Micro #1
I have already started determining what my New Year’s Resolutions will be for 2027.
One of them is writing one short story a week. That’s 1,000 to 7,000 words a week. Most likely finishing a section of the story each day.
For someone who has been writing absolutely almost jack all, that seems like a steep ask. Right?
Or am I being dramatic again?
On Halloween Night I entered a micro story contest for an indie magazine. Micro, less than 300 words. That came easy. The subject word was baby. Sticking to the Halloween theme, I chose to write from the perspective of a Bride of Dracula. Calling on one of the famous scenes in the movie where Dracula gives the brides a stolen child.
Dark and disturbing, I had a lot of fun.
So now, screw New Year’s. I’m doing a micro story a night, and my first story of November?
Not even a story…or is it? It’s more the ramblings of someone with dementia as I can perceive it.
Two of my grandparents have dementia, and writing this made me cry. It was cathartic. It reminded me to see them as humans who are suffering in their own minds. They are sick, and deserve compassion despite any differences. What they are experiencing is frightening.
I hope you enoy the rambling, and it reads well. Many blessings.
“As I lay with the absence of memories, I revile the present. For what is the present if I can never remember the past that preceded it? A black spot in my mind keeps me forever tethered to this moment, now…now.
Yet even this moment feels, strange.
This boogeyman of a moment which lingers around me feels so uncertain. This is reality, isn’t it? I am here, aren’t I? But who is, I? Who am I?
Get The Cretaceous Millennial’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
I am afraid. Whoever I am. The constant throw of new people I see frightens me. Their faces seem familiar, but I have never seen them before. They could not possibly know me as they so claim.
I don’t even know me!
They claim they love me! How could they love someone they don’t even know?!
With that thinking….do I, love…I?
I…do not know.
I lay with the absence of memory.
Revile, present.
Present…remember…precede…?
Spot, black.
Now.
Exist.
I.
Love.
I.”
J — The Cretaceous Millennial
