Miniature Fiction

Josie had taken her fantasy football draft preparation to an entirely new level. She wanted desperately to go beyond the mundane study of average draft positions and viable draft strategies; she wanted to understand the decision making process. It hardly surprised Jodie to find herself stooped over her husband’s lifeless body, poking and prodding at the grey mush of his brain, looking for any insight into how the stupid thing worked.

- C.D. Carter

Check out C.D. Carter’s new facebook page promoting his forthcoming ebook How To Think Like a Fantasy Football Winner

“Did you exchange a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?” I asked my son, sitting across from me in the diner, his long, dirty hair hanging to his shoulders, his sparse beard tangled and matted. The baby I had once rocked to sleep, singing that very line from my favorite song, did not speak, but answered me with the emptiness in his unblinking eyes, which had seen so much human degradation — the kind you cannot un-see. My boy was in his cage, staring outward.

- C.D. Carter

Follow @CDCarter13 and check out his new ebook on the Kindle Store Here

It was like a scene from a gladiator flick, with blood and teeth flying every which way in slow motion because, well, Denny’s body was flooded with adrenaline, as it always had been at the thought of seeking revenge against the fantasy football league members who had caused him such unknowable angst over all these years. There were people with rusty butcher knives sunken deep in their gut, screaming to the heavens for death, people with chains squeezed around their breaking necks, people with ribs pulverized by the massive blows of brass knuckles, and all Denny could think was, God, I hope Malcolm Floyd is available late — dude could be a stud.

- C.D. Carter

The basement on draft day was a powder keg of long-held resentments and well-placed barbs made painful and stale over time; hatred was everywhere, so thick you could slice it up and eat it straight out of the air. The battle royale started like the most vengeful game of dominoes you’ve ever played: Pat sprayed his bear mace into Evan’s eyes, screaming almost unintelligibly about last year’s Fred Jackson trade, and Evan — even blind — wrapped his chain around Pat’s neck, yanked him to the ground, and pounced atop his rival with all the rage of all the years.

- C.D. Carter

The reporter’s editor demand that he land an interview with the president, during election season, no less. At the next day’s editorial meeting, the reporter tied his editor to a chair, pulled an Obama mask over his fat, pink face and asked him many questions, including which body parts he treasured most.

- C.D. Carter

Guest C.D. Carter with another entry that seriously stretched the boundaries of what I’m willing to publish. Maybe next year Miniature Fiction can undergo a format change to be stories under 500 words…. 

Follow @CDCarter13 and check out his new ebook on the Kindle Store Here

The basement was full of killers: Andy with his customized spiked brass knuckles; Victor gripping his trusty machete; Evan cradling his whipping chain; Sam gripping a duo of rusty butcher knives; Pat with his bear mace in hand. My God, Denny thought as he descended into the basement, this is the day our fantasy football threats come nightmarishly true.

- C.D. Carter

Guest C.D. Carter with another entry that seriously stretched the boundaries of what I’m willing to publish. Maybe next year Miniature Fiction can undergo a format change to be stories under 500 words…. 

Follow @CDCarter13 and check out his new ebook on the Kindle Store Here

It was on a morning of golden, uninterrupted sunlight in the Land of Plenty that Mother decided it was high time for Daughter to learn the lessons of self interest, in all its brutal glory. “Please, mommy, my tummy is rumbling — it hurts, it burns,” Daughter whined at the breakfast table, watching with hungry eyes as Mother devoured her comically high stack of pancakes, topped with a sea of syrup, fresh fruits and a top hat of whipped cream. Hardly able to speak with her mouth filled with warm pancake, the syrup dripping down her chin, Mother smiled as best she could and said, “I am merely ensuring civilization survives by rejecting the the morality of altruism, sweetheart; besides, honey, it’s time you realize I am a woman who does not exist for others.”

- C.D. Carter

Guest C.D. Carter with another entry that seriously stretched the boundaries of what I’m willing to publish. Maybe next year Miniature Fiction can undergo a format change to be stories under 500 words…. 

Follow @CDCarter13 and check out his new ebook on the Kindle Store Here

“Everyone channels social anxiety through zombie stories,” she said, waving a dismissive hand at the writer. “I think a lot of people just like the blood,” the writer replied, imagining his critic swarmed by zombies, blood spurting from her orifices like ornate fountains on the Las Vegas strip.

- C.D. Carter

“It needs to be used like a nuclear bomb,” Dirk said of the opposite field home run.“Yes, because it will melt people’s skin right off their bones when I hit it right,” Kennard replied.

- C.D. Carter

My face within inches of the broken mirror, I stroked my dead, gray skin and was grateful that, for however long I’d wander the earth in this post-life state, I wouldn’t have to shave. And my hair — my hair was intact.

- C.D. Carter

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The girl wearing scandalous exercise clothes gave me no choice, really: I had tapped her shoulder as a friendly reminder that the Starbucks barista was ready to take her order, ready to pander to her every mocha desire. Exercise Freak bristled, turned toward me, called me all manner of socially unacceptable nicknames, and soon found herself on the floor, having her pretty little face melted off by scalding coffee — Pike’s Peak, to be exact.

- C.D. Carter

Follow @CDCarter13 and check out his new ebook on the Kindle Store Here

Looking into his puffy, sleep-filled eyes, she said “You wrote all day yesterday, so why the hell would you stay up till 2 a.m. writing more?” He rubbed his eyes and flopped down into his pillow’s welcoming softness, “Because,” his voice a raspy whisper, “I had more to say.” 

- C.D. Carter

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“It wasn’t until I sliced it open that I realized it was perfectly ripe; just the right texture and temperature, not too dry or moist,” Jonah said as we finished our last drinks of the night, once again alone at the bar, save for the geezer passed out a few bar stools down, smelling of good bourbon and sour urine. I had lost track of our conversation, in part because I found Jonah terribly boring and because there was a small ocean of vodka running through my veins, so I asked, “You have a sudden passion for watermelon, or fruit of some kind?” “No, not fruit,” Jonah said, suddenly sober, pointing to the inebriated man face down on the bar, “that old drunk’s brain.”

- C.D. Carter

The finger lie there like a superbly realistic Halloween prop, surrounded by a tiny pool of deep-red blood. The pain consumed him, yes — it pulsed through every nerve ending all at once — but he had to show how deadly serious he was when he listed the atrocities he’d commit against himself if it meant not having to compose June’s Homeowners Association minutes.

- C.D. Carter

Follow @CDCarter13 and check out his new ebook on the Kindle Store Here