Blood moon and other microfiction

I love writing 100 word- stories: stories that have no more than 100 words. Although I must admit it is harder than it looks. A lot harder. It’s a noble art. Here are some of my attempts.

Blood moon

In the dead of night, she becomes a better version of herself. Her red pumps lead her to the little table in the corner where no one bothers her except for men who smell desperation. Bloodhounds.
 There’s one already. A somewhat older specimen, clearly still in denial. Ironed shirt, too much aftershave. Not her type, but hunger is the best sauce.
  It’s time.
  Later, she wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving his front door open. In a deserted park, she looks up at the moon. She is big tonight. 

Crescent

I cast no light. I just reflect his beams, as if I am no more than an echo of that supreme being who blesses you with life and warmth.
I am smaller. Modest. My good deeds are invisible. I grant you seasons, keep your planet from spinning out of control, and make your seas dance to the rhythm of my song.
I illuminate the pale faces of poets and nighthawks that hide away from him. They understand. I keep watch over your blue orb I once was a part of. You might not notice me. But I will be there.

Neap Tide

From the moment Ivann sees land shimmer on the horizon, the ocean seems bigger, as if he needs the contrast to grasp the full extent of that massive body of water.
  He watches the green line grow as he approaches. The world takes shape again.
  Ivann greets the grumpy harbormaster with a silent nod.
  The steering wheel feels small in his hands as he guides his car through the busy traffic. In his belly, he already senses the pain of longing for his unwieldy ship, gently gliding toward the horizon.
  Someone honks. The beauty of tranquility is lost on landlubbers.

Weight of guilt

Liz hasn’t eaten in days. She feels weak. Her vision is blurred. Maybe she pushed it too far this time.
  She rises from the bed when Dr. Grant walks in with Mom. She hasn’t visited her all week, which is unusual. Liz tries to hug her, but Mom doesn’t even notice her.
  She picks up a box containing Liz’ belongings. Tears run down her pale cheeks.
  Liz wants to ask her what’s wrong, when a memory hits her like a train.
  The pills. The stomach ache. Her thin body on the floor, twitching. The despair.
  The regret.

(c) Leen Raats