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Literary Short-shorts

AMoveableBeast

AMoveableBeast

Literotica Guru
Joined
Feb 1, 2013
Posts
987
I was talking about minimalism earlier, and it made me think of this.

Tell me a short story. Make it incredibly short, no more than a couple paragraphs at most, but make it complete--with a beginning, middle, and end, and make it say something, mean something, even, if you can. Condense.

It's hard, but a lot of fun. I'll try to start.

I knew a butterfly once. He died. At the funeral everyone gathered around and talked about how beautiful he'd been and how he'd brightened the life of anyone he'd ever met. Only one person was sad, the butterfly's mother, who sat in the front row and sobbed uncontrollably. When asked what it was about the butterfly that she missed most, she answered, "The butterfly? Fuck the butterfly. I'm mourning the last twisted memory of my perfect little caterpillar."
 
“What’s wrong with that station back there, hon? Gotta pee somethin’ fierce.”

Harold’s knuckles went white on the Eldorado’s wheel, but he did a U-turn. Popping gum and 2,000 miles of chatter from Mobile. Now she was doing her toenails purple, feet propped up on his precious dashboard. If she weren’t such a good lay . . .

“Be just a few.” She sauntered off to the ladies, returning twenty minutes later to find no Eldorado, her suitcase sitting next to the pump.

“Lady, you can’t sit here all day—not and smoke.” But the attendant was giving Avis the eye. With a shrug, she wiggled behind him into darkness if the service station.
 
They are fifty interesting words, but they lack both characterization and complete plot, not to mention a dilemma.
 
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She had just sat at the bar when she noticed the handsome man watching her. He walked over and started to speak, but she cut him off.

"I don't like to drink much, and you sure as hell don't need to piss money away at this shithole. How about we skip the preliminaries and go to my place and fuck?" she asked him.

He smiled, reaching out a hand to her. She snatched it and he led her out of the bar.
 
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Fantasies

She's an abstract woman on his stage of equations. See how she bends just so, in her skirt after work, opening the dishwasher--something special about the way she spreads her legs slightly. She tosses her hair, sexes it up. He shakes the paper to stiffen it, glances, and asks for a fork. Tie still neat, starched and erect in his chair.
When he falls asleep at 9:20 sharp, it's her time for dreaming.
She dreams
of him so stern and pleated, pulling her hair, fucking her from behind, calling her his naughty little cum slut. She imagines his moans, her weeping and whimpering in ecstasy, trying not to shake the bed here with her tears.
 
The very short story....

hilarious-shortest-story-ever_49.jpg



:D An oldie but a goody. :D
 
Weather House

Wearing his yellow raincoat, he came in just as the woman in the sundress was leaving. She returned later; but then he had to leave again.

Standing outside, he called her on his cell phone. ‘Why is it? Whenever I come in, you go out.’

‘It’s the weather,’ she said.
 
She paced up the hallway again, stopping to peek out the curtain for the hundredth time. She looked at the clock, and pulled her robe tighter around her.
Finally, she gave up. She sat in his chair, the recliner with the cup holder, and fell asleep.

An hour later, he unlocked the apartment door without making a sound. He crept into the bedroom, surprised that she wasn't there. He turned on the light and looked at his reflection in the mirror. Hair a mess, tie askew, five o'clock shadow- he looked like a man that was hiding something.

He walked to the living room and knelt in front of the recliner, waking her gently. "I'm sorry I'm late."

"I was worried. Where were you?" She smelled cigarette smoke on his clothes. She saw his wrinkled shirt and a stain on his collar and felt her anxiety rise. "Really, where were you?"

"I fucked up."

"Oh, no. What did you do?"

"I'm sorry. I just..."

"You're scaring me. What did you do? Where were you?"

"Honey, I forgot it was our anniversary. I had your gift shipped, but it was delayed. They said I could pick it up. I had to drive all the way to the city to pick it up. I'm so sorry I forgot. I wanted it to be a surprise and then my phone died..."

He pulled the small box out of his pocket and opened it.

She gasped in delight at the sparkle reflected from the tiny diamonds lining the band.

"It's beautiful, sweetie, but our anniversary is tomorrow."
 
I've got nothing for this. But Charles Baudelaire's Paris Spleen contains a lot of these little gems.
 
A girl, with long straight blonde hair. She’s walking in front of me. I analyse her movements. She’s wearing an ankle length black skirt that in no way hides her slender figure, a white top hanging off one shoulder, flat black pumps and a bohemian bag on a long strap that bangs against the side of her knee. I know that she must look delightful in profile so I raise my pace. I have to know.

Perfect! She’s walking into the same pub I’m going to. Straight up to the bar and ‘hello’ to her friend. I spot my friends in the corner but they can wait. I catch the barman’s eye and order, then glance across at her. My heart melts. Her features are well defined, set off by chestnut eyes and perfect small teeth as she smiles at something her friend has said.

My beer arrives and I take a deep breath. Then I turn and walk over to my friends, damning the fact that I’m sixty-eight.
 
sr71plt said:
“What’s wrong with that station back there, hon? Gotta pee somethin’ fierce.”

Harold’s knuckles went white on the Eldorado’s wheel, but he did a U-turn. Popping gum and 2,000 miles of chatter from Mobile. Now she was doing her toenails purple, feet propped up on his precious dashboard. If she weren’t such a good lay . . .

“Be just a few.” She sauntered off to the ladies, returning twenty minutes later to find no Eldorado, her suitcase sitting next to the pump.

“Lady, you can’t sit here all day—not and smoke.” But the attendant was giving Avis the eye. With a shrug, she wiggled behind him into darkness if the service station.
Click to expand...

I've always wanted an Eldorado, or a silver Thunderbird. I've also had quite a few women I wanted to leave at the station. Never had the balls. Maybe that's why I don't have the car, either.

Swilly said:
She had just sat at the bar when she noticed the handsome man watching her. He walked over and started to speak, but she cut him off.

"I don't like to drink much, and you sure as hell don't need to piss money away at this shithole. How about we skip the preliminaries and go to my place and fuck?" she asked him.

He smiled, reaching out a hand to her. She snatched it and he led her out of the bar.
Click to expand...

You forgot the "nice shoes" part. ;)

bluejeanbabyamy said:
She's an abstract woman on his stage of equations. See how she bends just so, in her skirt after work, opening the dishwasher--something special about the way she spreads her legs slightly. She tosses her hair, sexes it up. He shakes the paper to stiffen it, glances, and asks for a fork. Tie still neat, starched and erect in his chair.
When he falls asleep at 9:20 sharp, it's her time for dreaming.
She dreams
of him so stern and pleated, pulling her hair, fucking her from behind, calling her his naughty little cum slut. She imagines his moans, her weeping and whimpering in ecstasy, trying not to shake the bed here with her tears.
Click to expand...

Very pretty. I have a weakness for stories like this.

SamScribble said:
Weather House

Wearing his yellow raincoat, he came in just as the woman in the sundress was leaving. She returned later; but then he had to leave again.

Standing outside, he called her on his cell phone. ‘Why is it? Whenever I come in, you go out.’

‘It’s the weather,’ she said.
Click to expand...

Cloud-crossed lovers. I like it.
 
Monica. Falling in love with her had been so easy. She was never beautiful in the classic sense, but her spirit! God, it burst out of her like the sun through storm clouds.

Charlie's brows scrunched together. What were those called, the sunbeams? Oh, yeah. Sundogs. Sundogs, that's it. Charlie tried to remember where he'd heard the term. His mother, maybe.

He'd waited, gripping the useless cell phone and praying. Well, she'd come home. Hadn't she?

He glanced down at the pistol in his hand; Stared at it like he'd never seen it before. Why aren't my ears ringing? He wondered, the thought interrupted when he got a good whiff of acrid smoke and coughed. Charlie looked around, he'd need to move soon. It was already uncomfortably hot. It was fitting, he supposed, Monica wanted to be cremated.

Charlie turned, taking the few steps to the door hanging by only one hinge. The sky outside the opening a vision of hell, replete with the screams of the damned.
 
Dalbhach said:
Monica. Falling in love with her had been so easy. She was never beautiful in the classic sense, but her spirit! God, it burst out of her like the sun through storm clouds.

Charlie's brows scrunched together. What were those called, the sunbeams? Oh, yeah. Sundogs. Sundogs, that's it. Charlie tried to remember where he'd heard the term. His mother, maybe.

He'd waited, gripping the useless cell phone and praying. Well, she'd come home. Hadn't she?

He glanced down at the pistol in his hand; Stared at it like he'd never seen it before. Why aren't my ears ringing? He wondered, the thought interrupted when he got a good whiff of acrid smoke and coughed. Charlie looked around, he'd need to move soon. It was already uncomfortably hot. It was fitting, he supposed, Monica wanted to be cremated.

Charlie turned, taking the few steps to the door hanging by only one hinge. The sky outside the opening a vision of hell, replete with the screams of the damned.
Click to expand...

For some reason, this reminded me of Vietnam as a woman, the private little war that every relationship can become if you're not careful. Of course, most don't actually get around to the napalm part. I enjoyed it. Sundogs, indeed.
 
AMoveableBeast said:
I've always wanted an Eldorado, or a silver Thunderbird. I've also had quite a few women I wanted to leave at the station. Never had the balls. Maybe that's why I don't have the car, either.
Click to expand...

I had a silver and gray '87 Thunderbird. Best-looking car I ever had. The usual Ford mechanical problems. Left it for my daughter to use when I was reassigned to the Med and she drove the wheels off of it.
 
She cheated!

Brad Hampton doodled a stick figure onto the pad in front of him as he spoke into his phone. Brad frowned at what he was hearing. “I don’t give a shit,” he said. “No-fault State or whatever. Do whatever you have to do. Hide it in the Cayman Islands. Wherever. She ain’t going to get any of my money. You can let her have the house. No way she’ll be able to keep up the mortgage payments. You got the judge on board. Okay.” Brad hung up the phone. “Fuckin’ divorce lawyers,” he thought, “They don’t know nothing.”

He was lucky to have found out. A couple of thousand under the table to her therapist had led to the information. It was supposed to be client privileged, but what was all his Wall Street money for, if not to get information, legal or otherwise.

It was really simple. Maggie had cheated. Drunk or not, .it didn’t matter. She cheated on him. She’d get it., get it good. No excuse for cheating. Brad completed his doodle, a rope was drawn around the stick figure’s neck.
The End
 
A lovely twist would have been if Brad's girlfriend walked in at the end.
 
I am curiouse

ILienBagby said:
Brad Hampton doodled a stick figure onto the pad in front of him as he spoke into his phone. Brad frowned at what he was hearing. “I don’t give a shit,” he said. “No-fault State or whatever. Do whatever you have to do. Hide it in the Cayman Islands. Wherever. She ain’t going to get any of my money. You can let her have the house. No way she’ll be able to keep up the mortgage payments. You got the judge on board. Okay.” Brad hung up the phone. “Fuckin’ divorce lawyers,” he thought, “They don’t know nothing.”

He was lucky to have found out. A couple of thousand under the table to her therapist had led to the information. It was supposed to be client privileged, but what was all his Wall Street money for, if not to get information, legal or otherwise.

It was really simple. Maggie had cheated. Drunk or not, .it didn’t matter. She cheated on him. She’d get it., get it good. No excuse for cheating. Brad completed his doodle, a rope was drawn around the stick figure’s neck.
The End
Click to expand...

I received only 2 comments about this story (one comment the s via email). Neither noticed that I had written the story to be ironic. The main character is upset and angry and is taking steps to punish the woman who he feels has cheated on him. At the same time, he does not realize that, if anything, he is a far bigger cheater than she was.
 
ILienBagby said:
I received only 2 comments about this story (one comment the s via email). Neither noticed that I had written the story to be ironic. The main character is upset and angry and is taking steps to punish the woman who he feels has cheated on him. At the same time, he does not realize that, if anything, he is a far bigger cheater than she was.
Click to expand...

Well, as I noted, I think the extra twist I suggested it could have been given makes it more clearly ironic--makes the cheat equal, same/same. How is the reader to know she wasn't as big a cheat as he was? You don't clearly identify what her cheat was. You cast the cheating as apples/oranges. If her cheat is infidelity, there will be lots of readers who think that's a bigger cheat than hiding your money in the Cayman Islands.

(Incidentally, I was just in the Cayman Islands and they are indignant down there--maybe tongue in cheek--that you can get away with hiding money there. They say that John Grisham made that up in one of his books and it's giving them a big headache in dealing with people trying to do that now. I'm not saying they turned my money away, of course. ;))
 
AMoveableBeast said:
Irony is the hardest thing to do in writing. Do it poorly and you'll lose half your readership. Do it well, and you'll lose nearly all of them.
Click to expand...

Again, in this case I think the cheatings had to be related for irony to set in on their related "badness." If the wife's sin was sexual cheating, so should the husband's have been.
 
He simply could not still his being. It had been a very long time since he'd tasted anger in its raw form. Smokey-coppery, like blood on the tongue.

The idea that Jedi could dispense with emotion was inaccurate, regardless of council propaganda; however, experiencing emotions while wrapped securely in the force was akin to experiencing rain through a pane of glass.

Jenvarus' memory, honed by years of training, replayed the scene from earlier in the day holo-clear. Kira fallen, twenty imperials and a Sith assassin between him and her...

He shuddered and gave up meditating entirely. He'd slain his enemies in anger, bodies sliced into their various components in pools of crimson on the Tatooine sands. The assassin had been good, but he'd killed her in seconds. Bending to find Kira still alive, albeit barely. A wild skimmer ride across the desert to Anchorhead.

The door to his quarters opened with hydraulic sibilance. Kira, outlined in a square of light from the companionway.

"Master." She said. Not a question. A demand.

A single step, and another Jedi erected barrier broken. One small step. The door closed casting her into shadow. Jenvarus could see only her general shape, and her eyes. The sound of cloth slithering to the floor was, however, unmistakable.

"Master." She said.


I think this one's a little longer than it should be, but I can't seem to find a way to shorten it and retain the imagery I was trying to capture. Shameless SWTOR fan fiction. Sorry. ;)
 
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