INSTAGRAM MICRO CRIME FICTION
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Volume 6
(October 2018 - Current)
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In Search of Theme More than Violence
By J.J. Sinisi
Sounding more like a crunch than she imagined, Daryl’s fist connected with jawbone, shuttering the iron railing.
Hannah never liked Daryl, nor his football nickname, Big H. She guessed the H was for Hoss; though she didn’t know what that meant either. Were it not for his size, and the intersecting map of his vein stoked biceps pursuing the bulbous topography of his shoulders and neck, she would’ve ignored him. That very landscape though pulled her close, so entwined was it with the very place they stood, the hard water’s edge of a hard town.
And seeing him now, punching that self arrogant prick Marshal Dunlap in his teeth, holding him by the throat, overturned and staring down at the foamy waters of the Delaware River, she could no more deny her attraction than flee his violence. It was beautiful, if she were honestly saying, all that violence.
Too long had she endured Marshal’s derisive glares, and those of his twin sisters, whom Hannah gleefully never learned to tell apart. Put downs and shoves in the hallway, so much embarrassment. Under the bronze statue of Larry Holmes, his arm outstretched in perfect pugilistic form, she had endured all manner of abuse from this family.
But it wasn’t a revenge fantasy. She wished harm upon Marshal, surely, but now, watching Daryl, seeing Marshal’s head snap and twist, she felt pity.
She touched the big man’s shoulder. His varsity jersey’s stretched cotton warmed her fingers, engorged as it was by his riotous muscles.
“Enough.”
Daryl smiled, unleashed Marshal who crumpled to the concrete. Ragged breathing peaked over the crash of the spillway.
Hannah knelt, close to the blood of the man she had hated for so long.
“Tell your sisters they’re in for the same treatment.”
Marshal’s one working eye widened.
“I wish I could say there’s something you could do to stop it. But rest assured, once they get theirs, then your little sloppy clan can go off and fuck itself.”
Marshal began to say something, but instead gurgled.
Maybe it wasn’t pity she felt at all.
END. (346 Words)
Hannah never liked Daryl, nor his football nickname, Big H. She guessed the H was for Hoss; though she didn’t know what that meant either. Were it not for his size, and the intersecting map of his vein stoked biceps pursuing the bulbous topography of his shoulders and neck, she would’ve ignored him. That very landscape though pulled her close, so entwined was it with the very place they stood, the hard water’s edge of a hard town.
And seeing him now, punching that self arrogant prick Marshal Dunlap in his teeth, holding him by the throat, overturned and staring down at the foamy waters of the Delaware River, she could no more deny her attraction than flee his violence. It was beautiful, if she were honestly saying, all that violence.
Too long had she endured Marshal’s derisive glares, and those of his twin sisters, whom Hannah gleefully never learned to tell apart. Put downs and shoves in the hallway, so much embarrassment. Under the bronze statue of Larry Holmes, his arm outstretched in perfect pugilistic form, she had endured all manner of abuse from this family.
But it wasn’t a revenge fantasy. She wished harm upon Marshal, surely, but now, watching Daryl, seeing Marshal’s head snap and twist, she felt pity.
She touched the big man’s shoulder. His varsity jersey’s stretched cotton warmed her fingers, engorged as it was by his riotous muscles.
“Enough.”
Daryl smiled, unleashed Marshal who crumpled to the concrete. Ragged breathing peaked over the crash of the spillway.
Hannah knelt, close to the blood of the man she had hated for so long.
“Tell your sisters they’re in for the same treatment.”
Marshal’s one working eye widened.
“I wish I could say there’s something you could do to stop it. But rest assured, once they get theirs, then your little sloppy clan can go off and fuck itself.”
Marshal began to say something, but instead gurgled.
Maybe it wasn’t pity she felt at all.
END. (346 Words)
Muse
By J.J. Sinisi
I hadn’t realized it until the very moment, I tell Riya, when Anisha’s body skirted past mine, the curvature of her hip like the swell of the earth’s horizon from space, how much she inspired me. Less her presence, for at that moment I had not seen her for some time, but her existence, that I knew she was always walking parallel to me somewhere else in this life, even when we weren’t near.
“But you can’t, won’t, will never be with her.” Riya says.
“But that’s okay,” I tell her. “Our glimpses of closeness, her fingertips on my forearm, my touch to her lower back, these things are enough. Our reality builds in my mind, constructed from my life other chunks I haven’t but know, seeded there through cultural osmosis or God knows how else.”
“A relationship?”
“A lifetime.”
Riya balks.
“A lifetime fully constructed from the shallow depths of my imagination but inspirited by the majesty of her occurrence, time and again, into the very fabric of my truth.” I pinch Riya’s thick shoulder, “this is reality, yes," then I pinch the bridge of my nose. “But so is this, an entreaty to the Gods, a plea to life’s unexplored paths. We’re together, in so many other and different ways.”
I lick the tip of my pen, an archaic habit but one that inspires, a definitive movement towards creation.
“So she is your muse.”
“No she is more than that. She is Rati. She is Venus.”
“She is not a human being anymore you mean.”
“If she were mere human, she couldn’t inspire such heights of drama.”
“She’s a goddess, or in other words, an unfair, misogynistic ideal.” She laughs to herself, but most likely, at me, “It’s quite literally the most objectifying thing I can think of and likely the last thing you should ever tell a woman. Let alone one you’re in love with.”
“Who said I was in love with her?”
END. (327 WORDS)
“But you can’t, won’t, will never be with her.” Riya says.
“But that’s okay,” I tell her. “Our glimpses of closeness, her fingertips on my forearm, my touch to her lower back, these things are enough. Our reality builds in my mind, constructed from my life other chunks I haven’t but know, seeded there through cultural osmosis or God knows how else.”
“A relationship?”
“A lifetime.”
Riya balks.
“A lifetime fully constructed from the shallow depths of my imagination but inspirited by the majesty of her occurrence, time and again, into the very fabric of my truth.” I pinch Riya’s thick shoulder, “this is reality, yes," then I pinch the bridge of my nose. “But so is this, an entreaty to the Gods, a plea to life’s unexplored paths. We’re together, in so many other and different ways.”
I lick the tip of my pen, an archaic habit but one that inspires, a definitive movement towards creation.
“So she is your muse.”
“No she is more than that. She is Rati. She is Venus.”
“She is not a human being anymore you mean.”
“If she were mere human, she couldn’t inspire such heights of drama.”
“She’s a goddess, or in other words, an unfair, misogynistic ideal.” She laughs to herself, but most likely, at me, “It’s quite literally the most objectifying thing I can think of and likely the last thing you should ever tell a woman. Let alone one you’re in love with.”
“Who said I was in love with her?”
END. (327 WORDS)
Conflagration
By J.J. Sinisi
Strength that had long abandoned Mallory returned now, furiously, and she glared out at the nighttime city, and its diminutive windows shined back. She imaged each of them a fire, hot with rage, an entire metropolis in flames, she imagined it burning.
"I’m not giving in. I know they want me out, but I’m not leaving," she said hooking her shoulder length black hair over her ear. That morning, in an act of self-defiance, she cancelled an appointment to have it cut.
"It’s the board, Mal, they have consolidated around this. They aren’t going to make it easy," Brie said, Mallory’s head of sales and last faithful lieutenant.
"You know that old story about Nero, watching Rome burn while playing his fiddle?" Mallory asked facing the window, orange fluorescent glowing against her sixty-two year old face.
"I think so."
"It’s bullshit. Nero was a bastard, but he never watched. He actually came back to help."
"I guess he wasn’t so bad after all."
"No," Mallory turned. "No, he was. Just like all of these spineless cowards. We’re doubling the investment."
"They won’t let you."
"Let them try. We aren’t going on austerity."
Brie stopped writing, glanced at her superior, a woman she had called friend for ten years. “It’ll fail.”
"No it won’t."
Mallory turned back to the spires and the glass and the opalescent night. As short as fifteen years ago, she never imagined the opportunity to even make such a challenging decision. That didn’t make her choice any more right, but it did steel her resolve.
"They’re scared, Brie. They’re scared of the fire. Austerity isn’t going to help."
"Playing a fiddle," Brie said.
"Exactly!" She faced her friend and pointed, "Exactly. Send it tonight. All hands on deck. We’re punching this thing in the face."
Brie smiled, her loyalty in Mallory had never faltered. But now, rewarded with the stark visual of resolute determination, her back stiffened and he neck became taught.
"Let’s do it," Brie was excited.
"Yes," Mallory walked away from the cold window, "let’s fucking do it."
END. (342 Words)
"I’m not giving in. I know they want me out, but I’m not leaving," she said hooking her shoulder length black hair over her ear. That morning, in an act of self-defiance, she cancelled an appointment to have it cut.
"It’s the board, Mal, they have consolidated around this. They aren’t going to make it easy," Brie said, Mallory’s head of sales and last faithful lieutenant.
"You know that old story about Nero, watching Rome burn while playing his fiddle?" Mallory asked facing the window, orange fluorescent glowing against her sixty-two year old face.
"I think so."
"It’s bullshit. Nero was a bastard, but he never watched. He actually came back to help."
"I guess he wasn’t so bad after all."
"No," Mallory turned. "No, he was. Just like all of these spineless cowards. We’re doubling the investment."
"They won’t let you."
"Let them try. We aren’t going on austerity."
Brie stopped writing, glanced at her superior, a woman she had called friend for ten years. “It’ll fail.”
"No it won’t."
Mallory turned back to the spires and the glass and the opalescent night. As short as fifteen years ago, she never imagined the opportunity to even make such a challenging decision. That didn’t make her choice any more right, but it did steel her resolve.
"They’re scared, Brie. They’re scared of the fire. Austerity isn’t going to help."
"Playing a fiddle," Brie said.
"Exactly!" She faced her friend and pointed, "Exactly. Send it tonight. All hands on deck. We’re punching this thing in the face."
Brie smiled, her loyalty in Mallory had never faltered. But now, rewarded with the stark visual of resolute determination, her back stiffened and he neck became taught.
"Let’s do it," Brie was excited.
"Yes," Mallory walked away from the cold window, "let’s fucking do it."
END. (342 Words)
Ravenous
By J.J. Sinisi
I think of the wheat fields this old tractor helped process. Now it decayed in a field, its purpose still apparent from its appearance but transformed into showpiece, ornamentation, a symbolic representation of its very purpose. I felt the same about life, now that she was gone, almost as though my grandfather knew the machine’s fate when he placed it here all those years ago, before he could have possibly understood his future daughter-in-law’s murder, and its devastation on his yet unborn grandson.
“I want it gone for garbage pick-up tomorrow,” my father tells me, the sweat of the day pushing against his tan forehead though summer has long since retreated.
“I don’t think I can bring myself to do it,” I reply.
“I don’t give a shit what you think. I want it gone.”
“Dad, it was the last place mom and I spoke before –“
“I thought I made myself clear,” he says, already pushing up the hill towards the ranch, and the starving horses, and pigs, and chickens, and the day’s incomplete work.
I do as told, and watch in the morning as the garbage men struggle. The old tractor crumbles to pieces.
“Get away from the window,” he says.
I’m reminded he didn’t even attend his brother’s funeral, wasn’t at his side as the cancer spread and devoured.
“Sulking does no good.”
“I miss her.”
“It’s a tractor, Lawrence, not a person.”
“I see her there though, in my mind. Smiling. She smiled so much.”
He spits on the floor. “She died in agony. Don’t you fucking forget that. Ever.” He stops, looks past me, into the gaping maw of the garbage truck’s hungry gullet. “The world is so goddamned hungry.”
He glances at me, but not my eyes, instead just above them, to my clean brow, unblemished by time’s claws – fair and light.
“There’s work to do,” he says walking away.
END. (316 Words)
“I want it gone for garbage pick-up tomorrow,” my father tells me, the sweat of the day pushing against his tan forehead though summer has long since retreated.
“I don’t think I can bring myself to do it,” I reply.
“I don’t give a shit what you think. I want it gone.”
“Dad, it was the last place mom and I spoke before –“
“I thought I made myself clear,” he says, already pushing up the hill towards the ranch, and the starving horses, and pigs, and chickens, and the day’s incomplete work.
I do as told, and watch in the morning as the garbage men struggle. The old tractor crumbles to pieces.
“Get away from the window,” he says.
I’m reminded he didn’t even attend his brother’s funeral, wasn’t at his side as the cancer spread and devoured.
“Sulking does no good.”
“I miss her.”
“It’s a tractor, Lawrence, not a person.”
“I see her there though, in my mind. Smiling. She smiled so much.”
He spits on the floor. “She died in agony. Don’t you fucking forget that. Ever.” He stops, looks past me, into the gaping maw of the garbage truck’s hungry gullet. “The world is so goddamned hungry.”
He glances at me, but not my eyes, instead just above them, to my clean brow, unblemished by time’s claws – fair and light.
“There’s work to do,” he says walking away.
END. (316 Words)
Go Forth
By J.J. Sinisi
We huddled in the cold moist of the forest. It had been three hours since Drew. We didn’t like Drew very much. We cheered when he left.
But the cold could no longer be ignored, our thin robes did little to protect. This is by design of course. Above, we watch the last remnants of the day scribbled away by encroaching darkness. Our pastor describes this as standing on the edge of existentialism. We didn’t know what he means. Instead, we focus on the tips of clouds still illuminated by the dying sun.
“Will we live?” Sandra asks.
We gasp with excitement.
Our pastor says, “Jeremiah: For I have plans for you, the Lord said. Plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
We smile, except for Sandra. “What about Drew?”
“Drew turned away.” He steadies himself against broken limb of a gnarled tree. We didn’t like Drew, but we struggle to forget his distant screams. “Who shall wander next?”
Our gaze settles on Sandra.
“Sandra,” Our pastor prompts, “we think it’s time.”
She shivers in her thin robes. “But it’s so cold.”
“Mathew says, But pray that your flight will not be in winter.” He rises and places a hand on her shoulder. “Today is the last day of autumn my child.”
We stifle our collective smiles while the cold burrows into our souls.
Sandra tries not to cry. “Can’t I stay with the group?”
“The group will stay with you child,” our pastor says, submerging his face deep into the hood of his heavy jacket, before pulling from her the last remnants of her doubt.
If I must, is what she says next, but we can’t hear her over our celebration. We rejoice, watching the faithless disappear into the thick brambles of the forest, naked although no longer shivering.
For the Lord has given her warmth, as we always knew he would.
END. (322 Words)
But the cold could no longer be ignored, our thin robes did little to protect. This is by design of course. Above, we watch the last remnants of the day scribbled away by encroaching darkness. Our pastor describes this as standing on the edge of existentialism. We didn’t know what he means. Instead, we focus on the tips of clouds still illuminated by the dying sun.
“Will we live?” Sandra asks.
We gasp with excitement.
Our pastor says, “Jeremiah: For I have plans for you, the Lord said. Plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
We smile, except for Sandra. “What about Drew?”
“Drew turned away.” He steadies himself against broken limb of a gnarled tree. We didn’t like Drew, but we struggle to forget his distant screams. “Who shall wander next?”
Our gaze settles on Sandra.
“Sandra,” Our pastor prompts, “we think it’s time.”
She shivers in her thin robes. “But it’s so cold.”
“Mathew says, But pray that your flight will not be in winter.” He rises and places a hand on her shoulder. “Today is the last day of autumn my child.”
We stifle our collective smiles while the cold burrows into our souls.
Sandra tries not to cry. “Can’t I stay with the group?”
“The group will stay with you child,” our pastor says, submerging his face deep into the hood of his heavy jacket, before pulling from her the last remnants of her doubt.
If I must, is what she says next, but we can’t hear her over our celebration. We rejoice, watching the faithless disappear into the thick brambles of the forest, naked although no longer shivering.
For the Lord has given her warmth, as we always knew he would.
END. (322 Words)
City of Scars
By J.J. Sinisi
We’ll always have LA she says. I thought it trite and derivative, and everything I hated about commonality of phrase, but for some reason, watching her mouth form the words through the sliver of space between her top and bottom lip, where the mighty air of her lungs gave voice to her indomitable soul, I forced a smile in spite of my jadedness.
“City of stars. It was fun while it had lasted.”
“That’s all I’ll remember,” she says, “the happiness. Little scars that make me smile.”
This was her oft stated philosophy; only the new, the different, create lasting marks on the skin of our memories.
“I hate you,” I say.
She leans over the railing and inhales the Pacific salt floating all these stories up. Splayed before us is the windy outer crust of California’s coast.
“I know,” she places a hand on my chest, “I hate you too.”
We kiss.
She leaves then, and I’m alone wondering how does it all fit back together?
Maybe I shouldn’t try. Maybe I should suppress my thoughts of her. But my guts revolt and the feelings burst through my complacency until I am devoured. It’s how she made me feel anyway – completely devoured.
So instead, I envelop the pain and let it inform my already blossoming wanderlust, that way she’s always near, even if I never see her again. I stray, hopefully fading the imprint of her in my thoughts. She’d want that after all, something new in her place. Something different.
Over the next five years I set about adapting, shuffling jobs, residences, and sometimes, my love life. It helps to assuage the pain.
But she never told me this piece: Loss is a sort of change too. It leaves similar marks.
Scars really.
LA represents to me today nothing more than that. Vestigial pain but still gnarled, an entire metropolis gathered around my longing.
A city of scars.
END. (322 Words)
“City of stars. It was fun while it had lasted.”
“That’s all I’ll remember,” she says, “the happiness. Little scars that make me smile.”
This was her oft stated philosophy; only the new, the different, create lasting marks on the skin of our memories.
“I hate you,” I say.
She leans over the railing and inhales the Pacific salt floating all these stories up. Splayed before us is the windy outer crust of California’s coast.
“I know,” she places a hand on my chest, “I hate you too.”
We kiss.
She leaves then, and I’m alone wondering how does it all fit back together?
Maybe I shouldn’t try. Maybe I should suppress my thoughts of her. But my guts revolt and the feelings burst through my complacency until I am devoured. It’s how she made me feel anyway – completely devoured.
So instead, I envelop the pain and let it inform my already blossoming wanderlust, that way she’s always near, even if I never see her again. I stray, hopefully fading the imprint of her in my thoughts. She’d want that after all, something new in her place. Something different.
Over the next five years I set about adapting, shuffling jobs, residences, and sometimes, my love life. It helps to assuage the pain.
But she never told me this piece: Loss is a sort of change too. It leaves similar marks.
Scars really.
LA represents to me today nothing more than that. Vestigial pain but still gnarled, an entire metropolis gathered around my longing.
A city of scars.
END. (322 Words)
Drifter
By J.J. Sinisi
Titan’s foot messaged the petal, hand fluid on the chrome shifter, cajoling his modified Maxima’s belching approval through the downtown loop.
Three weeks ago he thought he’d lost T-Ray. To another man, to the east coast, to time’s humorless tugging.
But life had accelerated since then. And now the force of attraction twisted around him so violently, he felt he could pull on the heavens themselves if he only exerted his will.
“Eight seconds,” T-Ray smiled and gripped the door strap. The car pitched, sport struts flexing in unison with the uneven highway.
“Shit’s hot!”
The bottom dropped out and they jumped up, somewhere behind them the undercarriage rained sparks.
Titan spared a glance at T-Ray. No moon tonight, only intermittent streetlamp flashes lighting the blue leather interior and permitting incognito glimpses of T-Ray’s smooth cheeks, his puffy lips, and the lovely way his brown skin disappeared into the LA shadows.
“There there!” T-Ray exclaimed.
Trailing red tail lights smeared in front of them.
The car’s rattle shook Titan’s insides, rummaging around his stomach. The excitement of the race, and of T-Ray’s proximity, settled behind his eyes, and, as though through a warped tunnel, he commanded the road, and the vehicle, and the power, and the world. He was an arrow. A straight line. He was one dimension of power and thrust.
He sliced the wheel; they careened around a tight turn.
Buildings exploded into view, urbanity’s illumination bursting with colors, and he drifted past their opponent heading towards the distant finish.
“Fuuuuuuuck!” T-Ray yelled but laughed as he slid into Titan’s lap.
“Not yet baby,” Titan smiled.
“But mother fuckn’ soon I hope.”
And that’s all he needed. That attraction. No more wandering, floating, unmoored and listless. It was now, in speed, linear movement, he realized his present life. And he floored the gas and pulled all of that angular momentum into one true point, heading towards home.
END. (319 Words)
Three weeks ago he thought he’d lost T-Ray. To another man, to the east coast, to time’s humorless tugging.
But life had accelerated since then. And now the force of attraction twisted around him so violently, he felt he could pull on the heavens themselves if he only exerted his will.
“Eight seconds,” T-Ray smiled and gripped the door strap. The car pitched, sport struts flexing in unison with the uneven highway.
“Shit’s hot!”
The bottom dropped out and they jumped up, somewhere behind them the undercarriage rained sparks.
Titan spared a glance at T-Ray. No moon tonight, only intermittent streetlamp flashes lighting the blue leather interior and permitting incognito glimpses of T-Ray’s smooth cheeks, his puffy lips, and the lovely way his brown skin disappeared into the LA shadows.
“There there!” T-Ray exclaimed.
Trailing red tail lights smeared in front of them.
The car’s rattle shook Titan’s insides, rummaging around his stomach. The excitement of the race, and of T-Ray’s proximity, settled behind his eyes, and, as though through a warped tunnel, he commanded the road, and the vehicle, and the power, and the world. He was an arrow. A straight line. He was one dimension of power and thrust.
He sliced the wheel; they careened around a tight turn.
Buildings exploded into view, urbanity’s illumination bursting with colors, and he drifted past their opponent heading towards the distant finish.
“Fuuuuuuuck!” T-Ray yelled but laughed as he slid into Titan’s lap.
“Not yet baby,” Titan smiled.
“But mother fuckn’ soon I hope.”
And that’s all he needed. That attraction. No more wandering, floating, unmoored and listless. It was now, in speed, linear movement, he realized his present life. And he floored the gas and pulled all of that angular momentum into one true point, heading towards home.
END. (319 Words)