2000 Experimental Micro Fiction Tragic

What Tomorrow Never Brings | A Micro Fiction

{ 318 words }

Today’s The Day! Daddy’s coming home! Gotta get ready. Gotta go get Mommy outta bed so she can help me get ready. I’m Daddy’s Girl and a Daddy’s Girl should look her most beautifulest when her Daddy comes home.  My Daddy’s a fighter pilot in the Army – um, I mean Air Force! He likes to fly over the emimy’s buildings and shoot mis’uls at dem. He says it’s for a good reason like freedom and stuff. I heard him tell Mommy about a big ol’ impor’dant building him an’ the other pilots blowed up once. My brother thinks war is stupid, but he don’t know nothin’ ‘cause he’s a Momma’s Boy.

Time to get up, Mommy. You haf’ta get out my favorite dress and put my hair in pigtails. You know, the yellow one with the purple hearts on it. What do you mean dat won’t be nes’sary? My Daddy’s gonna be home any minute! What kind of prob’em was there? Mommy? Answer me! Why won’t you get out of bed? What’s wrong with you? Why you look sad? Daddy’s coming home!

Whatever.  I’m not going to the babysitter’s.  I’m a big girl I can dress myself. I’m not gonna disappoint my Daddy. After I get all dressed up I’m gonna watch TV in the family room ‘til it’s time to go pick up my Daddy.  Then when I see him I’m gonna run up to him and jump into his arms and give him a big ol’ hug n’ kiss and say “Welcome Home Daddy!”

The stupid news came on and Scobby-Doo went off. The ugly news man says what Mommy said. There’s a prob’em and some soldiers from the war won’t be coming home. I wonder what the prob’em is? I don’t unner’stand dis stuff.

Well, like Daddy says, there’s always tomorrow. I’m gonna wear my yellow purple heart dress anyways ‘cause Daddy would like that.

Written: March 16, 2000

Copyright © 2000-2016 by Brandon L. Rucker. All Rights Reserved. | RuckerWrites | @RuckerWrites

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1999 Micro Fiction Road Trip

Going the Distance | A Micro Fiction

{ 360 words }

I can tell she’s uneasy, maybe even scared.  It’s all in the eyes.  That’s where the truth always lies in people, in their eyes.  Sure, she’s going to play it cool and pretend that there’s nothing wrong, but I know better, which is funny considering I’ve only known the girl for three days.  But I know.  Which is a testament to the strange bond I feel between us.  We’ve been on the road for three long ass hours now and, between long stretches of napping, she’s barely spoken a word.  To say I’m worried about her is understating the fact. I glance over at her, careful not to let my eyes leave the road for more than a second or two at a time.

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine…just thinking.”



“Don’t be vague, girl.  I hate that.”

“I’m thinking that I might’ve made a mistake.”

“Oh yeah?”


“Concerning what?”

“Our little trip.”

“I wouldn’t call it little…you are running away.”

“Shit, don’t you think I know that?  That’s exactly what I’m thinking about.”


“Well, I think I messed up.”


She looks over at me, her eyes mostly hidden under the veil of her bangs.  Her face is solemn.  And then she says, almost in a whispers, “I think I should go back.”

“I don’t think that’s wise, girl.  That guy’s a goddamn abusive asshole, he’s just going to hurt you some more.”

She gives no response.  She knows I’m right.

“I really don’t think that’d be in your best interest. Definitely not mine ‘cause he’s gotta be shitty you ran off with me.  I’m sorry, darlin’, but if he sees me with you he’ll be fit to kill my ass, and I won’t back down from him, or let him put his fucking hands on you again. Sorry, but I’m involved now, and that’s my part in this. Yeah. I’m involved.”

She lets a moment to two pass, making me think she’s giving what I said some serious thought, that maybe she’s allowing her better judgment to take over. I couldn’t be more wrong.

“Please…just turn the car around…drive back to Indy.”

Written: February 28, 1999.

Copyright © 1999-2016 by Brandon L. Rucker.  All Rights Reserved.

Photo by Susanne Nilsson. Copyright © 2014.

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2012 Drama Micro Fiction Slice-of-life

Turn | A Micro Fiction

{ 486 words }

Roger tapped the turn signal down to make a left turn, but immediately realized it was the wrong turn when his daughter started screaming at him.

“What the hell are you doing, old man, you were supposed to turn on Binford Ave. Can’t you do anything right, I swear!”

He slammed on the brakes but it was too late, the car was too far into the intersection to successfully make the right turn without taking out four other cars and a pedestrian or two who stood on the curb waiting to cross.

At only nineteen, Gina was already a lot like her mother, his ex-wife. Loud. Demanding. She seemed to always seethe with anger, never satisfied with anything, especially anything he did. It didn’t matter that he was her father. It didn’t matter that he nurtured her as a small babe when her mother was too stoned to give a damn about the fine art of motherhood.  That just was not a focal point of her miserable existence.

Roger drove to the next intersection and made a right turn that would eventually get them back on-route to Binford Ave.

“A simple mistake corrected, Gina,” Roger said.

“Whatever.”  She said. “You’re going to make me late.”

Roger had enough. “Make you late? You kids today, always looking for someone else to blame your problems on instead of taking responsibility for your own actions. Unaccountable shits, all of you. We’re running late because you spent an hour in the bathroom primping and getting yourself all slutted-up for a guy I’m starting think must be your pimp.”

Roger stopped at a four-way stop and glared over at his ungrateful daughter. Her mouth agape, her eyes wide with shock and perhaps a bit of hurt because he had never talked to her that way, at least not so angrily. Usually he used a passive-aggressive manner in dealing with her, usually bending to her ways, if not breaking like he did for her mother.

“Fuck you!”

“Get out of the car, you can walk the rest of the way.”

Gina huffed, grabbed her purse, pushed the door open, thrust herself out and then slammed the door behind her. She gave him the middle finger and stomped off, looking like a tramp. A little girl in big girl clothes.

Roger wondered if he was actually hurting himself more than her. It didn’t matter. He knew that at her age and with her attitude, not to mention the bad hand life dealt her… well, she was just going to have to suffer this one out, maybe learn a lesson.

However, like usual, he immediately felt guilty about what he said and he couldn’t shake the pain that he saw burning in her eyes from his mind. The car behind him honked impatiently. He rolled through the intersection and then pulled over to the soft shoulder and waited for Gina to catch up.

Written January 11, 2012 via a prompt stating the story had to contain any of eight select words and could be any length, any genre. I wrote mine spontaneously in about 30 minutes with no editing and used these words: signal, seethe, focal and suffer.

Copyright © 2012 by Brandon L. Rucker.  All Rights Reserved.

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2010 Micro Fiction Thriller

Shard | A Bloody Micro Fiction

{ 354 words }

After she confronts him in the basement, he lunges at her clumsily.  She uses cat-quick reflexes to avoid his attack and he misses.  That imprecision costs him.  She scrambles to the floor, a move that allows her to strike swiftly with a kick to his groin just as he recovers to charge at her again.  Stealthily she prepares to arm herself with the medium-sized broken mirror shard she’d found there in the basement a few days back. She retrieves if from her back pocket to slice forcibly into his Achilles as if it is a mere thin ribbon made of fine silk.  With all her might, she strikes fiercely to cut through the fabric of his clothing.  He screams in agony and lumbers to the floor like a wounded animal shot in the wild, left for dead.  Predator has become prey.  However, her mission, her responsibility is not yet complete.

He lay facing the floor in agony, grasping for his wounded foot.  Blood begins to flow from his injured tendon without pause.  It soaks through the fabric immediately and begins spotting the basement floor with tiny pools of crimson.  It must be endorphins and adrenaline masking his pain because he recovers again to get back on his feet, intent to cease her attack, perhaps finish her off.  She has other plans.  She wants to see more of his blood before she’s finished with him.  She kicks him in his back and lands him again.  She strikes the other Achilles with yet another forceful blow, this time with even more ferocity.  Blood spurts out to land on the nearby wall.  His roars of pain elicit no sympathy from her.

Stealthily she forces a syringe into his buttocks to administer a sedative.  With him restrained, she undresses him.  Once he is nude she uses the shard to pierce his genitals.  She slices the sack and then severs his member.  Poetic justice, karma served.  Torrential blood flows.

This is really just the beginning of what he has coming to him.  She needs to be sure her husband suffers indefinitely for what he’s done to their young daughter.

A Pint of Bloody FictionWritten in 2010. A different, even shorter version of this story was previously featured in A Pint of Bloody Fiction, a print anthology published in September 2010 by House of Horror, edited by S.E. Cox and Nandy Eckle. This re-published edition exists for electronic access and online archiving, and is intended for reading and reviewing purposes only — any other unauthorized use or dissemination is strictly prohibited.

This edition is copyright © 2016 by Brandon L. Rucker. All Rights Reserved.

Cover designed by Brandon L. Rucker and copyright © 2011. All Rights Reserved. | RuckerWrites | @RuckerWrites