie,
the dirty truth;
if only she could realize her optimistic black and white
is a paper ship
awash in the deluge of a million hues.

Then I’d supplicate at her feet, but
in the meantime I guess I’ll meditate
on the squish, squeak, click
of the squeegee,
and save those dirty windows
from sin.