Shtories

I'm going to publish a series of short stories. Not in a book or anything: just here.

There's a button below this text box which says 'Publish Post'. I'm going to click on it.

My short stories are even shorter than normal short stories. They're shorter stories. Even shorter stories.

***

Mescaline

It was Thursday, and Martin was stitching teabags.

He had created two-thirds of a teabag Burt Reynolds in a couple of hours, but by noon his patience was wearing thin.

"One third of the Bandit and three thirds of Smokey still to go," he said, leaning back in the kitchen chair, his knuckles cracking like gunshots.

A wasp flew into the kitchen and circled the teabag mannequin before landing on Martin's thigh.

Martin was allergic to wasps. And tea.

"I'm ready to die," he said to the wasp.

The wasp raised its left wing in a mock salute, before darting out of the window to pursue a career in the arts.

***

The School

The school had gone to seed. Creepers and weeds slithered through the cracks in the brickwork. Mouldy damp hung in clouds over the old assembly hall. The floorboards were like wet paper.

In the old tower, there was a small music room, with rusty music-stands and posters that had peeled into paper spheres.

Here, on a burst bass drum, a fox conducted a hellish kangaroo court for woodland creatures.

There were no kangaroos in the area but, even so, debates had been held about whether invoking a marsupial compromised the court's neutrality.

Any creature that transgressed the rules imposed by an unelected council of woodland creatures was subject to a trial.

These trials were rarely fair. The fox held complete dominion. The jury was always composed of woodlice (noted for their inability to deal with the complexity and nuance of legal proceedings).

Sentences were brutal and often instant.

A fieldmouse was made to perform community service by sabotaging huntsmen. An earthworm was electronically tagged. A dragonfly was de-winged after escaping from an open prison.

The fox had chosen the school himself.

"A place of discipline," he howled to his brethren.

A gibbous moon prowled the sky that night, twitching at the ominous invocation of "justice".

***

Easter Sunday

Craig smelled funny and went to the doctor for advice.

"Take down your trousers."

"No," said the doctor.

***

Here Comes the Bride

I'd been dreading the wedding, mostly due to my love of rhyme.

On the morning of the ceremony, I put on my suit, and tried to impersonate my favourite James Bond. The best man claimed that Violet Berlin from off of Bad Influence! had never played James Bond. It turned out he was correct.

After all the hoopla of the church and the speaking to people, and the bloodbath at the reception, it was a relief to crawl into bed that night.

I live in an igloo.

***

That's my first volume of prose. I would write more, but if you're anything like me you have been profoundly moved and need a sit down.

Stop standing at your computer. It's bad for you.