|Very Slight Stories | Like short stories, only shorter.||
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
The field is full of limestone rocks and wild flowers. A small crowd have gathered here for the launch of a project to build a heritage centre. Cyril makes a speech to mark the occasion. "A tree and now a... now. No, that's... A field where I live. Our mindset, they say, our... and my feet. And blue things... Wonder Woman told me to say this. She wrote this as a poem and asked me to read it out."
Someone from the crowd says, "You're just looking for someone to blame. And you're blaming Wonder Woman."
"No, no. I'm... Look at that." He points at something behind them. They turn around, and they see two men standing in the middle of the field. One is wearing a suit. The other wears a dark overcoat and a hat. The man in the suit holds a snow dome. He shakes it, and then looks into it as the snow settles. He points at something in the snow dome and says, "Is that like the thing those skinheads made you buy?"
"Stop asking me that," the man in the overcoat says.
When they turn back, Cyril is running away, being chased by Wonder Woman.
The Tree and the Horse
A Walk in the Rain
The East Cork Patents Office
Words are my favourite noises
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|very slight stories||
They Met a Bear
They stopped in a small seaside town and they went for a walk. They met a bear.
This is one version of the story. In another version, they met a sailor, and in this one they ended up being held at gunpoint on a speedboat and becoming unwilling participants in a diamond robbery while disguised as a cow, and sharing in the proceeds of that crime.
So when they tell the story they just say, "We met a bear. He waved at us."
The Story of the Fortune Teller and the Alarm Clock
A fortune teller threw an alarm clock at me. This story is deliberately lacking in details to mock the predictions of the fortune teller. Although she was right when she said she'd throw an alarm clock at me.
One. Two. Three, the study. Four, a candle stick. Five. Six...
Seven is missing, presumed dead. One has taken up the case, and two is helping him in his investigations. They both suspect six. Seven was last seen next to six in the garden.
But seven isn't really dead. He's consumed half a bottle of whiskey and he's currently in the orchard, talking to a rabbit. "One of us is as boring as a gate post," he says, "and it's not..." He stops to count on his fingers. "No, actually it is me."
Eight nine ten.
Debbie and his dog
Debbie was sick of people mistaking her for a man.
"Is your dog my parole officer?"
She was sick of people asking her that too.
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