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#microficMonday #FoxArgallMysteries Microfic prompt excerpt from The Middle Distance, book 9.
Grace set the plate on the counter.
“A specific sweet-salt smell.” Fox examined his food at length before glancing at his wife. “That’s ham.”
“It is,” she said, giggling. “You said that with your whole face. I watched you processing left to right, eyebrows raised.”
“Grace.” He exhaled. “I’ve told you about ham.”
“You’ve told me about ham fourteen times since the first of the month.”
“Ridiculous.”
“OK, in the last couple years.”
“Teasing me.” He pushed the plate slightly to the left, aligning it with the edge of the cutting board. “Ham is a commitment masquerading as a food. It requires you to feel a certain way. I don’t feel that way.”
“It’s just ham. Thousands enjoy ham. Millions.”
“Exactly.” He picked up the fork, then set it down. “A gryphon would eat ham. That’s my point.”
“Your point is gryphons.”
“My point is ham is mythological. It’s bright crayon pink. No meat occurs in nature in this form.” He gestured at the plate. “People adulterate it.”
Grace handed him a black coffee. “Someone cured it.”
“Cured.” Fox repeated. He picked up the fork again. “Like a disease.”
“Just try it. For me.”
He tasted the ham. “Well.”
“Well?”
“It’s not terrible.”
@mondaymicrofic #MicroficMonday #FoxArgall #autism
Excerpt for The Middle Distance, book 9 in Fox Argall Mysteries
Grace set the plate on the counter.
“A specific sweet-salt smell.” Fox examined his food at length before glancing at his wife. “That’s ham.”
“It is,” she said, giggling. “You said that with your whole face. I watched you processing left to right, eyebrows raised.”
“Grace.” He exhaled. “I’ve told you about ham.”
“You’ve told me about ham fourteen times since the first of the month.”
“Ridiculous.”
“OK, in the last couple years.”
“Teasing me.” He pushed the plate slightly to the left, aligning it with the edge of the cutting board. “Ham is a commitment masquerading as a food. It requires you to feel a certain way. I don’t feel that way.”
“It’s just ham. Thousands enjoy ham. Millions.”
“Exactly.” He picked up the fork, then set it down. “A gryphon would eat ham. That’s my point.”
“Your point is gryphons.”
“My point is ham is mythological. It’s bright crayon pink. No meat occurs in nature in this form.” He gestured at the plate. “People adulterate it.”
Grace handed him a black coffee. “Someone cured it.”
“Cured.” Fox repeated. He picked up the fork again. “Like a disease.”
“Just try it. For me.”
He tasted the ham. “Well.”
“Well?”
“It’s not terrible.”
If this isn't a call to pens on this auspicious weekend, I don't know what is!!
The prompts for this #MicroFictionMonday are:
- gryphon
- harbor
- vein
- ham
Let’s write! ✍️
@mondaymicrofic
@mondaymicrofic #microfic #episodic #thriller #microficMonday
Episode One: The Middle
The photograph arrived in a white envelope without postage.
Maren set the photo on the kitchen table and studied the woman it depicted. She was dead. Bloodless, bisected at the waist, the two parts arranged at an odd angle.
It suggested…
She’d seen the Black Dahlia files. Everyone had. Chuck, that guy who ‘shares’ every ugly thing crept into her cube, glurping.
Gross.
But this woman’s body wasn’t posed like the Dahlia. Each half placed carefully. A clear pattern. Still shod in fancy-cut cowboy boots, layered at the top with an orange fringe.
If you drew lines between the relevant points…
Maren got a pencil.
The lines form a pyramid.
A precise isosceles, with the woman’s hands at the base vertices and her open mouth at the apex.
Maren flipped the photo over.
The message.
Handwritten. It feels plural, as if…many hands held the pen.
Plural? What?
“N0t THE FIRST, N0r THE LAST. ThIs Is THE MIddLE.”
06/22/26 story & prompts:
Truncated, Psychopomps, Banal, Reckon #MicroficMonday @mondaymicrofic
There is something in the atmosphere @FromOneLine
#vss365 #defenestrate #Batch #Putter
Wild Pasture #OurPoetryX
Our private peninsula #FoxProse
Summer Rains #pennedreveries
👇
@mondaymicrofic #microficMonday #EdnaAndTheMoonEgg
Chapter 9: The Reckoning
By the third hand, Elder Thistle’s idea revealed itself.
It was not pea soup.
It was not pinochle, either, though both had been useful to gather the crowd.
“I reckon,” she said, laying down her final card with a small triumphant snap, “that a certain young dragon has been quite truncated in her education.”
Cookie’s ears perked.
“You don’t know your own fire,” Thistle continued. “Orange when you’re warm. Blue when you’re sleepy. Magenta —” she eyed the steam still curling near the brittle — “when you’re being clever and pretending not to be.”
Cookie looked at her paw and cocked her head, frowning.
“Every color means something,” Thistle said. “I reckon it’s time someone taught you which.”
Edna went very still.
Luma stopped spinning entirely, which had never happened before.
The shapeshifter, still mostly chair, became person enough to lean forward.
“You knew about dragons,” Edna said slowly, “the whole time.”
“In particular,” said Elder Thistle, gathering the cards. “I know about Moon Egg Dragons.”
Cookie breathed, exuding a small, curious golden flame. It floated over her head like a crown.
No one had seen that one before.
@mondaymicrofic #microficMonday #EdnaAndTheMoonEgg
Chapter 8: Elder Thistle’s Terrible, Wonderful Idea
Elder Thistle found them by following the beetle festival.
She stood at the edge of the elderberry light, hat slightly singed, staff planted, expression unreadable in the way that meant she was reading everything.
“Pea soup,” she announced.
Everyone looked at her.
“For the beetles,” she said, as if this were obvious. “They’ve been dancing quite magically. They’ll be hungry.”
Edna raised an eyebrow.
Elder Thistle ignored Edna with aplomb, tossing her head magnificently. “Luma, inform Radicio we shall dine on pea soup for lunch.”
She settled herself on a root, produced a battered deck of pinochle cards from her apron pocket, and waved her hand. A bright blanket appeared which quickly blinked, turning dark grey.
Elder began to deal with the brisk efficiency of someone who had definitely not been planning this. “Sit. Every fairy must have mad pinochle skills.”
The shapeshifter became a chair so she’d be comfortable. Cookie immediately sat on the shapeshifter-chair, and they collapsed into a giggling pile.
Then, from the same apron pocket, Elder pulled a bow-wrapped square of peanut brittle. She set it in the moss, saying, “This is the prize. You win, it’s yours.”
Cookie sniffed it and blinked, slowly moving her paw over it. She blew a puff of magenta steam almost toward Elder.
Edna moseyed over and plopped down, taking her cards.
Luma spun in a frizzy circle and landed next to Edna. “That brittle is mine.”
With this, Elder Thistle’s terrible, wonderful idea — which she would never admit was an idea at all — began.
@mondaymicrofic #microficMonday #Edna #sap
Chapter 7: Luma in the Middle
The thing about will o’ wisps is they don’t mean to.
Luma never meant to lead Cookie into the elderberry patch. She was simply going that way and Cookie was simply following the light and the shapeshifter was simply following Cookie and well. This is simply how these things happen.
Luma glowed when she was happy. It was an ember glow, a spark spitting ka-swoosh plook kind of glow.
Luma was always happy.
This was, depending on who you asked, either a blessing or a significant operational problem.
“Luma,” Elder Thistle called from somewhere behind three bushes and a considerable amount of smoke, “why is everything sparkling?”
Luma opened her mouth.
Then closed it.
The honest answer was that she had gotten excited, which had made her sap rise, then glow, which had delighted Cookie, which had produced rainbows, which had inspired the shapeshifter to become a prism, which had
(in a sequence of events that made perfect sense from the inside)
resulted in the elderberry patch refracting light in seventeen directions simultaneously.
The beetles, always up for it, had decided to hold a festival, adding dark green and blue smushy swishes to the mix.
“It might be the shapeshifter,” Luma said.
The shapeshifter, currently a small brightly lit chandelier, said nothing.
Cookie wagged her tail and poofed one itsy flame.
Edna sat on a tree root, watching, her chin in her hand and smiling a smile she wasn’t bothering to hide.
This, she thought, is all exactly right.
Luma glowed a little brighter.
She couldn’t help it.
She never could. But this time, Edna thought she meant it.
#microficMonday #orbit #poem
Or Bit
She circles him, not touching
light crossing light,
knowing closeness might burn.
He hums
his gravity low…
drawing her nearer…
or bit
by bit unmaking her spin.
The silence stretching between them
becomes dynamic
no means ‘I’m afraid.’
maybe means ‘please stay.’
She forgets
which side of the line she started.
Every confession tastes of falling
falling
the words break apart
OR
leaving a door ajar,
the word
BIT
the tongue like metal.
Around and around their wanting turns,
faithful as planets, faithless as time,
mouth to mouth, or bit to bit, never quite whole
until they collide.
@mondaymicrofic #microficMonday free for all! I asked my El what to write. She’s been having trouble with some social aspects of second grade, so here we are:
Truth Is Always A Dare
They’re laughing.
The sound cuts the air in bright shards. It’s perfect, really. It’s all a broken mirror.
Someone says Truth or Dare, and the room shifts into choreography. Truth is a trap; Dare is a leash. Everyone knows, but no one wants to spoil the game.
First, Dares. Things meant to humiliate gently, easing in humming static before the storm. Kiss him. Drink that. Say it!
The laughter grows louder, a hive-mind pulse calibrating what’s acceptable. Buzzy synergy becomes syncretism: patchy, borrowed beliefs glom into an amalgam creed stitched from other people’s gods. Usually the one they see in their reflection.
Emmy breaks first, and declares her Truth: “I hate you all.”
Silence follows, the longest second in history.
Someone giggles. The rules warp. Emmy’s outburst is recategorized as a Dare. The others relax, forgiving her with pity-shaped smiles. The game resumes.
It always does. Emmy glances at the door, green eyes bright.
It’ll take time, but Emmy’s already gone.
#microficMonday! Choose your own 200 word adventure.
The theme for #MicroFictionMonday
March 2, 2026 is choose your own adventure!
Looking forward to seeing your stories!
@jaredleys
@SWAnimus01
@CorrinaBada
@jpmm000
@glassofbrycet
@CollingsMaccrae
@ToraBrinn
@AuthorGFAllen
The clamor was fading from his ears now.
He slumped against the tree, his face pointed directly east at the rising sun.
The wind gently blew through his hair, across the cuts that adorned him now.
He let his weapon fall to the ground as his eyes gently closed. #MicroficMonday
The warm sunlight could not mask the thick dread hanging in the air of the glen.
The forest was silent except for the branch snapping just out of view.
Any other day would have seemed so peaceful, but in that moment, it felt like midnight in a graveyard.
#microficmonday
Akhraaz looked at the lifeless body of the witch. It wasn’t sure what it felt: liberty? Or was this dread?
Carefully, he poked her arm, waiting to see if it would twitch or move.
But nothing.
Just a resounding silence that echoed out the door and into the woods. #microficmonday
Crawling through the ashes, she grasped at the lush, green grass at the edge of the smoldering pit. To their dismay, the attackers looked on in a horror as their opponent took form once more. Despite their might, they could not destroy what burns back to life. #MicroficMonday
Crawling through the ashes, she grasped at the lush, green grass at the edge of the smoldering pit. To their dismay, the attackers looked on in a horror as their opponent took form once more. Despite their might, they could not destroy what burns back to life. #microficmonday
She scanned the field, almost unrecognizable amidst the fire and death. Ten approached from the left, another eight on the right. Her left arm was broken and her sword felt heavy in her right hand. "I hope they made it beyond the gate," she said to herself.
#microficmonday
Happy birthday! Let's do this, #MicroficMonday!
1 reply = 1 seed growing into something unexpected.
1 respuesta = 1 semilla de algo inesperado.
He'd meant to save her. But as the color drained from her cheeks he knew nothing could. So he sat there, waiting for the end. #microficmonday
A nice man sat and held my hand today. He was so kind, listening to stories of my child. Henry always got mad when I told stories about him, but they brought a tear to my visitor. Funny thing is, he reminded me of my Henry. Too bad the nurse cut the visit short. #microficmonday
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