|Very Slight Stories | Like short stories, only shorter.||
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
The Sword of Damocles
When I was young I believed there was a robot who was trying to kill me. I stopped believing in Santa before I stopped believing in this. I found out the truth eventually. The robot was really trying to give me some crisps.
I met a woman at a garden party and I told her about the robot. She spent the next ten minutes laughing at my stupidity, but I hadn't laughed at all when she told me about the sword of Damocles that was hanging by a narrow thread over her head. She believed that in between the sword and her head there was a cat. She hoped that the cat's reaction would warn her of the sword's descent and she'd have time to get out of the way.
Her laugh came to a sudden end when she heard a cat screech. She dived into a nearby hedge. When she peeped out a few seconds later, everyone was looking at her. The cat who screeched had been asleep on the patio until the robot rolled over its tail. When she realised what had happened she would have appreciated a hole to hide in. But the robot is incapable of detecting embarrassment. He went over to her and offered her some crisps.
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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