Leo savored the salty-sweet air and warm, soft sand between his toes. He watched waves crash over boulders. Something lapped at his feet, cat-like. Filmy, eye-studded, tentacle-sized tongues exploded from the sand and coiled around his tan, tattooed, sinewy arms and legs. He wrenched his limbs free—but more tongues burst from below—wrapped around him and dragged him beneath the beach.
There’s a city out there. Drowned. They say the ocean’s still rising and it won’t stop. Once you could take out a boat, peer down through the green water, see the cathedral. Water’s too rough these days, waves too fierce. But when there’s a wild tide, if you listen, you can hear the bells tolling. They’re getting louder.
I had been carried far from shore as a huge wave broke over my head. Gasping, I spat out the cold salt water, kicking violently as I tried to swim against the current. At last I reached solid ground, hurled into the shallows by the raging surf.
The beach stretched endless before me, waves kissing the shore as I traced patterns in the sand, the sun dipping low. A shell, half-buried, gleamed—smooth, broken, beautiful. I held it close, listening. The ocean hummed, whispering secrets only the lonely could hear. Footsteps approached. A hand reached out, warm and steady. Familiar eyes met mine. Maybe I wasn’t lost anymore.
I like your micro, but I'm trying to figure out if it's happy or sad. I'm leaning towards thinking that this is a story about a young man picking a wildly inappropriate time and place to propose, but his future wife accepts anyway. 😁
Jess desperately wanted a beach trip, but Granddad couldn't travel anymore.
After she left for school, Granddad called some friends. By afternoon, they'd created a miniature beach in the backyard, complete with a ton of sand, a stock tank of water, and a tiny wave machine.
Jess spent the rest of the summer happily building sand castles with her grandfather.
Palisades fire storm wiped PCH beachfront properties. Ashes left, restaurants gone, no fish or clams baked at Moonstone Beachfront. French fried seagulls are left. Getty museum saved, but old 1920s Joya’s speakeasy gone. Histories, Shell-shocked; the tide pulls waves strings, past tense.— no surfer Safari dolphin kicks. Hobie cats have to wait for beach sand healing..
Let me just put this on the record—I was your first paid subscriber. First! I committed my credit card information on April 1, 2024, which should tell you everything about my decision-making skills. Who starts a financial relationship on April Fool's Day? Someone either remarkably confident or spectacularly unconcerned with omens.
What a wild, wonderful ride it's been. Nearly a year now of daily literary confessionals, and I have relished every prompt. This might be my longest functional relationship since my twenties. I've ended friendships that demanded less consistency than your Substack and my unwavering participation in it.
Forty batches of collected brilliance, and I've been there through almost all of them, like the person who shows up early to every dinner party and stays to help with dishes. There's something almost pathologically committed about it, isn't there? If I had a therapist, she would have a field day.
Your comments feel like a personal acknowledgment of what I've been revealing in the 40to60 word increments since last spring. I paid good money to be seen like this, and honestly, it's the best investment I've made since buying Apple stock (which I didn't, but should have, which is a different regret altogether).
Keep collecting our words, Miguel. Some of us have been measuring our lives in prompts and submissions since that fateful day when I decided paying for words was better than paying for therapy.
That's amazing, I think we've been here about the same amount of time. It's almost a year for me, too. I discovered Microfiction through this page, and it's been one of my favourite things to write ever since... 😎
Thank you , Miguel !
“Lickman’s Beach”
Leo savored the salty-sweet air and warm, soft sand between his toes. He watched waves crash over boulders. Something lapped at his feet, cat-like. Filmy, eye-studded, tentacle-sized tongues exploded from the sand and coiled around his tan, tattooed, sinewy arms and legs. He wrenched his limbs free—but more tongues burst from below—wrapped around him and dragged him beneath the beach.
On the beach
There’s a city out there. Drowned. They say the ocean’s still rising and it won’t stop. Once you could take out a boat, peer down through the green water, see the cathedral. Water’s too rough these days, waves too fierce. But when there’s a wild tide, if you listen, you can hear the bells tolling. They’re getting louder.
BEACH (60)
If I panic now, I’ll drown.
I had been carried far from shore as a huge wave broke over my head. Gasping, I spat out the cold salt water, kicking violently as I tried to swim against the current. At last I reached solid ground, hurled into the shallows by the raging surf.
I kissed the wet sand.
Gorgeous photos! I've seen many beaches, but never a frozen one. Latvia must be amazing.
It was really nice! I was pleasently surprised by the trip there.
Thanks Miguel for another fun batch and thanks for the mention.
Microfiction - 60mg of a Beach
===
The ocean breeze was so nice.
The sun was just right.
The wave’s sound was soothing.
He loved the feeling of the sand beneath his back, as he stretched out his arms and legs.
He yawned and rolled to his side.
The little vacation was over as he heard his tradie mates yelling at him.
Lunch break was so short.
60 mg of a beach
🏖️
The beach stretched endless before me, waves kissing the shore as I traced patterns in the sand, the sun dipping low. A shell, half-buried, gleamed—smooth, broken, beautiful. I held it close, listening. The ocean hummed, whispering secrets only the lonely could hear. Footsteps approached. A hand reached out, warm and steady. Familiar eyes met mine. Maybe I wasn’t lost anymore.
🏝️
In the blackness of his closet Tom showed me the glass, tiny as a Tic Tac.
“It’s really rare,” he said.
“Why orange?” I said. I’d never seen orange sea glass, and never glow-in-the-dark sea glass.
“I have no idea,” he said, laughing.
“Are we going to get radium poisoning or something?”
“Probably,” he said. Then tried to kiss me.
I forgot to use the word. 🤦🏻♀️
So...
Take two:
In the blackness Tom holds up the glass, tiny as a bean.
"Why orange?" I say.
"I know. It's so rare. And I found it right there on the beach!"
"Are we going to get radium poisoning or something?"
"Probably."
He tries to kiss me and I scream. Out loud.
Evan yells to see if I’m okay.
“Sshh,” Tom teases.
*Thanks for the mention, Miguel. Appreciate it.
Prompt: Beach / 60 Words
Sea is glass. Utter darkness, stars above.
He’s delirious, hugging a broken mast.
A distant soft noise comes, goes.
Gone.
There it is again.
His head comes up unsteadily. Confused mind whirling. Ahead a white line appears, disappears
Soft hushing noise returns.
A voice, not his own, whispers…breaking surf...beach.
He slowly kicks with numb, wooden legs. Hopeless and hopeful.
I like your micro, but I'm trying to figure out if it's happy or sad. I'm leaning towards thinking that this is a story about a young man picking a wildly inappropriate time and place to propose, but his future wife accepts anyway. 😁
That is exactly it!
Whew, then happy it is!
Thank you for the mention, it's humbling and wonderful to have a story tucked in among so many great ones!
Jess desperately wanted a beach trip, but Granddad couldn't travel anymore.
After she left for school, Granddad called some friends. By afternoon, they'd created a miniature beach in the backyard, complete with a ton of sand, a stock tank of water, and a tiny wave machine.
Jess spent the rest of the summer happily building sand castles with her grandfather.
60 Beach
Palisades fire storm wiped PCH beachfront properties. Ashes left, restaurants gone, no fish or clams baked at Moonstone Beachfront. French fried seagulls are left. Getty museum saved, but old 1920s Joya’s speakeasy gone. Histories, Shell-shocked; the tide pulls waves strings, past tense.— no surfer Safari dolphin kicks. Hobie cats have to wait for beach sand healing..
Darling Miguel,
Let me just put this on the record—I was your first paid subscriber. First! I committed my credit card information on April 1, 2024, which should tell you everything about my decision-making skills. Who starts a financial relationship on April Fool's Day? Someone either remarkably confident or spectacularly unconcerned with omens.
What a wild, wonderful ride it's been. Nearly a year now of daily literary confessionals, and I have relished every prompt. This might be my longest functional relationship since my twenties. I've ended friendships that demanded less consistency than your Substack and my unwavering participation in it.
Forty batches of collected brilliance, and I've been there through almost all of them, like the person who shows up early to every dinner party and stays to help with dishes. There's something almost pathologically committed about it, isn't there? If I had a therapist, she would have a field day.
Your comments feel like a personal acknowledgment of what I've been revealing in the 40to60 word increments since last spring. I paid good money to be seen like this, and honestly, it's the best investment I've made since buying Apple stock (which I didn't, but should have, which is a different regret altogether).
Keep collecting our words, Miguel. Some of us have been measuring our lives in prompts and submissions since that fateful day when I decided paying for words was better than paying for therapy.
That's amazing, I think we've been here about the same amount of time. It's almost a year for me, too. I discovered Microfiction through this page, and it's been one of my favourite things to write ever since... 😎
And, you thrive in microfictioning!
Thanks! Your contributions are always wonderful, as well... 😎
It is. I really love everyone's work. So many creatives in one spot!
Thank You Miguel for the mention in “Bubble” 😀