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55 Words (Guest writers)
8.5.2003 by Rosemary, every Tuesday.


Last week I asked you to send in your 55-word stories. And here they are, and they're neat, and thank you.




They drooped in their chairs in the noonday heat, sleepy and sated. The veranda opened out to the park, where cool shafts of air pierced the lush humidity.

"Water," said one.

"Please," said another.

They continued to languish in their chairs until the third succumbed to gravity, falling from the veranda to cool green grass.

-by Burningsnail

. . .

"Is this seat taken?"

She put her bag in the overhead rack, and I asked her name as we waited to pull away.

"Diane." Her french D sounded like a Z.

"Cyan?"

"Diane. Diane Eros."

"Umm.. Like..."

"Yeah, like that."

I paused and tried to figure out what to say.

"Beautiful day," I said, grinning.

-by Zen Insult

. . .

"I'll tell you where the old gods are," he said, "I know exactly where they are. They won't give up. The useless bastards are hiding all over creation in the vain hope that people might believe again."

I smiled politely.

He slumped into his beer, saying, "I used to grant them fire."

-by Snowmit

. . .

This one's 56, but it amuses me to no end.

Sanford Bueller Giancomo Mazetti Jr. is my name. People call me Sandy. I'm eighty-one years old, and I can't stand ugly women. Ugly women have no place in this world. I shot a man once with a gun. In the back. If I could tell you one thing it would be this: never lose perspective.

-by an anonymous disgruntled old man

. . .

This one is a bit of a cheat, since the title isn't part of the 55 words. Still pretty neat though.

You wake up, and your hands aren't your own.

You look down at your hands. They move, dark and graceful like your own never were. This fascinates you. You feel panic, but hands moving from you chase it, and thoughts of your own hands, away. Memory slips from you. These hands, beautiful flowers, uncurl at your waist, open in supplication, and beckon you forward.

-by Sarah O.

. . .

Outside the bar, she stood across from me, arms crossed as I lit a cigarette. An eyebrow rose and she leaned up against me.

"You know what I like about you?" she said, chin pressed into my chest.

"I really don't."

"The fact that you can light a match on the first try, every time."

-by Zen Insult

. . .

"Wow," he said, after reading the stories. "So much in just 55 words. Could I inject such pathos and emotion into that short a work?" He sighs. It reminds him of dear, sweet Lillith, whom he had lost so long ago in a tragic fruit peeling accident.

It was then that the piano crushed him.

-by Blank's Dan




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