Microfiction by Knute Rimkus
They lived in a white microhouse. It was a shoebox, for baby shoes, in the Varane neighborhood. Their neighbors lived in shoeboxes too. This misery did not love company.
They ate dinner quickly. She thought the steak was too red and only ate half. She drank water. Murdoch drank a Cutty Sark on the rocks. Then he drank another. The sounds of neighbors’ televisions drifted through the window, accompanied by the occasional smack of flies being executed in the zapper on the back porch.
In the night he woke up. She snored lightly, her back to him. Smack! A fly died. He got up and walked around the house. It didn’t take long. He poured himself another scotch, a double, and walked out onto the porch.
He sat in his pajamas and drank. The street lights were bright. He could see the fat fly before it hit the zapper. It flew in fast circles. What was it looking for? It was over in a flash — a blue flash. Murdoch slumped as if he had been shot.
