|Very Slight Stories | Like short stories, only shorter.||
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
In the fridge, a beer bottle says to a bottle of milk, "Y' know, you have beautiful eyes."
"Where?" the milk says.
The beer thinks for a while and says, "They're in the freezer compartment."
The milk is intrigued by this idea. She had always just accepted that she didn't have eyes. She had never considered the possibility that they might be in the freezer, but now that she thinks about it, it does make sense. But how will she get to the freezer compartment?
Conrad and Sophie meet in the afternoon. A cigar and a drink in her father's car, a Jaguar. A drive along the coast, listening to the songs on the radio. She wears dark sunglasses and a white scarf. A walk beneath the setting sun, tip-toeing into a silent house, a 'shh' and a laugh. And shhh, he gets the impression that there's a cat burglar just behind his back.
The lights come on, two 'who are you's and minutes later, Conrad and Sophie are drinking and laughing with the cat burglar who tried to steal his toes. He goes to the fridge to get some more beer.
No, there's no obvious way of getting to the freezer compartment. The milk wonders if her eyes have ever tried to get into the fridge.
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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