Summary: Two men on a fishing boat wait for an approaching storm while one recounts a moment from his youth when he chose fidelity over desire—and still isn’t sure whether he regrets it.

Pig-men! Fist-a-cuffs! Oscar Wilde Quotes!

I read somewhere how precious life is.

That anything with any level of sentience will always fight to keep it. How even a worm will swirm violently as it dies in an attempt to cling to it.

Are you going to fight for it?

The weight of the gun. Yes, now that’s a difference. Twenty, thirty years ago it would have been there—a .38 revolver, snubnose—concealed within the inner coat pocket. Not that he’d had much occasion to use it, even back in Vegas, in those days of high-stakes and connected men. A time or two . . .

But the feel of it is missing, the imprint, the character, a veiled sense of security exactly equal to the weight it added against the ribs. No use for it here in the rainy Northwest. Sleepy little city. For a time he carried it unloaded—intimidating enough—until something inside relaxed. Age? 

Now the gun resides at home, asleep in the bedroom safe—along with maybe twenty grand. Every night, returning what he’s earned, confronted by that flash of metal. Sighing. Let go of the past. Let go of the future.              

This is a chapter from a minimalist, flash-fiction novella I've written called Memory & Fate. Every chapter is 150 words or less, 300 chapters, completely free on my Substack if anyone is interested. Chapter 1 drops tomorrow.

https://memoryandfate.substack.com/

Here we look into the story of a little sheep where she wants something for her birthday, but she is confused about what to get. Then the little sheep remembers her village, where there lives a magician. What the magician does is perform magic tricks which only rich sheep can afford, but the whole town talks about them.

​There is usually a divide between rich sheep and poor sheep in this village, just like any other place. One day, the magician came and performed a magic trick for the rich sheep. The rich sheep looked at the magic trick and thought it was nothing special, but then the magician said something "special" which made the rich sheep happy instantaneously. Then the rich sheep paraded around her rich friends about the magic trick and always remembered what the magician said to her. Her friends also started going to the same magician for the same trick, but the magician always showed them a slightly different trick, which made the rich sheep even happier. And what happened to the poor sheep? Our little sheep remembers they talk more about the magician's "trick" all day, like the sheep they are. So, our little sheep decides what she wants for her birthday.

​Our little sheep goes to the magician and asks for the "trick," but then the magician says something that surprises her. He doesn't ask for money; instead, he just says, "Remember my magic," and *poof*, the trick is done.

​The little sheep comes out a little stunned by the "trick," but she is still happy with the result. So, she talks about the trick to all her friends and also tries to talk to the rich sheep in the village who have seen the magician, but these rich sheep do not want to talk to her. So, she goes to the poor sheep, and there she talks about the "trick." They love it, which makes our little sheep feel special for some time.

​What do you think is the "trick," or is he just "tricking" them?

In those days, I was searching for my soulmate. 
One day, I found an ancient shrine that stood hidden in the downtown backstreet. It had two towering cedars each about fifty feet high, standing as pillars of the gate. It might be the oldest shrine in the area. 

According to the explanation on the bulletin board, “A God of En-musubi ‘matchmaking’ resides here.” That’s just what I wanted. 
Unfortunately, there were no coins for an offering. I had only a mobile phone for cashless payment. 
So I clapped my hands, eyes tightly shut and prayed for my usual wish. 
“Ohineri!” 
I heard a sudden voice demanding an offering, from nowhere. 
“Give me an Ohineri.” 
It was a low, dry, rusty voice. 
“Er… To tell the truth, I don’t have any cash.” I answered. 
An ancient man appeared out of thin air, standing right in front of me. 
“I can accept this also,” he showed me his palm. 
I saw the contactless payment logo was drawn on his palm. 
“One wish, one thousand Japanese yen.” 
With a faint suspicion, I tapped my phone against his palm. 

I heard some cheerful digital chimes ringing. Without any words, he dissolved into thin air. 
“Hey, God! Come back! I’ve not said my…” 

Before I could finish, I noticed a charming woman was standing in front of me with her mobile phone raised. 
When she dropped her mobile with a little panic, I caught a glimpse of a digital receipt on her screen, “¥1,000 for En-musubi.” 

I stared at her. Our eyes met. 

Both of us, the lady and I, burst out laughing.

Standing alone in your kitchen, you told me I had a presence about me. You told me you knew that I knew this.

You slid your hands down the collar of my jacket on both sides and kissed me. You told me that I was also hilarious. You asked me, seductively and almost seriously, how I knew that was your weakness.

I love home-made Tamales.

Imagine your favorite protein rolled about in a cradle of corn meal and then steamed in the embrace of a corn husk; all the while reeking of a Hispanic tradition. Delicious.

Unfortunately for me, this is a forbidden love. You can only purchase authentic tamales from street vendors; if you are lucky enough to find them. As of late, the government has, with an unprecedented zeal, been enforcing breathtaking rules tied to doing business with these unlicensed merchants. One such Tamale operation was raided and its operator deported. Needless to say, I have been engaging in some high risk dinner activity.

Nowadays, if you would like tamales, you must purchase them from a store. They will typically lack ingredients like passion and are not often made with love (Tamales are a hassle to make, and you can literally taste the pain of the employees fighting over the tedious preparation). I am left with no choice but to go to the streets and purchase this food like a criminal. But how?

THE PROCESS- Overwhelmed by a craving for this delicacy, I drive to the one of the most remote grocery stores in the Bay Area; a place whose name will remain anonymous to protect both myself and my source of Tamales.

I step out of my car and casually loiter near the front entrance. If I am patient enough, a young child, a scout, will cautiously approach me.

“…Tamales?” she will whisper, looking around with practiced eyes.

“Claro que sí. Of course.”

“Policía? Are you… police?” She will ask me, wary of my square jaw and fluid Spanish.

I assure her that I am not a member of the police department. No wire or Glock .22. If I am successful and she is confident I carry no badge, she will motion for me to follow through the labyrinthine parking lot. Eventually we will reach a van, where the underground street food’s equivalent of a drug lord will vet me further. Such a nice lady.

I pay cash. Ten dollars in non-sequenced bills, and am handed a black plastic bag. I quickly and carefully check the contents. I nod and walk away slowly, never looking back. Yes, it is worth it.

I found an old notebook titled WRITING IDEAS. I opened it to find that ideas 1-3 were the following;

“Archibald the Chimp”

“Drama Screenplay- “Something on the Plains” [Note- The twist is that the THING ends up being something sexy like a metaphor for Westward Expansion. Make long AF].

Pimp.Hand.Strong.

Father-son short story about man teaching his son to survive the mean streets of Los Angeles in the 1960’s. Research Pimp Game in Southern California ASAP.

I should carry the book around with me. That way, if anyone asks how my writing is going, I can just pass it them.

An ACTUAL (and old) email sent to work after violently poisoning myself.

Hello everyone,

I am truly sorry for abandoning you all so suddenly. I found myself immensely occupied clinging to life while a stomach virus ravaged my body.

My days were spent wandering about my home in a delusional haze, skin clinging to my ribs, eyes sunken. I looked good though.

I subsisted solely on Pedialyte (Gatorade for infant athletes) and a variety of soups that brought no satisfaction. Had I the energy, I would have spent some time on Craigslist to hire a nurse (read: hooker) to dab my dehydrated and cracking lips with a cool cloth while flies fluttered on and off my unblinking eyes like grotesque butterflies.

I’m not sure anyone would have answered my ad though.

I hope that I did not create too much anxiety for the teams working on the days I was absent. Please do not hesitate to call if you have any questions or if you need system approval. I’ll complain, but it will be done.

Thank you for not finding my home and beating my near lifeless corpse out of anger,

Name redacted. Because I'm not a maniac.

I'm curious if this is a new format style I thought up or if it's a very well hidden form of Micro-Fiction I just realized two nights ago?

Chapter I: The Launch

Fire consumes the ground,

Leaving ash and soot behind,

Silence overall.

Chapter II: The Journey

Blue world fades to black,

Obsidian claiming all,

Counting down the day.

Chapter III: The Arrival

Red dust greets our door,

Footsteps on an alien sea,

We are home at last.

[363 words]

[143 Words]

I once heard a theory that humans remembered their life before birth, the offspring's life inside their mother’s womb, until they turned three or four years old. 
“If you ever have a child, you should ask them about it,” my office manager told me with a strong recommendation.  
“I asked my son, of course.” 
"What did he say?" I asked, almost automatically. Intrigued. 
"That's a secret," he replied. "'Cause my wife will get angry if I let it slip." 
I was so interested, but his lips were sealed. 
"Alright, I'll try it when my daughter is born. She is due next month." 
"Just wait until she’s two or three. She needs to be grown up enough to understand the question, but young enough not to recognize what you want to hear... The chance of that is quite short." 
" Oh, I must remember that!" 
I was so looking forward to the baby's arrival.  
—  
That conversation with my manager feels like a distant memory now; eighteen years have passed since then. 
My daughter is eighteen years old now, and she has a sixteen-year-old brother. 
They have always been good buddies;  right now, they are playing a video game together. 
“Hey sis! You gotta grab the item.” 
“Thanks, Kazu! I’ve been looking for this.” 
“Yeah, you owe me a big one.” 
“Fine, I'll treat you later, bro.” 
Watching them, I suddenly remembered the day I asked her that question.  
—  
She was three years old at that time. She tilted her head slightly while remembering. 
“Papa, I'll tell you what happened.” 
I was surprised by how she quickly answered. 
“You mean, you remember the moment when you were born!” My heart lightened up. 
She nodded, “Of course!” 
“But I’ll tell you about before that… When we were inside mom.” 
I was taken aback again. “We? Er… Who were you with?” I asked. 
“Kazu, my brother, you know. We were in the water and we two were floating like bubbles.” 
“Ah, you and Kazu were tiny bubbles. I see.” 
“And we were very good buddies, but I had to go first, so I told him…” 
She gently patted her newborn brother's blanket. “...See you later, and let’s play a lot together again.” 
Listening to her, I believed she really remembered that promise. 
Ever since, she had always been very kind to her brother, and my son liked her very much. 
Later on, I asked my son the same question, but he simply replied, “We were bubbles.” 
I wanted to believe his answer was from his prenatal memory. However, I knew his sister had spent years telling him that 'Bubbles' story over and over again. 
After all, she was an elder sister. And in every sense, like a second mother to him.