Micro fiction by Betty Stanton

Sixth Street

The houses on Sixth Street are identical, white teeth in a jaw that never closes. Their lawns are shaved to the same length, sprinklers hissing like snakes. Windows stay shut, blinds tilted just enough to catch light, never enough to reveal who is watching.

The cars feed first. Four-wheeled monsters, they roar down the pavement, chewing asphalt, spilling their drivers into the waiting mouths of houses. Doors slam, lights extinguish, and the street swallows them whole. By morning, only silence remains.

The world shifts outside, but Sixth Street does not. It runs in circles, refusing to escape. Neighbors pass one another with blurred faces, as if erased by the same hand that drew the cul-de-sac. Sometimes a door shrieks. Sometimes a window cracks. But most days the silence grows fat and heavy, pressing against every ribcage.

Inside, the storm builds. It pounds to get out, but rebellion here is devoured as quickly as it appears. A glass shattered on the driveway is gone by morning, ground into gravel by the street’s slow tongue. A porchlight left burning too late is swallowed by dawn. Slammed doors are absorbed into the endless hum of siding and shingles.

Only human connections resist for a moment. A hand brushing a cheek in the dark. A smile across a crowded room. A knee pressed against another knee beneath the table. These small gestures glow like embers. 

Every touch is rebellion.