|Very Slight Stories | Like short stories, only shorter.||
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
It was a Hedgehog
I don't know what the weather man says. He talks too fast. Last night he painted his arm blue during the weather forecast because a hedgehog told him to do it, and he lost track of what he was saying. His weather reports are mostly about what the wind is doing in the willows. He says a hedgehog tells him to do that too, but I doubt it.
Alison likes hats. She eats moles. Ignore what I said about the moles. She likes moles. She says, "Space..." If you join up the dots, that's something about liking moles. I don't know what you'd join the dots to.
I met her in a pub. She said she really enjoyed jogging, and I didn't have to join anything to anything to get that. And I didn't have to re-arrange the words 'I', 'really', 'enjoy' and 'jogging', although I did remove an F word, but that didn't alter the meaning.
I spilled a drink on my shoes. I told her a hedgehog made me do it. She said, "Yeah, I doubt that."
But if you join the 'yeah' to a small tree and the 'that' to the words 'I'm so glad you're here', and re-arrange everything, then she swooned and said she loved the way I dealt with those thieves. I said 'thanks' and we walked away together, and I said 'up yours' to the hedgehog.
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.
More blogs about Storytelling.