Micro Monday

TGLR Presents ~ Micro Monday

Micro Monday features brief fiction, cnf, and poetry. It’s like a shot of literary adrenaline to jump start your week.

This Week’s Feature…

How to Hear God While Making Thanksgiving Dinner by Charlene Pierce

The turkey is raw and waiting to be stuffed. The pies are done. The oven isn’t beeping yet, or maybe it is, but you can’t hear it, and you smell the browning crust taking over the pumpkin’s spices. You used to make them by hand, back when you had time or when you thought you had time. Your priorities were different then, and you only had two daughters. Mothers now, sitting ear to ear, talking as sisters do, only to each other…

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Beach House by Hannah Miet

I was new to LA It was November and wind-cold the kind you feel in your clavicles, and I’d thrown away or sold all my winter jackets

I shivered by the ocean and did hot yoga and got yeast infections and wrote a rich kid’s USC essay…


End Game by Laura Brown

We chased them in circles, kicking up clouds of dust – big, cumulus columns of fine red dirt – until, giggling and screaming, we were outside of ourselves, wound up into something like madness, at which point Gran would bang open the screen door and yell at us to cut it out and leave them…


My Life as a Frog by Tina Kimbrell

I spent my days in a pond with the frogs. I stood with the tiniest tadpoles and the tadpoles caught in the in-between, their little legs sprouting from their bulbous teardrop bodies. My body loomed among them—a foreign pulse…


the come back by Simone Flynn

there’s a moment when you fall into the long way home and you are driving by yourself  your windows are down your child’s takeout  saag paneer and naan  in the back seat  and you go the long way home down southeast street  and then just one street more…


Elvidarium by Kay Sexton

I’d never spoken to Ronita before we covered synesthesia in English class. To start with her name was weird, and she was weird. She always had chewed off nail varnish and how is that possible? There has to be a day when it’s perfect, surely?

I knew, from the moment Miss Perkins defined synaesthesia, which…


Papier-mâché by Rosa Crepax

14.45 My meteorite feet sink deeper in the ground with each conquered breath. It’s 14.45 when plaster starts cracking, vaulting the premature dusk. Some ancient soothsayer must have talked about this. A thunder of void runs atop fields that fear has dried out. No one leaves in a hurry; time is asleep, yet the city’s…


Obit by Kait Quinn

Strapless dress—died in a hungover heap on a humid July morning in 2010. After I peeled it from my own wet carcass, let it dead bouquet wilt at the bottom of my trash can with the eggshells and coffee grounds, receipt after receipt for antibacterial soap. I did not wear the dress, the dress wore…

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