|Very Slight Stories | Like short stories, only shorter.||
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
My name is Peter. My car is relentlessly a Bentley. My neighbour's car is fitfully a Fiat, frequently a turnip. The spiders that exit my head go on to perform mighty deeds in the world, building awe-inspiring webs, catching master criminals and becoming master criminals, becoming salmon with minor surgery. I struggle to walk because of all the tree-huggers who've been hugging my legs since their trees were cut down. My legs are like surrogate mothers to the tree-huggers. I cut down their trees.
Despite being exceptional in almost every respect, soup keeps leaking out of me. I plugged all of the holes in my back, and my leg-huggers are covering the holes in my legs, but when I consume soup it always manages to find an exit. I'll block whatever hole it comes out of, but the next spoonful will invariably find another hole. I find this disconcerting. It could potentially damage my standing in society, and this would damage society. People need to look up to me. If knowledge of my leaks became widespread, it could lead to widespread disillusionment. This is why I'm willing to try almost any cure. Someone suggested acupuncture, but this is a last resort. Creating more holes in my body has the potential to make the problem much worse.
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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