Life is not a game. I don’t roll dice and hop from square to square collecting money to buy houses and hotels like my sister, Jane. For me, bankruptcy lurks around every corner.
It’s my turn. If I pass go or land in jail, Jane wins.
I flip the board.
Rita Riebel Mitchell writes in the Pinelands of South Jersey where she lives amongst the trees with her husband. Her work appears in HAD, Flash Fiction Magazine, Versification, and more. Find her at ritariebelmitchell.com/friday-micro.
Drippy red wax stained the white carpet where the lava lamp leaked after it tumbled off the table and cracked open when Sandy kicked it while demonstrating for her ten-year-old daughter the one-handed cartwheels she performed at high school football games before she got pregnant and had to quit cheerleading.
Rita Riebel Mitchell writes in the Pinelands of South Jersey where she lives amongst the trees with her husband. Her work appears in HAD, Flash Fiction Magazine, Versification, and more. Find her at ritariebelmitchell.com/friday-micro.
Memories, stacked in moving vans, evaporated like morning dew, leaving the house empty and sad. Rooms shed tears of loneliness, missing love and laughter as loss echoed off bare walls.
With a brisk click, flames swallowed doors, licked ceilings, and seared floors as the unwanted house cried out in agony.
Rita Riebel Mitchell writes in the Pinelands of South Jersey where she lives amongst the trees with her husband. Her work appears in HAD, Flash Fiction Magazine, Versification, and more. Find her at ritariebelmitchell.com/friday-micro.
I sneaked into Sybil’s room. She said I was in danger.
Our foster mother, Janie, said it was my imagination. “You’re crazy,” she said. “Sybil’s not talking to anybody.”
“Wasn’t us that killed her,” said Janie’s husband.
“Did her own self in,” said Janie. “She’s dead.”
They’re lying, Sybil whispered.
Rita Riebel Mitchell writes in the Pinelands of South Jersey. Her work appears in Flash Fiction Magazine, Versification, Black Hare Press, 101 Words, and others. Find her at FridayMicro.com.
Trees sway, creating monsters on moonlit curtains. Fear squeezes my gut as shadows float toward me. Spindly fingers caress my throat and tighten as ragged nails draw blood. Choking, I claw at the bony wrists that vanish at dawn.
Staring in the mirror, I wonder if nightmares always leave marks.
Rita Riebel Mitchell writes in the Pinelands of South Jersey. Her work appears in Flash Fiction Magazine, Versification, Black Hare Press, 101 Words, and others. Visit her at FridayMicro.com.
While he was doing the dishes or cooking dinner.
While he was baking brownies, cleaning the oven, folding laundry, cleaning the toilet, or vacuuming the rugs.
No woman ever shot a man while he washed the floor, made the bed, or hung curtains.
Unless he’s doing it for another woman.
Rita Riebel Mitchell writes in the Pinelands of South Jersey. Her work appears in Flash Fiction Magazine, Versification, Black Hare Press, 101 Words, and others. Visit her at FridayMicro.com.
Today is the day of the dead. Not the Dia de los Muertos holiday, but the anniversary of the day I died. See the white cross at the curve up ahead? It’s mine. The faded rainbow of plastic flowers? Mine, too.
Wait, there’s something new. A stuffed unicorn! Someone remembered!
Rita Riebel Mitchell writes in the Pinelands of South Jersey. Her work appears in Flash Fiction Magazine, Versification, 101 Words, and others. Read more at RitaRiebelMitchell.com.
The old man sits at his usual table in the park.
Blue cards are face down, arranged in rows. He turns over two: penguin and wagon.
“No match,” he says to the empty seat across from him. “Your turn.”
He turns over two more cards, both penguins.
“Good job, son.”
Rita Riebel Mitchell writes in the Pinelands of South Jersey. Her work appears in Flash Fiction Magazine, Versification, 101 Words, and others.
Read more at RRMitchell.com.
Mama flicked on the light and tightened her robe. Five-year-old Benji sobbed, trembling.
“It’s okay, Benji.” Mama kissed his forehead.
“Monster’s hungry,” he whispered.
“Monsters don’t eat children.”
“I know,” whimpered Benji. “They eat grownups.”
Mama’s leg jerked. She gasped, eyes wide as she was pulled down under the bed.
Rita Riebel Mitchell writes tiny bits of fiction every day. Her longer stories take… longer. Read more at RRMitchell.com.
Conversations that I don’t hear. Bills that I forget to pay. Dinners that burn.
Time passes and I’m late. Missed appointments and lost opportunities.
Did I turn off the lights and lock the door? When is the last time I stopped for gas?
My car putts and stutters and stalls.
Rita Riebel Mitchell writes and lives in the Pinelands of South Jersey with her favorite beta reader.