26 posts tagged with "micro-fiction"

The night was deep, and the neon lights of Paris streets flickered like blurred eyes. Jean-Pierre sat by the window of a café, his coffee had long gone cold. He stared at his phone screen, where the words “Step synchronization failed” were displayed, a red exclamation mark mocking his efforts.

He wasn't an ordinary French soldier; he was a navigator on the nuclear submarine "Le Triomphant." His daily steps, which might just be a number for others, were related to national security for him. Or so he originally thought.

Old Liu was late again today. It wasn't because he overslept, but because his city had recently introduced a traffic rule called "Smart Person Acceleration Lane."

Specifically, if you had made more than three constructive suggestions in company meetings, or published more than two industry papers, or completed an "valuable" innovative project in the boss's eyes within the past year, your driver's license would be automatically marked as "smart person," and the vehicle identification system would be updated accordingly. Vehicles with this mark could use a dedicated acceleration lane during the morning rush hour, allowing them to move smoothly without any obstruction.

Liu Qiang tightened his down jacket and rubbed his hands, which were red with cold. The glass curtain wall of the company building reflected the city's neon lights, like a cold mirror, showing his tired face. Today is the last day of the New Year shopping festival. At eight o'clock tonight, JD.com will release the last wave of discounts. For him, this is not just about grabbing New Year goods, but a battle concerning his dignity.

"Liu Qiang, what are you staring at the screen for? Your performance hasn't met the target today, and you're still in the mood to browse Taobao?" Supervisor Zhang Jie's voice was like an ice pick, chilling his back.

Old Wang had worked at the "bleaching" factory for twenty years. This wasn't a laundry factory; it was an institution dedicated to serving humanity. Every morning, he would see batches of "faded" humans being brought in. Some had their memories erased due to work errors, others had their emotional experiences wiped away due to relationship problems, and some simply wanted to restart their lives like a blank sheet of paper.

The "bleaching" process was very simple, like re-coloring an old photograph, except the subject was a person. They were taken into large white chambers, and with a slight electrical hum and the low whir of machinery, it was all over.

Lao Wang felt that his life was like a wind-up toy, spinning every day to the tune of the "rush" bell.

He rode his dilapidated electric bike, weaving through the concrete jungle of the city. His bike basket was always filled with packages of all sizes, each with a bright red "rush" label. Lao Wang's ears seemed glued to the phone's speaker, the constant stream of urgent prompts like a rapid drumbeat, making his nerves tense.

The office lights stung the eyes. The clock on the wall listlessly pointed to ten o'clock. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city had plunged into darkness, with only scattered lights twinkling, like distant stars in the cosmos, indifferent and detached.

Old Wang rubbed his sore eyes, mechanically tapping on the keyboard. The dense code on the screen was like a menacing devil, tangling his nerves. He had been working overtime for two weeks straight, at least ten hours a day, sometimes even longer. He felt like a lemon that had been squeezed dry, leaving only an empty shell.

"Welcome, what kind of style would you like today?" Xiaoya offered a professional smile, her tone as sweet as if it had been laced with three spoons of sugar. She had to repeat this phrase at least fifty times a day, addressing all sorts of nails with varying attitudes, slowly grinding away at her own self.

Today, a young woman wearing black-rimmed glasses walked into the shop. She was dressed in a well-tailored suit, her nails neatly trimmed but utterly unremarkable, resembling a typical white-collar worker from a cubicle. She pushed her glasses up her nose, her voice a bit tired, "Give me a simple solid color, something that makes my hands look whiter."

Old Wang, before retiring, was the director of education at a school, a man who adhered to rules and regulations his entire life. Now, he was frowning at the New Year's Eve dinner table. What worried him was not the lack of New Year's goods or his children not being by his side, but his grandson, Xiao Bao, who was in elementary school.

"Height is justice" - this mantra, which Xiao Jia held as an indisputable truth, had recently become the root of his anxiety. Watching his former childhood friends, once half a head shorter than him, now all looking impressive at the class reunion, even the company's receptionist was taller than him by a head. He felt like a dwarf abandoned by the times, his small body harboring the desire to grow like a wild weed bursting from the earth.

Xiao Jia decided to take a risk and go to a height-increase clinic that claimed to be "painless and fast-acting." The clinic was hidden in a dilapidated residential building in the suburbs, with no sign at the door, only the words "Height Dreams Start Here" scrawled on the wall. This eerie sense of mystery only made Xiao Jia more convinced that this was the place to make his dream come true.