The city touches him; her hands—today—are as black as coal and as warm as any fever. A storm of pigeons has settled and stilled itself, and Mirek sits on a park bench watching them as the city—beside him—reads his flesh with her uncanny, inhuman fingers. She is beautiful today though something in her gestures recall an ancient karakuri: there are dozens of them in the Museum of Antiquated Machines. Karakuri: tea-serving dolls from ancient Japan. “Jeste pořád osamělý?” she asks; she knows his language as well as he does, as if she’s always known him, as if they’ve always spoken to one another. He closes his eyes. “Please,” he says quietly and in the second of three languages he speaks. “Don’t make me talk about this today.” She pulls her caress from the side of his face and a chill wafts through the stubble on his jaw. Like any city, she appears as she wishes and now—beside him—she wears skin as black as ink spilled in darkness. Though he sees a woman in her shape, he cannot discern the angles, lines, and planes of her face: she doesn’t have one, as far as he can tell; though perhaps she wears a face visible only to strangers. “Yes,” she says with what sounds like resigned sadness. “You’ve answered my question.” “Please—” —but she silences him with one finger pressed to his lips. She leans close, as if to kiss him, but whispers in his ear, instead. “Tonight,” she says. “Go for beer at Three Sofias, and talk to the stranger at the main bar: the one sitting alone but making small-talk with the bartender. Speak to him in English, if you want, and enjoy the sound of his voice. Do it for me, and if that’s not reason enough, then do it for yourself.” She kisses him, softly. She has no mouth, no face; and yet the kiss—as she presses it into his lips—is as warm and as supple as any lover’s entreaty. She pulls away. “Be there at nine tonight.” She rarely makes demands, and today’s insistence bears a strange and shifty weight. He cannot deny her, he knows. He dares not. “Nine,” he says, closing his eyes. He can feel the shape of her smile. A breeze tickles his hair across over the crests of his ears and along the sides of his face. He opens his eyes and she is gone. He is alone on the park bench. The pigeons at his feet strut and peck at flecks of gravel. Traffic drones in the distance behind him as a flare of sunlight breaks through a tear in the clouds. *** I wrote the above tale in response to good news I’ve received. I now have 5 pieces of microfiction published in, A Quiet Courage, an online literary journal dedicated to microfiction (fiction in 100 words or less) and poetry (also of 100 words or less.) The stories, entitled: “The Stork’s Wife”, “A Refugee’s Story”, “History Craters”, “After the Burial”, and “Dialogue” can be found here. Because of the stories published, and the creative spark that induced, I wrote what you’ve presumably just read. I can’t name the actual impulse to write that small bit if non-reality, but I had fun burning off excess writer’s energy while also taking a break from editing a few new pieces for submission during the remainder of this month. What I’ve written and posted here is more akin to flash-fiction as it’s 450 words in length (not counting title) though there are some who’d probably classify this as really long microfiction or a more traditional vignette or “routine” as William S. Burroughs called some of his short (sometimes incomplete) pieces. As always, thank you for reading, viewing, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.