I just read some excerpts from a book of "micro fictions" -- 
extremely short (300 words or less) stories.  Cool idea.  This 
item is for anyone who wants to give it a try.  Me first:

14 responses total.

                         THREE P.M.


On the long stairway down to the riverfront, a thought 
started tugging at his attention: what did he do before 
closing the van door?  He wanted to imagine his finger on a 
silver switch, pushing it up until it clicked on, but try as 
he might, he could not.  

He stopped and checked his watch.  If the switch was on, he 
had twelve minutes; it took him five minutes to get here: he 
had time.  

He turned and began running up the stairs, but his heavy 
body weighed him down.  His breath grew short.  He slowed to 
a crawl, and was soon stopping every few steps.  By the time 
he reached the top, he was gasping for air and his head was 
swimming.  He staggered, then bent over and vomited.  His 
chest ached atrociously.  

The government building loomed ahead, barely half-a-mile, 
but all uphill.  Streaming sweat, he stumbled up the street.  
The pain spread up into his neck and down into his arm.  On 
the way through the parking lot to the van, his vision 
started to blur and he lost his way.  Through a haze of 
pain, he finally found it.  

His hand fumbled at the door handle.  Locked.  Key in jacket 
pocket.  He pulled off his jacket with a wild gesture, as if 
entering a fistfight, and plunged a hand into one pocket, 
then another.  Groaning with the effort, he turned the key 
in the door lock, then grasped the door handle with both 
hands and pulled.  

Explosives filled the entire van.  The switch was on.  He 
fell writhing to the ground.  A huge grinning monster sat 
down on his chest.  He thought to himself that the pain 
couldn't possibly get any worse: and at that moment, he 
heard his watch beep.  

Cool!  "Curses!  Foiled again!"  for the last time!  I like this!

Thank you!  That was my first try.  Please, Freida or anyone else, 
enter your own tries.  The idea is micro fiction, remember.

Here's my second try:

            EMMA BOVARY'S FIRST CHOICE'S SUICIDE NOTE

She had chosen me.  Why, I never figured out.  She had taken up 
residence inside my head and told me the long marvellous story of 
her life.  It was all mine, to retell in my own words (she had no 
words).  

But it was cruelly hard for me.  Night after night, I would sit 
at my desk, turning over one opening phrase after another in my 
mind, never satisfied with it enough to set it down on paper.  
Eventually, I would grow bored with so much fruitless effort, and 
spend the rest of the night reading and smoking.  

This went on for years.  She seemed a permanent companion, mine 
to enjoy whether I chose to share her or not.  But she was 
growing impatient.  One night she came to me unbidden (a first).  
In my dream, she stood looking cynically at me, as if to ask, 
"Are you going to do something, or do I have to find someone 
else?"  

She hung around for a few more weeks, but I heard less and less 
from her.  There were unexplained absences, as if she'd been 
making secret little excursions.  I felt sure she was no longer 
telling me everything.  And one day she was gone.  I missed her 
at first, but really, I was secretly relieved not to have the 
obligation of her anymore.  

And now Flaubert, the despicable, has published his book about 
her.  What a scandal!  What a success!  She left me for someone 
more competent, more energetic, more of a man.  My humiliation is 
untellable and complete.  The poison is ready.  I leave this note 
for you to make of what you will.

terrific.

Thanks.  I wish someone else would give this a try.  We're talkin'
300 words or less, here, folks.  Go ahead, don't be bashful.

Okay, here's my next one.  (You people really ought to try it.
Micro fiction is megafun.)

                              VENUS


Lughi and Bugha were relaxing by the sink hole after the hunt.  

"Have you made any more of your stones?" asked Bugha.  

"Yes, I'm almost finished with an aurochs, back at camp." 

"The big stone by the oak tree?" 

"Yes.  It's a present for the new chief." 

"Ass-kisser!" 

Lughi lowered his voice.  "And I made a little one of the chief's 
wife." 

Bugha snickered.  

"Looks just like her." 

Bugha buried his face in his hands.  His body shook.  

"Care to see it?" 

Bugha nodded, his face still in his hands.  

Lughi extracted a small stone from his deerskin pouch.  It was 
the image of a woman with grotesquely enormous buttocks and 
breasts.  A good likeness.  

Bugha peeked from between his fingers, and immediately fell to 
the ground, howling with laughter.  Every so often, he would try 
to sit up, but then he would look at Lughi's sculpture and fall 
writhing and screaming to the ground again.  

Now Lughi began to laugh, too.  He and Bugha egged each other on 
with tear-streaked faces until they were both weak and gasping.  

The stone slipped from Lughi's hand and rolled down the bank.  He 
made a lunge for it, but it was too late: with a little plop, 
fell into the sink hole and disappeared.  It sank to the bottom 
and into the mud.  

"Just as well," said Bugha, wiping the tears from his face.  

Hilarious.  I love it.

It must have been a popular joke, as many similar "Venus" figurines
have been found. 

   MINUTES OF THE MONTHLY MEETING OF THE PATRIARCHY 


Chairman Fontaine called the meeting to order.  

Brother Schwartz noted that Tess, the checkout girl at the IGA, 
was wearing the shirt she never buttons the top buttons of.  There 
was general agreement that a glimpse of Tess's cleavage was worth 
a trip to the IGA.  

Brother Gagnier reminded the members of Angela at Wimple's 
Pharmacy.  There was a discussion of Angela's habitual bralessness 
and the degrees of translucency of her upper garments on various 
occasions.  

Brother Bottini mentioned that Heather is at Brinkman's Hardware 
for the summer, and her skirts are shorter than ever.  The members 
expressed interest in shopping at Brinkman's very soon.  

Brother Klipp mentioned Leanne, the new employee at Carson's 
Greenhouses.  Chairman Fontaine asked what she was wearing.  
Brother Klipp said jeans and a sweater.  When asked if she was 
showing anything, Brother Klipp admitted that she was not.  "But 
she's real nice," he added.  The members agreed not to visit 
Carson's Greenhouses until Brother Klipp could report observing 
something more interesting than Leanne's "niceness," whatever that 
meant.  

Brother Klipp stated that he and Leanne were dining at Joseph's on 
Saturday.  After a brief silence, Chairman Fontaine instructed 
Brother Klipp to deliver a report at the next meeting as to 
whether Penny, the waitress at Joseph's, was showing her usual 
signs of nipple erection.  Brother Klipp said he doubted he would 
remember to notice Penny's nipples, what with Leanne sitting at 
the table.  Chairman Fontaine then requested that Brother Klipp be 
excused from Society functions for one year "or until such time as 
he is no longer infatuated with the new employee at Carson's 
Greenhouses."  Brother Klipp said "Fine" and left the room.  

Chairman Fontaine adjourned the meeting.  

                    MILTON IN THE ABRUZZI


It started with a rhythm of colors and textures.  She saw 
it in her imagination, and then she smelled it and tasted 
it.  In her slow meditative way, she began to work.  She 
brought a dozen ripe tomatoes in from the garden.  She went 
out again and came back with clusters of fresh basil, and 
then she pulled three mozzarella rounds out of the brine and 
washed them at the pump.  She cut the tomatoes and 
mozzarella into thin slices and spread them out on three 
long wooden serving trays along with the basil leaves: 
tomato, cheese, basil, tomato, cheese, basil.  The rhythm 
came to life before her eyes.  She looked and looked at the 
three trays; then, with a nod of her head, she sent her 
little granddaughter down to the cellar for some dried 
oregano.  She poured fresh olive oil over her creation and 
then sprinkled the dried oregano over it.  

At noon, the men and women came in from the fields and 
vineyards.  On a sunny table by the cottage, they found her 
creation.  "Maria Rosa," they said, touching her and 
smiling.  "Maria Rosa."  Exclamations filled the air as they 
began to eat.  She turned away from them and hurried back 
into the cottage.  

To her mild surprise, soon -- amazingly soon, in only a few 
months -- her creation became the New Thing.  Everyone was 
making it.  She even heard that they were making it in Rome, 
over the hills to the west.  She lived to see it become like 
a new song, that first was on everyone's lips, and then 
settled itself in the hearts of men and women for all time, 
forever.

(I just want Michael to know I'm reading these, each and 
 every one, and still, after all these years, I'm blown
 away by his talent.)

[cringe, blush] I wish I had that much confidence in myself.

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