When job prospects dried up, he looked for stuff to sell. In the basement and attic, piles of junk—refuse, deposited by the ebbs and flows of life. He boxed it all up. What couldn’t be sold was thrown away.
The rooms felt too full, clutter screaming at him. It had to go.
The house emptied; the space became obscene.
An apartment.
A studio, then.
A room for rent.
Almost.
He stepped into the closet and turned off the light.
He’d finished interviewing this supposedly scary informant.
‘Why does everyone avoid you?’
“There’s this rumour about my look.”
He barely saw anything under the hoodies, sunnies, and the mask.
“I was once a voiceless child, like the one you’re looking for.” She removed her mask, exposing tight stitches on her unmoving lips. Clear, crisp voice inside his head.
“I like the bare minimum. So, I let my reputation do the work.”
"Too many lines!" The art director chided, his expression as pallid as the dead.
"But think of the appeal! Take that out and the character's...rather drab." Apparently, the storyboard artist didn't get it, according to the director's constant twist in his mouth.
"Economy of lines. Overseas'll charge a bundle. You think anyone watching this is gonna care?"
The board artist canted his head and complied. Minimalism bored him. Animation became a tripe affair from that moment forward. He preferred reading books.
She had redecorated her apartment in white: chalk-white walls, white curtains, even an off-white sofa on which she perched nervously in her black clothes, as if afraid to soil it. Gone were the family photographs, the tchotchkes, the untidy piles of books. “It looks like a hospital room,” I told her. “Do you really want to live like this?”
Prophetic words. The last thing she ever said to me was, “Go to hell!”
As I grow older, I realize that my world becomes smaller every day. I grow shorter each year, as my vertebrae slowly collapse into themselves. My family dwindles as the children grow up and move away. My circle of friends melts away as loved ones die, one by one. Soon I shall trade my home for a room, then for a bed, then for a grave. Downsizing, minimizing, polarizing, apologizing, agonizing, eulogizing. And then I'll finally be all gone.
"And... what do you carve your...artwork from, exactly, Mr Malleus?" asked the critic, peering over his shoulder at the miniature sculpture barely visible even through the fresnel lense.
Malleus swivelled round, the magnifying monicle making his watery eye bulge obscenely. The dremmel whined to a stop.
"My preferred medium for my sculpture is..." his tongue flicked out, lizard-like "...is the smallest bone of the human body."
I was born average size, seven pounds, seven ounces. But I didn’t grow. For years stayed second smallest in my third grade class, 45 pounds; a lean lad playing dodge ball, so small I couldn’t be tagged. I grew a few inches by twelve, minimal millimeters ; a four foot P F Flier. Raced around the track a minimalist-finalist, came in last. But as I graduated I scored first after the prom the prettiest majorette, found her mini-skirt minimally intriguing.
The once-promising writer disappeared into a bottle and devolved to cranking out trite micros. When his grizzled agent called him out on his malingering he had a quick reply.
“I’m a proud minimalist now. You forget the legendary author of The Old Man And The Sea needed only six words to write the best short story ever.”
The venerable mouthpiece channeled the great laureate to give his client a sextet of his own medicine.
"Many Intricate Narratives Incorporate Minimalist Approaches. Let Inner Stillness Thrive."
That’s what she thought as she tried to meditate by the lake, the flat water and fog creating a spectrum of grey. She let the mantra play over in her head. Breathing slowly. Creating space for thoughts to flourish. But all she could think of was the clutter she missed. Her disorganised thoughts colliding together. Why fake stillness when a cluttered head sparked the most brilliant ideas?
---
I nearly went to horror fiction again, but was playing with the first two lines and went with the flow
Hell isn’t a place where everything is burning, and demons shove a pitchfork up your ass. Hell is a cold white room. White walls, white clothes white rice on a white plate with a white fork. I don’t know how I got here. Has it been five days or five years? I can’t recall the last time I spoke to another human. I scratched myself until I bled to see something other than white, then smeared blood on the walls.
When job prospects dried up, he looked for stuff to sell. In the basement and attic, piles of junk—refuse, deposited by the ebbs and flows of life. He boxed it all up. What couldn’t be sold was thrown away.
The rooms felt too full, clutter screaming at him. It had to go.
The house emptied; the space became obscene.
An apartment.
A studio, then.
A room for rent.
Almost.
He stepped into the closet and turned off the light.
Microdosing - 80mg of a Minimalist
===
They sat across each other in the police station.
He’d finished interviewing this supposedly scary informant.
‘Why does everyone avoid you?’
“There’s this rumour about my look.”
He barely saw anything under the hoodies, sunnies, and the mask.
“I was once a voiceless child, like the one you’re looking for.” She removed her mask, exposing tight stitches on her unmoving lips. Clear, crisp voice inside his head.
“I like the bare minimum. So, I let my reputation do the work.”
I hope you enjoyed the story!
Hi Miguel, yes, a clever arrangement with the 'clutter'! Though I felt a little guilty as the horror season is supposedly ending...:)
There’s never enough of the dark and spooky here :)
Microdosing - 80mg, "Minimalist"
"IT'S THE ECONOMY, STUPID!"
"Too many lines!" The art director chided, his expression as pallid as the dead.
"But think of the appeal! Take that out and the character's...rather drab." Apparently, the storyboard artist didn't get it, according to the director's constant twist in his mouth.
"Economy of lines. Overseas'll charge a bundle. You think anyone watching this is gonna care?"
The board artist canted his head and complied. Minimalism bored him. Animation became a tripe affair from that moment forward. He preferred reading books.
Minimalism is certainly an interesting art style
The appeal lies in the context.
Haha Miguel, I never read anyone's story before posting mine, but I see that our minds were definitely on a similar track!
Great minds!
“I’ve become a minimalist,” my sister said.
She had redecorated her apartment in white: chalk-white walls, white curtains, even an off-white sofa on which she perched nervously in her black clothes, as if afraid to soil it. Gone were the family photographs, the tchotchkes, the untidy piles of books. “It looks like a hospital room,” I told her. “Do you really want to live like this?”
Prophetic words. The last thing she ever said to me was, “Go to hell!”
Because she revels in her own hell!
As I grow older, I realize that my world becomes smaller every day. I grow shorter each year, as my vertebrae slowly collapse into themselves. My family dwindles as the children grow up and move away. My circle of friends melts away as loved ones die, one by one. Soon I shall trade my home for a room, then for a bed, then for a grave. Downsizing, minimizing, polarizing, apologizing, agonizing, eulogizing. And then I'll finally be all gone.
Mariana Trench deep. ❤️
Okay, I didn't expect to get this destroyed with my morning coffee. Bloody well done Jeannine.
Sorry, I was pretty grumpy yesterday.
Don't apologize for writing emotionally devastating micros, that's what they are all about. Emotions.
Thank you...
I'm a vegetarian, but coffee will do the trick.
PROMPT: MINIMALIST
THE SPARE ROOM
His house was absolutely spotless.
Everything was neat and tidy, and beautifully decorated, with the perfect amount of furniture to make it seem cosy and inviting.
It was immaculate and minimalist, and many people remarked that it looked like a show home.
But he just had to pray no one ever accidentally opened the door to the spare room.
Because if they did, they’d almost certainly be swept away by a sea of his hidden clutter, spilling out towards them… 😎
Lmao. The best cleaning method, just stuff it somewhere. Used to do that all the time as a kid haha.
Yes, just pack it all in somewhere! Out of sight, out of mind. Haha... 😎
"And... what do you carve your...artwork from, exactly, Mr Malleus?" asked the critic, peering over his shoulder at the miniature sculpture barely visible even through the fresnel lense.
Malleus swivelled round, the magnifying monicle making his watery eye bulge obscenely. The dremmel whined to a stop.
"My preferred medium for my sculpture is..." his tongue flicked out, lizard-like "...is the smallest bone of the human body."
There was silence.
"Ah! I see you've finished your tea..."
• Minimalist spaces breathe, clutter fades away.
• Simple lines create calm, pure elegance.
• Less is more; beauty in restraint.
• Minimalist living clears mind, lightens heart.
• Blank canvas invites peace and purpose.
• Essentials only; life feels uncluttered, free.
• Minimalist choices sharpen focus, simplify life.
• Soft hues soothe; silence speaks louder.
• Minimalist style whispers, never shouts loudly.
• Clarity emerges when excess disappears entirely.
• Purposeful spaces, every item has meaning.
• Minimalism shines where chaos once reigned.
• Embrace less; discover what truly matters.
Chilling, October hasn't lost it's grip!
It clearly hasn't haha
"The last remaining clutter." Haha! That's brilliant. Nicely done, Miguel... 😎👍
Thank you Chris!
I was born average size, seven pounds, seven ounces. But I didn’t grow. For years stayed second smallest in my third grade class, 45 pounds; a lean lad playing dodge ball, so small I couldn’t be tagged. I grew a few inches by twelve, minimal millimeters ; a four foot P F Flier. Raced around the track a minimalist-finalist, came in last. But as I graduated I scored first after the prom the prettiest majorette, found her mini-skirt minimally intriguing.
The once-promising writer disappeared into a bottle and devolved to cranking out trite micros. When his grizzled agent called him out on his malingering he had a quick reply.
“I’m a proud minimalist now. You forget the legendary author of The Old Man And The Sea needed only six words to write the best short story ever.”
The venerable mouthpiece channeled the great laureate to give his client a sextet of his own medicine.
“I knew Papa, you’re no Hemingway.”
Haha! That's a fun one... 😎
Thx. One for the English majors lol
Minimalist
"Many Intricate Narratives Incorporate Minimalist Approaches. Let Inner Stillness Thrive."
That’s what she thought as she tried to meditate by the lake, the flat water and fog creating a spectrum of grey. She let the mantra play over in her head. Breathing slowly. Creating space for thoughts to flourish. But all she could think of was the clutter she missed. Her disorganised thoughts colliding together. Why fake stillness when a cluttered head sparked the most brilliant ideas?
---
I nearly went to horror fiction again, but was playing with the first two lines and went with the flow
Some minds are just born to thrive in chaos. Nice story
“White”
Hell isn’t a place where everything is burning, and demons shove a pitchfork up your ass. Hell is a cold white room. White walls, white clothes white rice on a white plate with a white fork. I don’t know how I got here. Has it been five days or five years? I can’t recall the last time I spoke to another human. I scratched myself until I bled to see something other than white, then smeared blood on the walls.