November Microfiction 6-10

The backhoe hit something solid. The road workers grumbled to a stop and stared at the great metallic wings among the fossilized shells.

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Terrified by what I’d built, I drowned my robot in the creek behind the house. At night, he returned. Said I never gave him lungs.

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Just north of the border, traffic came to a stop. She practiced her smile, took his hand off her leg and put it back in the glovebox.

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“Fox!” the boy called with little interest. He missed the days before budget cuts and downsizing when he had been the boy who cried wolf.

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No way this thing should be able to fly. I mean who makes their own helicopters? I glance down at the ground and wish I’d learned to land.

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These are originally posted on Twitter (@jdbrush). I’m trying to do one per day this month.

James Brush

James Brush is a teacher and writer who lives in Austin, TX. He tries to get outside as much as possible.

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