M. Michael TRARP
Bio
Citizen of the Universe, Rock & Roll Poet
Stories (18)
Filter by community
Apex Herbivore
The admiral looked at the bank of monitors in front of him. He tapped out a specific rhythm with his hooves on the panel on the floor beneath the screens. Several icons appeared on the closest monitor. The admiral looked at the images with his large, brown, bovine eyes. He dipped his head toward the screen, tapping the icons in a specific order with his left horn. On one monitor, a picture of a green and blue planet appeared. The admiral looked at the image, then, exhaled a loud snort through his large nostrils.
By M. Michael TRARP4 years ago in Fiction
Academic Rigor
“Justin Fletcher?” “Here.” “Nicole Flynn?” “Everyone just calls me Nikki.” “All right, Nikki.” The teacher grinned, ear to ear, making creases on her forehead, at the corners of her eyes, at the corners of her mouth. She sat up straighter in her seat, situated behind a large solid desk, and made a note in her grade book. “Hmmm. Here’s a pretty name. Marigold?”
By M. Michael TRARP4 years ago in Fiction
Knife Skills
“So, the butcher comes home from his first day of work. His wife asks him, ‘How’s the new job?’ He says, ‘Offal’” The junior detective walked around the living room of the apartment, casually lifting the edges of things up with a chewed-on pencil.
By M. Michael TRARP4 years ago in Fiction
Finding the Dessert Fork
I was enjoying my lunch at the counter. It was a typical greasy spoon. A long counter started near the entry door, capped by a cash register, and extended along the length of the diner with a series of red-cushioned stools bolted to the floor spaced out beneath it. Opposite the counter was a line of Formica-topped tables with red booth seating beneath the wall-to-wall windows.
By M. Michael TRARP4 years ago in Fiction
The Old Barn
Barnard breathed in the microbe. He had been waving a crostini topped with salty, black caviar and a dab of sour cream under his bulbous nose when the particle danced from the briny roe, riding the swift inhalation current into the spacious nostril. It struggled to free itself from the morass of prickly hairs gently waving back and forth with Barnard’s steady breathing. After wresting itself from this hirsute mess, it made its way to the back of the throat, slightly below and facing the septum, where it clung, allowing the virus inside it to begin attacking cells and multiplying.
By M. Michael TRARP5 years ago in Fiction
A Heart-Shaped Leather Box, Tied Together with Frayed Shoelaces
He did that thing with his hands. He extended his thumbs, curled his fingers, and brought his hands together, just in front of his Adam’s apple, in the shape of a heart. And locked their positions. He tilted his head, coyly, cigarette dangling from his lips, dropping his chin too low so that the cherry brushed the knuckles of his left hand. His lips contorted into a ghastly smile as he tried to move the cigarette away from his hands. He broke the heart by shaking his left hand erratically, then rubbing the top of his hand on the back of his thigh.
By M. Michael TRARP5 years ago in Fiction
