The Long Journey

"Oh! Oh my! What is that smell?" The little gray dappled mouse poked his nose out from behind the hole in the wall. The hole was very small; so small that a mouse as small as this little pioneer had to squeeze himself through the aperture with some effort. His hind legs always proved to be a bit of a challenge, but even though the size wasn't ideal for a quick escape, this Mr. Mouse had no worries about being chased back to his home. As far as he had discovered, he was the only creature in the house. "A perfect place for a family of eight!" He had chuckled to himself. Well, that is if mice do chuckle!

As he slowly emerged from the hole, he glanced left and right quickly to make sure no big ten-toed feet were in the room, then he scampered to the foot of the bed that was exactly a tail's stretch from the hole. The smell that wafted around his twitching nose was so delicious that he could almost taste whatever the heavenly food was. It wasn't Swiss cheese, it wasn't cheddar, Brie, mozzarella, or even Parmesan! He couldn't quite put his claw on what it might be! He stood on his hind legs and pulled on his whiskers with his paw. The smell was so divine that the poor thing was shaking.

"What could that possibly be? I've never smelled anything so detectable in my whole entire life." Unwittingly, the mouse began to walk dreamily towards the door of the room, not paying any attention to his surroundings. The door was slightly ajar, allowing the  mouthwatering scent to linger in the room. As soon as the mouse was within a paw's length from the door, it swung opened wide, nearly knocking the mouse across the room.

Snake the Gypsy (Introduction)

Please don’t ask for my name because I simply will not tell you. It is too much of a painful matter. I can see that you are foreign and therefore can not possibly understand the complexities of the name my nation has given me, but my past is a very sad story, and if you will humor an old gypsy woman and her boy for awhile, then I would take great pleasure in telling you my life history. You see, gypsies inherit the talent of storytelling, adding color and sparkle to their own stories, and no matter how implausible their stories may seem, a gypsy can make it completely believable by the feeling she expresses. Why, I have alternated my story numerous times, changing it to satisfy the wish of my listeners who have never been so heartless as to walk away without dropping a piece into my collection can. I touch them, you see? We gypsies are known for telling captivating tales, and it is a gypsy’s secret to know what kind of stories will delight our listeners. We can see into the windows of your soul and grasp from them your passions as well as your fears. Ah, yes, fear. Here is an ancient secret every gypsy learns from childhood: Fear is the most vital ingredient in any tale. We know that you Hûvelles will concentrate wholly on the horrifying parts, remembering that image for days, weeks, years, or possibly your whole life. You aren't thinking of running from me now, are you? I have not yet told my tale, and you do not yet know what my story will contain. Perhaps it will be sadness, or maybe love? Love may posses your every thought, but it does not threaten you, haunt you, or provoke surreal nightmares that scar you. Love is powerful, yes, but fear is the seed of hysteria. Don’t ever forget that.


© Mikal Minarich


*The story continues! Check it out under Pages in the right panel! I update it often. :)

Butterfly Effect

Knowledge comes to life through death as she opens her hand to a lifeless butterfly. Its limp wings expand to her finger tips in a dusty sheen of midnight blue and black. She flips one wing like the page of a book and holds her breath as it flops lifeless into her palm. She brings her face closer to catch any slight movement-- any acknowledgment of her dangerously close intrusion of its space, but nothing can be perceived. Squatting, she gingerly places the precious body upon the grass, still watching it expectantly, and then she sees it. The dust of the wings is now a shimmer on her hand. Examining it, she realizes that she has, in some incomprehensible way, hurt the beautiful winged creature. She then proceeds to rub her hand violently in the grass until the shimmer is replaced by green and brown streaks. Guilt floods into her and she puts her ear close the tiny thing, letting her hair enclose it like a shroud. But there is no heartbeat to be heard. As soon as she falls back onto her bottom and begins to cry, her mother scoops her up into cushioned arms and cradles her gently. “It’s okay,” she coos. “It was an accident.”


© Mikal Minarich

Lisa's Story

Ding. Dong. Ding. The great big grandfather clock rang loudly twelve times with a tintinnabulation trailing behind each ding and dong. It was almost like an old ballad singer bellowing out a tune for anyone who would listen to the lyrics of an ancient bristly bearded man. On the last chime, Lisa awoke gently after rubbing way the dust from her eyes that the Sandman had sprinkled there. She was having a lovely visit in the Land of Nod before Mr. Grandfather Clock woke her up with his echoing tune. 


She shuttered as she yawned deeply, then she reached for the downy quilt that instantly warmed her up in a cozy, toasty sort of way. It had slipped below her chin, once, twice, and three times without the help of any visible thing. Finally she sat up, realizing it was very cold and awfully silent. In fact, it was so silent that Lisa could hear soft thudding noises coming from outside her window. She stared curiously at the closed shade, wondering what could possibly be awake at this hour in the freezing cold making such sounds against her window. 

Chairs Beside a Fire

"All a dog wants is to be happy." 

He stroked the rolls back from the Labrador’s eyes. She was laying on the coupled chair next to his with her head draped over the edge. The fire had lulled her to sleep. 

“Tess, you big old bear. Even that tattered chair can put you to sleep.”

The man quietly laughed to himself, enjoying the warmth of the old creaking house. Winter winds challenged the fortitude of the exterior and while the white paint surrendered to the currents, the tiny house bore itself bravely.

It had been only two weeks since his son had stopped in for a visit. Boy! –had he grown into his shoes! And a handsome devil he turned out to be! “Definitely has my blood in him,” boasted the old man to himself. His son's wife wasn’t far from pretty either, but there was something the old man couldn’t put his finger on. Even Tess put a halt to her tail-wagging when the woman knelt to cuddle with her. Her shiny manicured nails and overwrought dress was a mismatch with his boy who had worked shirtless in the dirty fields of the farm during his youth. Dirt was something foreign to her.