Short Story.
He sits typing single handed over a teacup.
Composing stories.
Nouns and adjectives are striped down to their phonetic undies.
Who R U? He asks.
Thoughts and observations are broken down into predicted syllables like crumbs from biscuits.
The clinking of coffee cups and teapots, newspapers and chatter, accompanied by the rhythmic click of the single digit that most separates us from our primate brothers.
The ability to wield fire and then this: the ability to share stories.
Packed down and sent off with not the ceremony of an envelope or the ink to fill it with.
For what are we writing if not short stories? Our own biographies one lunch date at a time.
Etching out the happier epitaphs we choose to leave behind ourselves.
