Concise Prose. Enough Said.
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Mimbles And Fimbles, Among Others

Four Works of Microfiction By JBMulligan


Mimbles and Fimbles

There were two kinds of mimbles: the first, more numerous type was red,scaly and ferocious; the second was light blue, all whispery blissful, and covered with a fine down. Each kind hated the other with great hootling sounds, something like laughter, but without the laugh. There was only one kind of fimble, but it didn't seem so. Whichever mimble they were with was always the wrong kind of mimble, but the other kind was even more wrong. In reaction to this, the red mimbles yawned and scratched their legs; the blue mimbles grew less blissful and more whispery, and their fine down shivered. The little mimblets and fimblets, who were purple and round, were sometimes confused by this, but it seemed the right way to do things, since that's how things were done. Mimbles and fimbles did very well for themselves, but not with each other.


Twindles was curious creatures - was, since each pair was one: two distinct souls, or impulses, or itches needing scratching, in one blotchy oblong limbless lump of flesh. This certainly solved the joy and problem of searching for a mate, and sometimes even worked for a while. But most often what each part of a twindle wanted was not to be in its other self, or have its other self in itself or - twindles had frequent headaches. Twindle philosophers analyzed this situation for centuries, to no avail. Twindle religious leaders said it was the will of the twindle deity, Reftlight. Twindle scientists said everything was that way, really. It wasn't. But they struggled through. In fact, there has never been a twindle suicide, since one part or the other, out of love and spite, will never allow it.


Pernibble loved the ladies, of that there was no doubt, in his mind or theirs. Or at least he would have loved them, except he was always impelled to give each of his every beloveds a present, always the same thing, a single pale pink berrydrop from the brimblebottom bush growing beneath his tree. They each and all accepted the precious gift, and as soon as each did, his love for her wilted and fell. Finally, one beloved declined the gift - and he found that he hated her too. So there was no way for him to be happy, which perplexed him immense, so he blamed them all. Like others of his kind, he settled down finally, finding a mate to whom he wished to give nothing. Immediately thereafter, he met his true beloved, and he was finally happily happy. Until she accepted his gift.

Liff and the Liffer Sisters

Liff was in love with two lovely gornals, the Liffer Sisters. He loved them equally, in the same droop-eyed, tentacle-twisted way, all breath and itch and thumping desire. And they loved him, though each was unaware of his passion for the other. At last, he thought, my one true love. Alas, he thought, my one two love. Liff wanted to give himself fully to each of them, but this could not be. He thought and fretted and sighed and fretted some more, just in case, and always he came to the same confusion, conclusion, damn it, he was torn between two Liffers. There was no way around it, love has its dictates, so he tore himself asunder and gave himself to each of the sisters, who were left wondering whether half a Liff was better than no Liff at all.


JBMulligan is married, with three grown children, and has had poems and stories in dozens of magazines, including, recently, Bonfire, Iota, Tattoo Highway, Poetry Renewal and In a Fine Frenzy. He has published two chapbooks: The Stations of the Cross and THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS (Samisdat Press). He also has work in the recent anthology, Inside Out: A Gathering of Poets.

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