I’ve been playing around with Twitter short stories lately. So, if you’re on Twitter, you can follow @finnjewel*, and get these 140-character stories delivered to you. (And yes, it’s surprisingly easy to follow a story with 140 characters.)
Here they are, in no particular order:
» She always said that her number-one problem was that she was bad with numbers. A mess. Or, maybe it was her number-three problem, she said.
» Anne smiled when the liquor store clerk asked to see her ID. Not just because she was already 33, but also because her fake ID still worked.
» In 1971, his Dad gave him a quarter for emergencies. He always carried it with him. It being his last quarter wasn’t a big enough emergency.
» Every time she was sad, he danced a funny dance for her. But sometimes, when that didn’t help, he made a song and dance about the situation.
» Yes, he had been seen in her neighborhood a lot, but he was no stalker. He was looking for serendipity. All it took was one chance meeting.
» “You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,” he muttered. He broke seven eggs and threw in the eighth, unbroken. “Oh yeah? Says who?”
» Ann read that because a flower shop had been closed, Robert Duvall went to a bakery, and married the baker. Ann never took another day off.
» He loved big words. Not to be snobbish or pretentious, but because he could trust those big words. Short words hurt: No. Not now. Not ever.
» He always asked his dates to name their favorite superhero. Superman always got a second date. Too bad she’d said Aquaman. He had liked her.
» All those times he had ran through the woods, he’d never thought that one day somebody would be chasing him, swinging an axe. Not like this.
» He made an egg-tuna sandwich, and put it in her purse for lunch. Only, she didn’t take a purse that day. As revenge, he let it rot in there.
» Of course he had recognized her face. That’s why he’d pushed his way to the back of the elevator in the first place. Mrs Bure, still so hot.
» Positive that the chicken burgers sold on the street were actually made of pigeons, he counted the birds on the square. He’d save those 112.
» He sat on a bench, across the street from the office where he had applied for a job, and sent good vibes. On the fifth day, the police came.
» “You know you had me at ‘hello’,” he said. She smiled. That hello had been preceded by a knock on his head, then followed by “anybody home?”
» For months, she had waited for him to make a move. Nada. Today, she decided to make hers. “Wanna spot me?” she asked him at the bench press.
» He took a last bite of the candy bar, and threw the wrapper into a garbage can. “Three points,” he screamed. “That’s how you do it, LeBron!”
» Every ten years, the media came looking for him. “How did that ephedrine get into your doping sample?” And he still didn’t know. Officially.
» The beggar was on his knees, palms together, not moving. “Aren’t you allowed to move?” a woman was shouting. “Move or no money!” she yelled.
» “They’re playing our song,” she said. The gray-haired man smiled back. She wrote “our song” on a napkin, and pointed at the band. He sighed.
» “She said, ‘dude, loser is spelled with one o’. And I was like ‘I know, I checked the dictionary and saw your photo!” he told the bartender.
» A reporter had recently called him “a veteran player”, but he couldn’t see one in the mirror. Not now, not after a shave. The gray was gone.
» His shop had been across the street from Julia’s hair salon for 35 years. Tomorrow, her daughter would take over. His daughter. He felt old.
» ”Hi, it’s me,” she said. “Who’s this?” he replied. He knew it was her, but she wasn’t his “girlfriend” so he wasn’t ready for “it’s me” yet.
» ”Just kill yourself, you hopeless clown,” a neighbor shouted. He got up, put on his wig, and the red nose. “Why so serious,” he yelled back.
» The car didn’t start. He lost his house keys down the drain. His phone was inside. And, he really had to go to the bathroom. Not a good day.
» He was torn. Was it better to tell her that he was allergic to nuts, or possibly have his ears swell? Years later, she would call him Dumbo.
» It was 2.30. He was getting nervous. “We did say 2,” he thought. He was still waiting, at 4, when her SMS came in: “Can’t w8 2 C U 2morrow.