Welcome to Miniature Fiction! A place to read and share short stories. Very short stories, one, two or three sentence stories about anything.
Ask Me Anything Submit a Story
About Archives Featured GuestsThis was it, the final day, the all or nothing day. I had been waiting for this moment my entire life and this was my last chance, I knew I wouldn’t be back. Championship games in community softball just don’t come around that often.
inspired by the above video…
Running through beautiful mountain countryside, a computerized voice in my brain kept me periodically updated on important stats like distance, time, pace, calories burned et cetera. When I was finally done I hit the “stop” button and the virtual landscape faded away around me, leaving me standing on my treadmill. Nike+ 16.0 really had come a long way, but they still needed to make the train feel more realistic.
The wind kept knocking the ball off the tee while we were attempting to kick off, which meant I would be assigned to hold it. This always made me nervous, watching the kickers foot accelerate towards the ball and my outstretched finger. I never looked, I always closed my eyes, I only knew it happened when I felt the foot slam into my finger, breaking it off.
Hugh was late to develop and early to deteriorate: He had been the last of his classmates to grow, the last to have his voice drop an octave and a half, and now he was the first to watch crows feet form along the edges of his dull grey eyes and his hair became thinner by the hour. It wasn’t fair; none of it was fair. It should’ve been clear to his teammates why he was such an irrepressible asshole on the softball field, but they all seemed dumbfounded as to why Hugh would treat recreational co-ed softball like it was war.
- C.D. Carter
Follow @CDCarter13 and check out his new ebook on the Kindle Store Here
He hadn’t watched a game in its purest form for so very long. It was strange, sitting there on the couch, watching a contest the way it was meant to be seen: through the lens of winning and losing, of strategy and lucky bounces and competitiveness that sent grown men headlong into each other, breaking bones and bruising brains with no consideration for tomorrow. He did not root for the offense to stall at the thirty yard line so his kicker could collect four points, because this was reality.
- C.D. Carter
Carter is also a contributing writer for Sportsjerks.net, a fantasy football site, and frequently discusses the minutia of pretend pigskin on Twitter @CDCarter13
Two homers. Yes, two that left the yard in a single game. It was a waking fantasy for Riley, whose bleary eyes ran with tears of joy and anguish after the game, as he sat in his car and amputated the leg that had crumbled like an unstable Jenga pile as he rounded third base on the final round-tripper.
- C.D. Carter
The Almighty, her golden eyes blazing, had come to me in a dream; or rather, a hallucination in the predawn hours, as first light crept across my bed. She said in a voice laced with sweet sorrow, “Go forth and vanquish those who dare write about fantasy football in the spring, for they are an abomination unto me, and their obsession shall not be tolerated in this world or any other.” I’ve crossed eight of these fantasy fiends off my list, their blood spilled and their pens stopped forever, ridding springtime of the heinous number crunching that is the hallmark of these unnatural things, these fake football writers.
- C.D. Carter
Follow frequent guest C.D. Carter on twitter at @CDCarter13
The mock fantasy football draft — a practice draft — was finally, mercifully over, the insulting back-and-forth finally finished, plumes of smoke billowing from the guns of their mutual hatred. But Gary had said something late in that fake draft that Pete could not forget: he had insulted Pete’s hair, the very pride of his life, the reason for waking. As if his feet had decided for him, Pete was out of bed, dressed, and walking the seven miles to Gary’s house, where Gary’s wife would soon be snuggling a bloody corpse with a frozen look of absolute horror.
- C.D. Carter
I watched other players do it for years, play community softball completely drunk. I decided it’d be fun to give it a try. After I fell over the 3rd time and threw up on second base I realized this may not have been the best decision.
Lonnie trembled, he tried in vain to control his heavy breathing, his thudding heart, he avoided the eyes of the thing across the table, reading his every thought. He squeezed the playing cards, checking once, twice, thrice, that he had two kings, knowing that no matter what he had in his grasp, the red-eyed fiend — its black, veined wings flapping ever so slightly in anticipation of sweet victory — was going to take poker night for his own. Lonnie wiped the perspiration from his forehead and examined the warmth on the back of his hand: He was sweating blood.
- C.D. Carter
C.D. Carter is a reporter, author of zombie stories, writer for The Fake Football and Sports Jerks. Fantasy Sports Writers Association member. His work has been featured in the New York Times. Follow C.D. on Twitter @CDCarter13
C.D. Carter has also recently been writing about how poker can be applied to fantasy sports, check it out… Poker Lessons Applied to Fantasy Football
I couldn’t feel joy anymore, not from movies, music, sports, sex - nothing. One day a friend introduced me to the wonderful world of online gambling. Finally, I could smile again.
Be it pop-ups, be it grounders or line outs or hits six inches on the wrong side of the foul line, he could not break from the funk of his softball hitting malaise. His hands high, his weight back, his shoulders square, his feet spread shoulder width and his knees flexed but not too flexed, he watched the spinning yellow ball float from its pinnacle. He swung, because he had to.
- CDCarter
Find CDCarter’s other works on Amazon: C.D. Carter
Part of me desperately wanted Coach to pull me from the game. I was certain I had a concussion and several broken ribs, but I’d been taught my whole life to play through the pain. Inside, I was weeping with agony, outwardly I kept telling Coach everything was “fine.”
As I worked to get stronger, preparing all year for a one day event, I’ve had this one thought repeating in my head several times a day- motivating me, “There is no tomorrow.” As the months have passed and hours of blood, sweat, and tears have passed with them I realize its finally true. There really is no tomorrow.
He hadn’t planned on playing, he had suffered a setback to a previous injury and didn’t want to make it worse, but his team needed him. One guy was on vacation, their pitcher was out, and another just didn’t show up. Sighing as he put on his team shirt he said, “Game Freaking On.”
