It had been Agatha’s request: black on canvas, peeling.
Beneath a partially dissolved top coat, black was reduced to an irregular shine. The underbelly peered out, and the absence there–Agatha craved it.
It was a specter's form between the muted and the gleam, suspended within the oil and acrylic. It was a nuclear shadow reaching toward an unseen light and hunched in a void of sharp crevices and expanding paint.
Agatha asked her husband to hang it between the south-facing windows, across from the butter-colored daybed. From it, the gaping hole dissected the view of manicured lawns and monarch butterflies.
* * *
Thank you for reading! This is part of a micro fiction series where I take a photo and write a story inspired by it. Each story is 100 words.
I actually wrote two stories for the same photograph. I tweaked the featured photo for this one, to (perhaps lamely) attempt to avoid confusion. I'll link the other below:
And if you want to read more in this series, you might enjoy this one:
About the Creator
Mackenzie Davis
Most stories are reverted to Drafts, but will keep up resources & posts that hold community significance. May drop in for tips or updates.
My love & gratitude to you all.
It's time to pivot.
Boycott ALL A.I. \ Copyright Mackenzie Davis
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More stories from Mackenzie Davis and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Dancing in Sunbeams
You called them angels, but I felt their weight as an avalanche burying my last breath. They froze me in their coverings, and as I stood, I watched you dance between. We were unreachable to each other in that moment. Your words trilled in the alleyway, “It’s like church in the street!” and my groans of pain sunk below your energy. How could such suspension polarize us like this? You leapt every minute or so until you caught a handle and I hunched over the prodding cobblestones. It was the last moment I saw you before they caught you up.
By Mackenzie Davis3 years ago in Fiction
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"Stay groovy," I exclaim as I finish my timeslot at 12pm. I stand and step away from the DJ booth. Musicians filter in as I walk through the studio room. The common room is filling up with artists. Hippie's Hangout springs alive as it re-opens following the deep cleaning. I normally sit down in the common room and observe the atmosphere. People carry their tools of their art. Magic, our resident 12pm to 4pm DJ, walks through the room, nodding at me, towards the studio room. He spins a lot of soulful music. He's an African gentleman in his fifties who DJ'd in several countries for a couple of decades. Sometimes he plays fascinating tribal music. Magic's been with us for a few years now.
By James Staskusa day ago in Fiction
The Angry Man in Your House
"If you grow up with an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house" This statement has caused plenty of controversy online, people say its a statement that blames victims while also undermining those who break traumatic cycles to form health relationships... but if I'm honest now that I'm in my 30s it makes more sense to me than ever, and I'd argue that its not just about fathers and uncles.
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Comments (3)
Well now...this was a great bit of chin-stroking and thought-provoking microfiction. So little said, so much unsaid, so many questions. Love these little challenges you set yourself too! Impressive stuff, Mackenzie!
Oooo, this was so profound! You never fail to amaze me with these photo inspired microfiction!
We enjoyed this, as much for what is said as what is implied. Interesting to contemplate.💙Anneliese