|Very Slight Stories | Like short stories, only shorter.||
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Richard talks to the people on the lawn. "You may think it's odd that I have so many pencils, but wait..." He holds up a 'stop' sign. "Sorry, I thought the sign said 'wait'." He walks away.
"But anyway," Hugh says, "she pointed out that the hedge looked very like this person's hair. Just don't tell this person about it."
This person looks angry.
Hugh takes out a matchbox. "And my magician..." He looks inside the matchbox, but it's empty. "My magician seems to have disappeared."
There's silence until Richard comes back. "You may think it's odd that I have so many pencils, but wait..." He smiles and holds up the sign again. He's crossed out the word 'stop' and painted 'wait' instead.
There's a small explosion in the shed behind them. People run out of it. "My magician did that."
Noel goes over to Hugh and says, "You do know that this person has been standing right behind you all along, don't you?"
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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