What Are Micro (Mai-cro) Stories—and What You Can Expect From Me
Some stories arrive like thunderstorms. Others arrive like a match struck in a dark room. Micro stories belong to the second kind: brief, bright, and unforgettable. They’re fiction distilled—usually between 50 and 500 words—where a single image, turn of phrase, or decision carries the weight of a world. I think of them as literary snapshots: you don’t see everything, but what you do see lingers.
Why Micro Stories Matter
They respect your attention. We live in a scroll-heavy, notification-loud world. A micro is built for one breath, one pause between tasks, one moment of stillness on the bus or in a line at the café.
They train precision. Compression sharpens the senses. In a few sentences we learn to hear rhythm, taste subtext, and notice what a single detail can do.
They invite re-reading. Because they’re small, they reward a second glance. Many micros carry double meanings—the surface and the undertow.
They travel well. Short forms cross languages and platforms easily. A micro fits on a page, a card, a feed, a screen in a gallery. It belongs to now.
What Makes a Good Micro
A strong micro doesn’t summarize a novel; it selects the precise moment that implies a before and an after. You’ll often find:
One arresting image (a blood-orange on a windowsill at dawn; a bus ticket with someone’s name written over yours).
One decisive motion (a door not opened; a call not returned; a vow half-kept).
A voice you can hear (measured, biting, tender—but never vague).
A deliberate omission. The blank space is part of the craft. What’s unsaid is where you step in.
Mai House Style
I bring the worlds I live in—Guadalajara nights, Houston memory, border weather, terrace plants and city ghosts—and braid them with:
Magical realism that feels lived-in (lo cotidiano with a small rupture in reality).
Supernatural and gothic hush (more candlelight than gore; more haunting than shock).
Human stakes (desire, grief, courage, small mercies).
Bilingual texture. Some stories breathe in English, some in Spanish, some code-switching in the rhythm of our streets.
En corto: historias pequeñas, corazón grande.
In brief: small stories, big heart.
What You Can Expect From Me
Cadence. I’ll publish two to three micros a week, with occasional “double features” where one scene speaks back in the other language.
Formats.
Singles: one standalone micro with a title you’ll remember.
Triptychs: three connected micros that form a silent arc.
City Keys: location-anchored micros (mercados, buses, rooftops) with a one-sentence note on the real place.
Reading Time. 30 seconds to 2 minutes each. Designed for a pause, not a marathon.
Visuals. Select posts include a minimal image or typographic treatment—clean, modern, legible in dark mode—for sharing and archiving.
Accessibility. Every micro includes alt text for visuals and a read-aloud friendly version (sharp line breaks, no decorative Unicode).
How to Read a Mai-Cro(And Let It Stay)
Read once for the image. What’s the object, the light, the gesture?
Read again for the turn. Where does the meaning shift? (A single word often opens the trapdoor.)
Notice the blank. Ask: What’s missing on purpose?
Carry one sentence with you. Good micros leave you with a pocket talisman.
What I Believe
Stories are public goods. Short forms make the commons wider: you don’t need an hour or a quiet study; you need a window of attention and a willingness to feel. Micro stories aren’t lesser—they’re knife-sharp. They don’t shout; they hum. They don’t explain; they invite.
Bring your minutes. I’ll bring the matches.
A Mai-Cro Tease
The pigeons are confessors today. I sit on warm steps, thumb the bus ticket you left, and hear the bells teaching the hour to behave. A mango vendor slices suns into quarters; juice drips like a second clock. I promised not to call. I break a match in my palm instead and the air smells of new doorways. Shadows lengthen—cathedral-long, rooftop-wide—until my name arrives written by a wind I almost recognize. I read it aloud and the pigeons lift, absolving me with their sudden thunder. When the feathers settle, one matchhead glows, asking only, yes or no.
