|Very Slight Stories | Like short stories, only shorter.||
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
A November Afternoon
Emily and Delia are in the garden. A cold wind blows the brown leaves across the concrete driveway. Emily stares into the distance until Delia says, "The rain has cleared."
"Yes... It's getting dark very early these days."
"It is. The sun has nearly gone down already."
There's silence again, and then Emily says, "My shoe nails don't like the rain."
Button on Emily's Coat: Did she just say her shoe nails don't like the rain?
"I saw a robin jumping up and down," Delia says, "wearing my scarf."
Button: Wait a minute, she said she saw a robin wearing her scarf, didn't she?
"The sea is blue and the glass in the window is glue."
Button: Glass is glue? What the hell's that all about?
"My May face says my July eyes are gypsies."
Button: Am I going mad here?
"My knee voted for someone in the last election just to annoy my elbow."
Button: Yes, I'm going mad. That's what it is. Ha ha ha.
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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