RESULTS – Microcosms 77

Thanks to each and every one of you who entered Round 77. We had 11 entries this week.

Please keep returning to Microcosms, and retweet / spread the word about this contest among your followers and friends.

Don’t forget that Microcosms exists primarily to provide a platform for the flash fiction community to hone their skills, and secondarily to give entrants a chance of receiving an accolade from that week’s judge. We also have the vote button for anyone – not just fellow entrants – to register their favourite/favorite(s) and thus establish a Community Pick.

Remember, you can reply with a comment to any and all of the entries AT ANY TIME: It’s good to have feedback.

Many thanks to Sian Brighal for judging this week. Here’s what she had to say:

The prompts were excellent this week, and yielded a brilliant collection of stories; makes judging a mixed blessing. The entries were fascinating inasmuch as some took a genre and, while staying true to that genre, gave it qualities of another: a romantic thriller, for example. I also enjoyed the formatting and presentation of one in particular. Your stories are a brilliant way to learn this craft of writing. Thank you.



Favourite/Favorite Lines

L Meadow – The only thing was to put down this ridiculous notion that we all come from somewhere else, we are American and America is for Americans.
Wonderfully ironic line. It adds depth to the story, giving the reader a refined idea of who is trapped.
Steve Lodge – The perpetrators lit the fuse and presumably retired to a safe distance to watch.
A line full of evil intent and expectation.
Geoff Le Pard – My daddy never forgot you, Bud.
Chillingly answers all the mounting questions; a neat sentence.
John Herbert – I kept dead letter boxes at the Orangerie for him to fill, had whispered conversations in metro cars as we trundled north, melting into the smells and crowds of the Gare du Nord when we parted.
So many beautiful sentences in this piece, but I think for information and flow, this was the more pertinent, conveying the romance and mystery of tasks and the location.
Damhnait Monaghan – No guard rails.
Jeff Messick – “Hey, darling, did you want ketchup or mustard on your hamburger?” she asked.
Wonderful line, rounding the story off, adding some wry humour and settling dinner. Brilliant.
Eloise – Van Wyk sighed, but then a new thought crossed his mind: where was the mom?
Really like this line. It gives you a moment of levity before the full weight of the situation slams into you.
Angelique Pacheco – The lion dragged the body of the poacher to the underbrush, the kids and his wife following closely.
Changes the context of the story: fantastic line!
Bill Engleson – Oh, well, one wall at a time. How many Golf Courses would make a Border? I’ll google that.
Wonderful approach. This made me laugh for its bizarrely rational whimsy.
M Irene Hill – Every summer we pass through Castle Mountain on our way to Lake Louise, stop to visit this haunted place where Ivan spent his last days, where he made the ultimate sacrifice to give his family a better life.
I don’t get the sense of recrimination here, but a deep feeling of mourning, remembrance, honouring a man and his actions. Written in conjunction with the beauty of the area, it is an incredibly powerful line.
AJ Aguilar-Van Der Merwe – I wouldn’t have bumped into my husband and his mistress, and accidentally pushed him in front of an incoming tourist bus.
Killer line! Fantastic.



Special Mentions

Damhnait Monaghan – Why I (a closet serial killer) Hike in the Grand Canyon

This one was stunning and an utterly brilliant use of title with content. A perfect lesson for me on the importance and role of titles.


I enjoyed the formatting and presentation of this. It was clever and novel and written incredibly well to convey a sense of continuity and context.


Honourable/Honorable Mention

Angelique Pacheco – Hunted

I enjoyed how the story built up the scene, encouraging the reader to believe it was a safari sight-seeing trip, and I’m a fan of comeuppance, so the poacher getting poached was a juicy ending.



M Irene Hill – Enemy Aliens

The writing was wonderful, using conflicting themes of hopes versus reality and living conditions versus the beauty of the region to paint a complex and full picture. There was a perfectly pitched level of bitterness, brutal descriptions and a dignified and bittersweet ending. It was a highly evocative read.


And now, without further ado, we present the winners of Microcosms 77.


(insert drumroll here)


Community Pick

L Meadow – For the People

299 words
US President; White House; Memoir

I’m the last one; the world lies in ruins. When the riots started the Secret Service put me here in the safe room, and left to find an evacuation route; but that was three days ago and I haven’t heard or seen anyone since. I don’t have the code to open the door. This morning the electricity failed, so I only have a few hours of air left. I assume all is lost outside; otherwise, someone would have come to evacuate me to a safe location. I am recording this last message for posterity, my last legacy I suppose. You’ll want an explanation I suppose. I thought I did the right thing when I closed the borders – national sentiment was against all foreigners – America for Americans was chanted in every town and city. I had to listen to the will of the people. What we didn’t expect was the uprising of a well-organized counter movement celebrating immigrants.

The clashes started small, easily put down by the police (which I had to arm heavily) but soon they grew into large-scale civil resistance. They claimed we are all immigrants and that the borders had to open. How could I allow that? No. The only thing was to put down this ridiculous notion that we all come from somewhere else, we are American and America is for Americans. At first, the police could settle the marches but when the riots started, I called in the army. The people were also well-armed, well-organized, and fought back. Suicide bombers screamed, ‘for the people’ as they blew up soldiers. ‘For the people’ what a joke. The people are America and America for Americans!

Wait, is that the door? Who are you?

A gunshot is heard, and a new voice says ‘for the people’.

Tape Ends.


Judge’s Pick

John Herbert – City of Lights

The language usage and beautiful descriptions really grabbed me. The author created a highly romantic story to the point where the assassination seemed to just fade into the background until the sirens woke me up. I even felt sorry that he never finished his dessert, and happy he’d had one last excursion to the city of lights. It was—as was the story—elegant.

299 words
Day Tripper; France; Crime

I watched a crowd of pompiers running loops of the Tuileries, the late spring sun warming my old bones so I almost deluded myself that I might join them. Instead, I sat back on my bench, watched the elegant young couples, sprung from their offices, eating lunch at the cafés, and relived my former rendezvous.

Toly, my contact from the old days, met me here. I kept dead letter boxes at the Orangerie for him to fill, had whispered conversations in metro cars as we trundled north, melting into the smells and crowds of the Gare du Nord when we parted.

I had been warned to stay away since Toly’s capture, the ghosts of the city pursuing me long after I’d been reassigned. Among the plump faces in the Washington crowds I surveilled throughout my forties, a glimpse of Slavic cheekbones was enough to transport me back here, where I had stalked the narrow Parisian streets. But all of that, I had imagined, was behind me.

Then Matthews called, shattering the tranquility of a Torquay retirement. ‘One last job,’ he’d murmured, ‘a day out, you might say, old boy, another roll of the dice.’

And so, I left the Tuileries, past the crowd queuing by the ghastly new pyramid at the Louvre, through the arcades by the Palais Royale, to the tiny bistro, Le Matelot, where I was told the diplomat dined alone. Splendid place, it transpired. Such a shame to leave my tarte tatin, perhaps my last in the City of Lights. But a call came, as I knew it would, and my mark was summoned to the bar to answer it. I slid a pill into his coffee and left.

I heard the sirens shrieking from a block away as I ambled to the station at dusk.


Congratulations, John. As this week’s Judge’s Pick, you are invited to judge Microcosms 78, let us know whether or not you are interested ASAP!

RESULTS - Microcosms 78
RESULTS - Microcosms 76

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15 comments for “Welcome to Microcosms!

  1. zwoodle
    26 December 2015 at 4:15 pm

    We’re going to do a soft launch on 1 January. We’ll be e-mailing everyone shortly. Stay tuned!

  2. 12 September 2019 at 5:20 pm

    What’s happened to all the stories from last week’s competition?

    • KM Zafari
      12 September 2019 at 6:31 pm

      They’re all still in the system but not displaying on the front end. Part of the glitch I’m trying to resolve. :/

  3. 13 September 2019 at 6:37 am

    Who is Stoner, please?

  4. 13 September 2019 at 11:20 am

    Ghost; Haunted House; Comedy
    298 words

    The Gang, Fifty Years On

    “Hey guys, it’s our anniversary. It’s fifty years since we got together and solved our first case.”

    “That’s right. Why don’t we do something to celebrate? We could stay the night in the old, haunted house.”

    “I’m not really sure. None of us are as young as we used to be, we’re all in our late sixties now.”

    “Yeah, and I’m not sure that I want to stay up past my bedtime.”

    “Oh, go on, it’ll be a bit of fun. It’s not as though any of us get much of that anymore.”

    “It just won’t be the same without the dog.”

    “You’re right about missing the dog. I even miss that annoying little one that accompanied us on some of our later adventures.”

    “OK, it’s a date then. We just need someone to drive us out there before it gets dark.”

    “I’ll organise some supplies. Some drinks, a snack, spare walking sticks, and a flashlight for each of us.”

    “I’m not sure that I see the point. We never managed to find any real ghosts or monsters, never in our entire career. It was always a scam of some sort, and always one carried out by ordinary, everyday losers dressed up in costume.”

    The overnight stay was uneventful until just before dawn when they heard someone moving about downstairs. Silently they crept down the stairs only to find a fat balding man dressed up in a sheet going, “Woo… woo…” As it was obvious something untoward was going on, they phoned for the police. When they arrived a few minutes later the police arrested the would-be ghost. As he was taken away the last thing the gang heard him say was, “And I would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for those pesky pensioners!”

  5. Geoff
    13 September 2019 at 7:32 pm

    Stoner, haunted house, drama
    295 words
    ‘Hi Pete. How’s it trucking?’’
    Pete blinked, hoping his neighbour was another bad trip.
    ‘Garden’s looking great. Not many weeds. Ho!’
    Pete sucked in air, disorientated by the lack of smoke. I need to cut back oxygen. ‘Hi Greg. You after a packet?’
    ‘I was just wondering how you get them so… leafy?’
    Pete licked the paper. ‘You planning your own? Take some seeds, man.’ He sealed another joint, willing him to go.
    ‘I don’t think so. What’s the secret?’
    Pete looked at the soil at his feet. ‘Peace and love, man.’
    ‘Seriously. We grew cannabis at college but that was inside in Cheltenham. You manage outdoors, in Scotland in January…’
    ‘I rely on my relatives.’ He kicked the dirt, exposing the head of a femur. ‘That’s Auntie Jane. The plants love her.’
    Greg’s eyes widened. ‘That’s your aunt?’
    ‘Think so. Hang on.’ Pete put down the Rizzla packet and bent to the bone. ‘Yeah? You sure? Right ho.’ He looked up. ‘Uncle Portius. They look the same at that age, don’t they?’
    Greg rubbed his eyes. ‘I must be passive smoking your product. Did you just talk to a bone?’
    Pete laughed. ‘Course not. Bone’s don’t talk…’
    ‘They’re ghosts. I you like I can do you some Mexican spicy and my second cousin’s torso as a starter kit…’
    Greg backed away. ‘Maybe later.’
    Pete started another joint and covered the bone. He’d need another dozen for the school run. ‘Thanks Ponti, I’ll get you that pint of Ruddles later.’ He looked down the rows of fecund and fullsome plants to a slightly saggy group by the hedge. ‘And I’ll pick up some dubonnet and lemon for Granny Emmaline. Wouldn’t do to let her crop get peaky, what with festival season nearly upon us.’

  6. 13 September 2019 at 10:25 pm
    300 words
    Stoner; Ghost Ship; Comedy

    That’s Some Spooky Shit, Man–Sailing the Silvery Seas with Long Joint Spliffer

    Man, I had more wobbles than a bobblehead.


    Bubblehead for sure.

    Or Stubble head?

    Like man, that cat had a gnarly beard. Facial hair all wiry and dense. I could feel it, man. Spikes shooting out of his face like fireworks.

    Bazooka hookahs, man!

    Reefer creepers!

    Maybe it was the Maui-Zowie? Or the BC Bud? Or, get this, the Alberta Muerta?

    Made that up, man. Killer weed, though.

    Whatever it was, it was some magic shit. Maui Cowie poop, eh.

    Hah! I don’t know what that is.

    Anyway, I’d been up all night zinging in the shower, tingling in the tower, baying at the full moon, a giant silver dollar beauty, when I got the urge man to go down to the waterfront, watch the river flow.

    You ever done that, man? The river! Love the river. Like its dark, man, and late. The taverns have all closed. Streets littered with the soulful. Sky’s storm ready. Clouds gathering like jumbled sheets on a bed that’s never been made. Guess you know where that metaphor comes from. Anyways, you can feel it. Something’s gonna burst. So, I go down to the river and I see it through the thick fog. Like its out of the movies, man, full masted, skull and crossbones flapping in the night wind, and that ain’t no Errol Flynn standing at the helm. Not on your booty. Its someone eerie as hell, with some yo ho hoing and a bottle of bong…and I’m thinking, Bong? James Bong?

    There I am, staring at this vessel, double o sevening away, and this dude starts walking the plank and says, “Sorry Mate, no gambling tonight. The Jolly Better’s closed tight. City ordinance.”

    “Bummer, man” I bleat, “and me with the munchies and a pocket full of pieces of eight.”

  7. Angelique Pacheco
    14 September 2019 at 4:56 am

    Stoner; Ghost Ship; Comedy
    135 words

    Green Boo-ty

    I saw through the haze
    A ghost ship’s hallways
    Twisting and turning
    The maze was daunting

    A ghostly dancer beckoned
    “Get naked,” she reckoned
    My mind said, “Okay!”
    My body said, “Let’s play!”
    The scene was rearranged
    And the actors were exchanged.

    The captain wore coat tails
    He clung onto the rails
    He shouted for pirates
    And called us bandits
    Zombies took me to the ledge
    To walk the plank to the edge.

    When I came down
    We were back in Cape Town
    I found myself at the pool
    Standing starkers like a fool

    The mystical dancer
    Was a Trans performer
    Security was cuffing me
    No zombies could I see.

    Don’t ever take the green stuff
    It can be quite rough
    Make sure you buy local
    Not pirated forms of diabolical.

  8. 14 September 2019 at 6:19 am

    stoner/ghost ship/comedy
    WC: 365

    One More Sausage

    Fred was hungry. It was his semi-permanent state. Always eating; yet as thin as a rake that had been split in two–his acquaintances assumed he was looking after some tape worms. His best buddy, Havant, had just as voracious an appetite. Being a dog it was expected.
    Their holiday to France wasn’t going well. The language was unfamiliar and the food was not as good as anticipated. It was four days before Fred discovered that they were in Hamburg. And, whilst it was just two letters shy of his favourite word, it wasn’t in France.

    Things began to look up when they went for a couple of currywurst after a big breakfast. They got chatting to a groovy guy by the wurst-stand about all things sausage related ,which had got them a) excited and b) hungry again. Being at the wurst-stand that had been easy to deal with. There was always room for one more sausage.

    They shared a funny cigarette with Groovyman, which made them giggle. He said he’d never seen a dog smoke before. Fred said it happened regularly, usually when he’d spilt cooking oil on Havant.

    Groovyman enquired why he was called Havant. Fred explained that it was short for Havant A. which left him none the wiser. He then told them about the sausage barge, where the price for a four hour trip includes an ‘All That You Can Eat’ buffet. They weren’t going to miss this opportunity, so they heading down to the docks with big loping strides and stupid grins.

    At the docks everything was a bit blurry. Clearly they were in danger of fainting from hunger. So they got onboard the SS Hamburger with expectant bellies and an aim to make the buffet their home. Havant A. realised something was amiss when their boat passed through a series of locks without the gates opening. The lack of taste to the buffet wasn’t an issue, but the lack of substance was. When the captain turned up minus his head even Fred thought something was amiss.

    Then they smelled the Sausage Cruise pass in the other direction. It was a good job Havant could swim and Fred could float.

  9. Diego Piselli
    14 September 2019 at 5:04 pm

    Stoner, Ghost Ship, Comedy
    282 words
    The rumor had spread with lightning speed, fuelled by media coverage.
    A mahogany barge, loaded with Lebanese weed was floating somewhere in Amsterdam canals, unattended
    Smokers in coffee shops hotly debated the matter. Abe swore he saw it moored near Singel canal; Alwine claimed to be certain that the ship was far in the harbor; Rastafarian waiters fabled about an Iranian merchant, owner of the barge tugged along his princely yacht, vanished with a Circassian beauty.
    Eventually, on a warm summer Saturday night, the Quest had its beginning.
    Hordes of stoners, old hippies and weirdos of all kinds gathered in Dam square and started scouring all the canals, walking on the banks, boating or paddling in muddy waters: braver and youngsters went so far as to swim in the smelly current.
    The Quest was unsuccessful, but Saturday phantom barge hunting became a fixed meeting. If interest decreased, the press reported a new sighting and people got back to the endless hunting. Hunters set up groups and association named by famous weed smokers of the past. Each group had a leader, a hymn, a flag.
    And every Saturday evening Mr. Janssen, managing editor of “Amsterdam Today”, savored happily the silence of his flat in Central Amsterdam, a little nest in a medieval alley crowded with coffee shops. No more yelling, no more stoners’ noise. No more frantic strolling of excited people along the cobblestone street.
    All the smokers had gone away, searching for the barge.
    His little article full of question marks and drop hints about a mysterious barge had proved useful, and he could eventually savor domestic pleasures in peace. “Marijuana enthusiasts are like children,” he said to himself “they believe anything”.

  10. 14 September 2019 at 7:44 pm

    stoner/ghost ship/comedy
    Word Count – 260

    Clang! Clang! Clang!
    The sound reminded Midshipman Smythe of the death march if it was played badly by a toddler on kitchen pans. What was scarier was the lack of bodily panic symptoms. His heart hadn’t tried to explode. His stomach hadn’t emptied like a freshly flushed toilet. Nothing was doing nothing in fact. Peter, the welcome guy, had warned him about this but it took some getting use to.
    “Is that her Midshipman?” His Captain pointed at the blue haired girl hitting the ships pipes.
    “Yes Sir.”
    “Madam.” The captain pulled herself to the full height of her tall frame. “How did you get on board?”
    “I don’t know man.” She didn’t look at the captain. Instead she gazed off to the left, as if following an excitable fly.
    “Madam, I am very much not a man.”
    She blinked three times, each time she forced her eyes as wide as she could. “You are so pale…wo-man. Did I get that right? Wo-man.”
    She giggled to herself.
    The Captain did not see the funny side. “Madam! How did you get on board this ship?”
    “Space cakes.” Her hand becomes a rocket which follows the same trajectory as her imagined fly. She takes the same level of interest.
    The Captain groans. “Midshipman?”
    “Yes Captain.” He clips his heels together, disappointed at the lack of noise. Another thing he has to get use to.
    “Go find the Chaplin. Tell him to prepare for a bio-exorcism. I won’t have a breather on my ghost ship.”

  11. 14 September 2019 at 10:09 pm

    150 Words
    Unmasked Villain; Spooky Location; Drama


    Flames flickered in the oppressive darkness, solitary among thousands. A tall woman strode around them, her high-necked red dress flowing dangerously close to the light. Watching her, bathed in the shadows, were hundreds of people, their breathing heavy in the air of anticipation.

    She spun to face them, her eyes flashing as they reflected the flames. Her voice thundered through the deadened space. Disdain blanketed the group, suffocating even the bravest of her followers.

    Weakness was unacceptable, this they knew, but they had still managed to disappoint her. All fell to their knees, bowing their heads to the shame brought on by her piercing glare.

    She reached down to grab one of the candles, holding it in such a way that her face was cast in a ghostly light. Swiftly, her fingers were enveloped in the burning wax. Everyone else hissed, shocked, yet impressed by her stoicism.

    Flames smoldered still.

  12. Lindsey P
    16 September 2019 at 9:48 am

    I guess mine didn’t get saved…oh well.

    • Lindsey Pittenger
      16 September 2019 at 9:51 am

      298 Words

      Bookworm; Mine; Mystery

      The Case of the Canned Canaries

      As they ventured further down the dimly lit tunnel, Miranda pulled her book closer to her face, squinting to make out the words, comparing them to her surroundings. Everything seemed to be just as she’d expected. The construction of the mine shaft seemed stable and matched the text, which eased her growing sense of claustrophobia, but there was something that still just didn’t seem right. She hadn’t noticed that she’d slowed to a stop until the man behind her nearly knocked her over.

      “Oomf—sorry about that. Need to watch where I’m going a bit more,” he said with a sheepish grin.

      “I’m fine,” she said, clutching the book to herself and waving him away. Ignoring the dismissal, he pointed at her treasured cargo.

      “So what are you reading down here that’s so important to gum up the traffic?” he asked jovially, lowering his pickaxe from his shoulder.

      “Oh, this?” She held up the book. “It’s just an old book about mines. I figured I’d bring it along for some good-natured analysis. This mine seems similar to the one in the book, but the thing that’s been concerning me the most is the canaries.”

      “Canaries?” he asked, confused, briefly glancing around the shaft as though he’d missed something.

      “There aren’t any,” she said matter-of-factly, reopening her book, “Here, they use canaries as a warning system for noxious gases to keep people from dying, but this whole time we’ve been here, I haven’t seen a single one.” The look on her face fell as he burst into laughter.

      “I’m sorry,” he said, pointing to a box on the wall. “I think this sensor is that canary you’re looking for. Don’t worry, we are monitoring the safety of the air down here. At any rate, hope you’re enjoying your tour!”


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