⧉ Microfictional romance
Welcome to the thirty-third issue of OVERLAP ⧉
Microfictional romance
They were making breakfast — the usual Sunday morning routine. Eggs, sprinkled with grated parmesan cheese and and a few shakes of black pepper, fried in a bit of olive oil until the edges crisped. A couple slices of sourdough bread from the market. And strong coffee, of course.
Usually, they sat in silence, punctuated only by the crisp flipping of newspaper pages. Saul liked to shake each section, then smooth out the broadsheet. But this Sunday was different.
Bette turned on the radio. It startled Saul at first. He looked up as she twisted the dial beyond the static. A few notes of twangy sitar guitar, then Stevie Wonder’s golden voice burst from the speaker like a ray of sunshine. “Here I am — signed, sealed, delivered, I’m yours...” Saul tried to concentrate on the paper, but couldn’t help wiggling in his chair. Each tambourine slap felt electric. Bette was tapping her feet. Soon, the urge to move sent them spinning around the room. “Ooo-wee babe you set my soul on fire...” They spun and spun, whirling into the hallway, down the steps, out on the street, a blur of never-ending motion.
The food, on the other hand, simply stood on the table and cooled, minute by minute, and then by days.
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In my monthly writing group, we’ve been experimenting with trading prompts — a phrase or a scenario for others to write about. This time, we wrote an ending line on a scrap of paper and traded sentences. Less than 25 minutes later, we were reading our stories out loud. Dean Hunt wrote the last sentence in the tiny story above; I filled in the rest.
There’s something about this type of exercise that stretches me in a very pleasant way. It’s time-limited and not at all precious. Somehow, strangely, I always end up writing fiction — even though I don’t consider myself to be a fiction writer at all. It’s nice to briefly pop out of my well-worn groove now and then.
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Auntie Jess recommends:
Not-so-secret admirers. The gluten-free mini cupcakes were delivered without a note, but I immediately knew who sent them.
Secondhand stores. They’re like museums of everyday life — and all the objects are for sale.
The smell of 300-year-old trees. If you’re selling a bougie “atmosphere mist” that will make my New York apartment smell like a Japanese forest, I’m probably going to buy it.
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Thanks for reading. I’d love to hear from you — hit reply or send a message through my website to tell me about your favorite thrift shops, obscure scents, or anything else that’s on your mind. You can also forward this to a friend or two and invite them to subscribe. If you missed a previous issue, all the archives are online.
Until next time,
Jessica
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