Wednesday, February 09, 2005

Storytime

Yesterday I found the Fifty Word Fiction website. I think this is the greatest idea ever. Not only did this website produce a whole lot of excellent very tiny stories I can easily finish in the spans between editors peeping over my shoulder, it also has the great effect of limiting (its very few) bad writers to only fifty words! If something's going to suck, I'd rather it was thirty-seconds worth of suckage instead of a good fifteen or twenty minutes.

On the whole, though, these stories are wonderful, and I've decided to try my hand. Well, rather than stories, so much, they'll be fifty word (or less!) blogs. [Note: I've decided that the title doesn't count towards the fifty word quota.] Ready? Here we go.

The Photocopier
In the middle of deciding whether face-up, right-side up or face-down, upside-down would produce satisfactory double-sided copies, it hit me. I am the photocopier. This machine, this heartless Buick behind my desk shouldn't get my title. Mid-revelation, it jams. I'm wrong about the hierarchy of things.

[I say that all those hypenated words count as one word. So there.]

My Half of a Conversation With My Attractive Co-Worker Which Mostly Actually Happened, But Includes One Lie.
Hey, yeah, I'm good. I know, it is really warm today. Ha, not that I'm complaining. Usually I can't even start my car. I think we've only got skim. It's totally gross. Yeah, it sucks, that's why I drink tea. Okay, love you too, see you later.

Magic
Sometimes, on a mystical morning full of dew and fog, magic can happen. Some say it's elves, others fairies, and yet others believe it's ghosts that reach out to us in these early, gray hours. You can see the ripples of their existence-- magically, you no longer have network access.

Etude in Third Person or Why I am Not a Member of the Intellegentsia
She works in the heart of one of the most exciting cities on the planet. Innovative music will undoubtedly be played close by tonight. She is just a few miles away from one of the great collections of modern art. What's she thinking about? Tomato soup. Her eyeliner.

A Tale of Transit
This morning I had to stand until the train stopped at a popular station. There were no seats. I spied a woman leaving and raced to occupy her warm void. This is not an allusion to anything vaginal. The seat was warm. She had been there. Now I was. Perv.

10 Comments:

Blogger JMH said...

Its a cliff's notes type world we are living in and really 50 words is just too long. Someone should start a 5 word fiction website. I'll start it off:

"Ooops, just shat my pants."

Man I love a funny story.

3:13 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

"Dear," I said, "...gristly venison."
-brad

3:49 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Brake for pedestrians. Who knew?
-Kathy

3:56 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Jealous lovers: still commanding malfeasance.

4:22 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

What is in that toilet?!
-Clare

6:23 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Busses hit people every day.

7:57 PM  
Blogger JMH said...

Brad, you intended to make a pun with the word "dear" right? Tell me you did, because that is just brilliant. You get the "Henry Really Short Story Award" for 2005.

9:09 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

did i intend it? HELLO? i'm brad walsh, bitch!

10:36 AM  
Blogger JMH said...

ok, that's it, i'm linking you on my blog, expect at least 2 or 3 extra hits a year

11:03 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Brad pondered his sudden popularity.

4:29 PM  

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