|Very Slight Stories | Like short stories, only shorter.||
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Little Red Riding Hood stares at a red brick wall. "I think I'll pick... you." She points at a brick.
"We're over here," Sam says.
She turns around and sees the line of people, with the wolf on the end. "Oh yeah."
The wolf follows her as she skips away down a forest path. He struggles to keep up. When they stop in the meadow he has to breathe through an oxygen mask. He tries to talk to her. "I think..."
"Do you know what type of butterfly that is?"
"I..." The wolf has to breathe through the oxygen mask again.
She works on a painting in the meadow, but she gets paint everywhere, some of it on the wolf.
They go back to the football, just in time for her to score the winning goal, and she gets a round of applause. She shows the painting to Sam. "I painted it in the meadow."
"It's very good."
"Thanks. Do you know what type of butterfly that is?"
"Oh yeah, someone shot the wolf."
The wolf nods. He has a black eye and his paw is in a sling.
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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