Markets, Mothers, Microfiction

Michael McManus moped, meandering mournfully by the millpond. Mother Manuela Magdalena, Michael’s minister, moved more mildly, making the most of McManus’s momentary muteness. The morning was marvellous, Manuela mused; the mercury middling, the mar mellow and moving with mackerel, the mountains – many miles from the mainland – mottled in mist.

“Magnificent,” Manuela murmured. Mr McManus merely maintained mumbling murky, murderous malignancies.

“Meddling… malfeasance… morons…”

“Mr McManus?”

“Morons,” Michael mouthed more markedly, the merchant’s mug a mask of malcontent, “Market‑manipulating morons meddling in matters the magistracy of massively more meritorious men.”

“Mm,” mm-ed Manuela, mostly mild to the mercantile and money-making matters. Mr McManus was the manager of Magnolia Mutual and a much-moneyed member of Manuela’s Mission, so Manuela, a Mexican migrant to Manchester, made mindful to maintain a manner of magnanimity when ministering to his misery, meticulously minimising the manifestations of her misgivings. Money makes most men more maladjusted, she mused, mentally marking material for mid-March’s ministry.

Mr McManus maintained his muttering, mistaking Manuela’s muteness as meekness.

“Millions,” Michael moaned, “Millions missing, mischievously misplaced. Myriad markets marred, mammoth monopolies marginalised. Marble. Marshmallows.”

Marshmallows? “Miralo,” the Mother mentioned, making a maybe misguided move to mollify the manic, mediocre man. Manuela motioned at a maroon telephone booth. “Mysterious, mm? Mere metres from the mar. What is the municipality’s motive, Mr McManus?”

The merchant merely marched more moodily, his moccasins marked with mud and minute minerals.

Mother Magdalena missed her mornings of musing mainly on the mystical. She mustered her motivation.

“Michael,” the Mother maintained, “Money is marvellous.” A massive mentir. “But it is momentary. Many men make mistakes.”

“Mistakes mount, monetarily,” murmured Mr McManus, his machoism melting. Manuela maintained a modest and merciful mask, mentally mulling over the merchant’s maladies.

“Materialism,” she mused, motherly, “Makes men marionettes to money. Meanly misleads and marks them, miserably. Miralo, the many milagros del mundo. Of modernity.” She motioned to the maroon metal monstrosity. “My mother’s mother’s mother’s macrocosm was mere miles of malnourished marshland and mosquitos. Her most memorable milestone was making molé for a minor medieval monarch. But me? My mundane is majestic mountain murals, medical marvels and manipulating miraculous machinery. Mere months of my meandering makes my mother’s mundo miniscule.”

Mother Magdalena motioned to the mountains, the mirthful mallards and mistral making marks upon the mar. “Marvel,” Manuela mandated, “Money-less, yet magnificent. Masterpieces. More magic moves, Michael, in midwinter meadows, in moonlight and mahogany, than in multiplying millions.” Manuela met the man’s middle-aged mug and made her message manifest. “Make no mistake; mortality makes money meaningless. Memories matter, mateship matters, morality matters. Make the most of moments, make merriment, make mementos, or mayhaps you’ll meet mankind’s maker measurably metaphysically misaligned.”

Momentarily, Mr McManus maintained mum.

“But my margins,” the merchant mumbled meekly, “My Mustang, my mansion. Millions in mutuals. The marshmallow markets.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I give up,” the nun snapped, abandoning all pretence and striding away in a huff.