Five 1-Minute Stories

9 03 2006

Angry and tired, I threw myself against the wall. I gave up; I figured my shape wouldn’t hold up. My head was sore. I took a pause. “This is crazy”, I told myself. I sat on my bed and looked out the window. Everything seemed so fleeting. I cried for five hours that day. No one noticed.

I smiled. I had done it. It was there and now it was gone. I had a hold-up; my mind would not let me commit to the ideal. And now it was gone. I ran. I fled reason. I was a fugitive from guilt. But the crime suddenly was worth it. Calmly and patiently, I took up a low-income profession, stole money from ATMs when I needed to, bought a nice studio house, dropped those who bothered me into the river, you know, the usual.

I said “goodbye” in my dream last night and I’ve got to say that I enjoyed the flight.

The fire in her eyes terrified him. There were no questions, no dialogue, only the slice and dice hacks into his heart. He was scared. “This wasn’t supposed to happen …” he thought to himself, “what’s wrong with me?” Sensing his thoughts, perhaps, she spoke quietly, “everything.” Her eyes fell, the lights fading. He too quieted. More silence. “Everything,” she said again perhaps pulling out an apology or perhaps beginning a long, angry tirade. Though the movie was scripted, the pair seemed to feel more than just putting on a show. When the director called cut, she walked over to the actor’s dressing room and apologized for everything. He replied glancing into the mirror while fixing his coat to go out on the town, “you movie girl-types are all the same.”

They cried and no one cried with them. Though they never failed to be good people, nice is just nice. No one wants nice. Nice dies poor and lonely. They cried, but no one came to their rescue save one. Death is nice.

Again, this is out of my old shoebox. These were written about a week ago, perhaps more. If you need titles:
#1, Five Hours
#2, Committed
#3, The Flight
#4, Stars
#5, Nice




One response

17 11 2011


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