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Short Shorts
10.15.2002 by Rosemary, every Tuesday.


Last week I promised comics, sex and betrayal. I lied. (At least I covered the betrayal part, then.)
I am trying not to feel like a nerd for being such a regular poster.
Short short short short stories are fun.
Send me stories! I will shower you with praise and gifts! C. Rufus Meloncrawler of Hampton, Maine sent me a story and the next day his boil was GONE.




Breaking the rules of social convention

My friend Jacob thinks he's a carpenter. "I'm a carpenter," he says, leaning against a column of the Royal Bank while we wait for our friends to gather for lunch. He carries around a hammer and a small saw, and every now and then he will saw or hammer idly at some protuberance of the local architecture. He's never actually built or fixed anything. Still, none of us has the heart to tell him that he's not a real carpenter. One day, feeling bold, I decided to break the rules of social convention. "Jacob," I said, turning to him, "You're not really a carpenter, you know." Jacob glared at me, and then became extremely defensive. "I'm a good carpenter," he insisted, brandishing his hammer. Suddenly realizing the enormity of my brashness, I felt chagrined. "You're right," I said softly, "You're a good carpenter." I dropped out of school and went on antipsychotic drugs.



Only full-time positions available

It was a round-the-clock job. She was born on a warm little street in a small town; in autumn she tromped through the crunching leaves as she walked to school swinging her knapsack. Winter sparkled, and there was skating. In spring the mud soaked into her jeans up to her knees. She held on to her mother's hand and they counted violets together. In summer there was a day camp, where everything smelled like sunscreen. The years went by in a blur. High school was busy. University smelled like books. There was a beautiful man, and two rosy children. One day a little boy asked her how she was feeling. "I'm so tired," she said. "So tired." It was a round-the-clock job.



Busy
(apologies to Dan Rhodes)

When I was twenty-one I met a young man named Diamond. He was funny, courteous, and inventive. I dated him rather casually for several weeks and felt rejuvinated by his relaxed attitude. One night I judged it appropriate to kiss him. The stars were bright and he kissed back. A week passed, and he didn't call me. Two weeks passed. A month. A year. I met my future husband on a paddle-boat trip to Lake Michigan. The wedding was a dream; we had eight children. Nineteen years later, I received a telephone call. It was Diamond, wanting to know if I was free that upcoming Saturday. Incredulous, I asked him where he'd been all this time. "I was just very busy," he said.




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