16 single sentence stories

8/13/2019 16 Single Sentence Stories

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Edited by Matthew Bennardo Illustrated by K. Sekelsky


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LETTERS FROM WITHINA.T. G REENBLATT

My Dearest Beloved, I hope this letter nds you in goodspirits and excellent health, though I pray you will forgivethe quality of this message (it is quite dark here, you see)

and I profoundly apologize for the less than, ah, savorydelivery of said letter, but it is of the utmost importancethat I inform you that The Plan did not unfold quite asexpected which is not to say that I underestimated theBeast, for I fully expected its ferocious teeth (though whyany creature needs four sets is unknown to me) and itssteely scales and ery breath (said to melt esh from bone,though I believe this now to be a gross exaggeration), butI was surprised by its opposable thumbs by which, alas,the monster plucked me up and devoured me whole but do not despair my love, for you yourself know howovergrown this creature is and I have no want of room

in here, though I fear I must entreat you, heart of myheart, for some aid whether you, my dear, will take uparms in the name of our love, or, at the very least, coaxmy monstrous captor into swallowing a torch or a lantern(which, though the thought of your angelic face keeps myspirits alight, would be a boon to my poor eyesight) so that

I may gaze upon you the next time we meet as a whole,undigested man but I pray, my love, when you happen tothink of me, your thoughts will remain kind and adoring(for of the many brazen knights who have come to yourrescue before, how many have made it this far?), knowingthat I am and always will be your ever valiant, steadfast,(if a tri e de ated) Knight.


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4/17

6

Master Himuro, the famed BioArtist, lived alone ina house of owers, sat on furniture made from rosesand worked at a lotus blossom table, and it was here he

received his last commission, which was from a wealthyyoung man of Florence who wanted a woman made of

owers not a statue, not a mannequin but a real, livewoman and of course Himuro told the young man thatsuch a thing was impossible, but the Florentine insistedso much that in the end, just to be rid of him, Himuro saidhe would do his best, and that was why he spent the nexttwo years wracking his withered brains for a way to mold

owers into the object of desire until nally he hit uponthe solution: if he started with the owering nettle plantof South America (which exhibited the most complexbehavior of any known ora) and if he were to add a

little of the green sea slugs genetic adaptability, then hemight have a chance, and, indeed, a year and a half later awoman made of owers opened cherry blossom eyes, andHimuro stroked her delicate lily forearm and tearfullyhanded her over to the young man from Florence, and thenext day, as expected, her remains were brought back in a

box, but Himuro did not despair, and instead he openedthe box and ru led through the petals until he foundwhat he was looking for a single, precious bud, the fruitof the union between man and ower, for which he had apot already prepared.

IN BLOOMRICHARD J. DOWLING


5/17

8

The name is Blonde Jane Blonde, she said and ippedher cigarette stub into the dry grass where it started awild re that would eventually subsume the better part

of three states, although by then she was far away, yinga small plane over the Florida Everglades and keepingan eye out for her arch-nemesis Archy, the Arch-Dukeof Archangel, who was supposed to be leading a gang ofalligator smugglers through the wetlands to violate theprecious sovereignty of Americas crocodilian overlordsback in Washington, where Jane had received her ordersfrom the mysterious spy-master, M: We dont knowwhere hell land and we dont know what hell do, so weresending you in, Jane, was all the elderly oligarch couldtell her, and now here she was and there he was, Archyhimself, up to his beautifully-ripped abs in swamp-water,

a trail of alligators strung out behind him on their leads,with helpers on either side keeping the feisty beasts in lineuntil Janes war-cry of YEEEE-HAAAA came shriekingout of the air while her abandoned plane crashed nearbyand she herself swooped down in the ying suit that Qhad given her until she came to sudden stop in an old

tree that tangled her wings and le t her pendulumingabove the smugglers as she unshipped her AK and let ya burst across the still surface of the water, wiping out thehelpers and the reptiles but leaving Archy unscathed asshe abseiled down and made to subdue him despite thestruggles of his slick hard body under her hands, which

nally led to the two of them entangled on a mud bankwhere they made unexpected and very dirty love, unaware

that a last remaining reptile was making its way stealthilytoward them until Jane sat up and red her Walther rightbetween its eyes and said, See you later, alligator.

JANE BLONDETJ RADCLIFFE


6/17

10

I wander into the toy store in search of the perfect gi t formy daughter, Emma, when I see the man with the silverhair and merry blue eyes smiling at me from behind the

counter, a man who makes me think of my father agracious man of good deeds, so t hands, and lost dreams,who still wore silk ties with paisley prints and openeddoors for elegant women who carried small hand bagsand smelled of red rose desire, a man whose soul was asdeep as the Dead Sea but more fragile than the Edelweiss

owers he gave my mother and my eyes ll with tears somelancholy I form poetry with the ABC building blocks,then let my heart brim over with child-like wonder as Itake in the other toys I consider for Emma: tiny LEGOmen with their busy professions, plush teddy bearslonging to be hugged, Big Birds and Cookie Monsters

and ticklish Elmos who laugh at the bells attached to mygreen laces that make my shoes jingle and lead me to thecorner of the shop where at last I spot the perfect gi t ananimated Christmas doll with golden hair and a goldensmile, singing heartfelt songs of hope and joy, goodwill tomen, the same songs my father loved and sang to me.

SONGS FROM MY FATHERLISA MARIE LOPEZ


7/17

12

With fumbling, uncertain ngers she turned the key toher dead husbands writing desk, biting back her tearsas she gazed on the open drawer: a faded photograph

(how innocent they looked on the eve of their very rstChristmas), one of Minas childhood drawings (she wasalways his favourite child), and then the paper-chase,the postcards, the ticket stubs, the Valentines cards, andthe programmes, an entire life history, in faded imagesof all the special times they had shared and there, too,tucked away at the back, her ngers found an ancient buenvelope and, inside it, a rosebud, drier than dust, bled ofall its colour, and two used tickets for La Boheme, an operashe had never seen.

THE SADNESS OF SOUVENIRSABIGAIL WYATT


8/17

14

Its only a ter you train all your life (giving up weekendsand ballgames and late nights at the club to study controlsystems and thermodynamics, then later checklists

of launch processes, the physics of re-entry, and thethousands of other things they stu into your head),a ter you nd its a simple mechanical failure that causesall the trouble (an Allen wrench in basic black which wasnot designed to fall into the airlock mechanism but mostcertainly does fall into that same mechanism), only a teryou nd yourself on the wrong side of the ships skin,watching as Dag and Trina and Lane go crazy trying allthe things from all the manuals, guides, and computersimulations that they gave up their nights and ballgamesand weekends to study (and then try a few hundred morethings that arent in those manuals), a ter you realize

they cant think of anything else and youre still out hereand you cut yourself loose to spare their feelings andyou rotate slowly into space for hours, or days, or weekswhile your suit drains its battery pack and you shut othe heads-up to save the last few minutes its only a terall that work, and pain, and su ering, that you look with

your oxygen-starved brain into a universe so deep withits stars and galaxies, with its novae and pulsars and otherthings you cannot even pretend to imagine, that you sayto yourself, My God, how beautiful you are.

AFTERRON COLLINS


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Each feather she pulled so painfully from her backmight have told its own story, but she burned each onewithout listening. The moon rose and, nally, the wolf inside did not.

FOR A MORTALS LOVEM ARI NESS

THE GLIMMER OF LIGSILVER PILLS

MEGAN ENGELHARDT


10/17

18 19

Given the inexact science of this sort of thing really,

its not science at all, but the human mind is always soeager for some sort of categorization to be applied toall situations its somewhat di cult to pinpoint theexact moment the evening went awry, shot o the rails,plunged to a ery death in a craggy canyon, or whateverother descriptive disaster you might feel apt, as therewere so very many to choose from: my shaving debacle;the restaurant having no record of the reservation; thebartender spilling whiskey on both my suit and the freshcuts on my face from the shaving debacle; the mixedmartial arts ghter who thought Id spilled the drinkwhich got on his girlfriend as well and decided to applya choke hold to signify his displeasure; the sad littlecrackling sound my smart phone made as the whiskeyit had been doused in caused it to short out; the wasabipea from the basket of snacks at the bar that got caught inmy throat and the sounds I made like a faulty foghorn asI tried to get it out yes, yes, all viable candidates, but its

unlikely our blind date could have experienced anythingworse than the fact you didnt show up.AND THE CHILEAN SEA BASS

WAS OVERCOOKED TOOKIT YONA


11/17


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The ambient sounds of the library cocoon me papersuttering, feet squeaking, the whir of the automatic

gates swinging closed, murmurs of enquiries, voices

rising forgetfully then dropping sharply in shame as Iinhale a faint smell of wood, paper, dust the e luenceof trees and people and wonder why you suggested wemeet here, of all places, and why not a caf or leafy, sunlitpark, somewhere we could play and laugh but then I seeyou approach, and recognise the darkness in your face,the furrow that runs right through your body, and I knowyour reason before you speak, before you break my heartin hushed, library-appropriate tones.

A HUSHED SPACEJUDY DARLEY


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As was their custom, there were three visits: in the rst,the ready traveler, the skyward dreamer, he declined whilestopping between classes for co ee-extra-cream-extra-

sugar, he declined because he was just getting started and justgetting to know the girl, not yet ready to leave forever (despitehis promise to himself years before, when he had rst learnedof them while tucked into footed pajamas and sightingPleiades), and besides there was still time, there was nothingbut time; in the second, he sat on a park bench watchingthree children playing as the overgrown darkness blotteditself in on such a peculiar Sunday, their mother awaitingtheir return, him lingering, hesitating too long, wonderingwhether life would bear him out as an incompetent father forjust up and leaving now, and of course there was still time,there was always time; in the third, he stood a ter one last

sip of a light beer held steady by hands other than his ownand released the plastic straw from between brittle lips, hisweight then teetering on brittle legs, and he learned that theyhad not come for him this time, but their apology was mostsincere and reassuring since of course there was still time,there was always time, and surely hed be ready then.

ROCKETMANWAYNE HELGE


14/17

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Windows, open to hot air, gave ceiling fans little to workwith, so people stirred, restlessly, in uncomfortable pews,while tolling bells began wearing on their nerves and the

question Where is the bride? ew back and forth till thegroom, ddling with the scratchy collar on his sweatyneck, cursed the incessant gong-gong from overhead, whilebridesmaids whispered in confusion in the sacristy as thebells tolled on, until one of the girls spotted the bouquetthat lay on the oor, by the door to the bell tower, hintingat a sudden nerve-inspired ight but they never thoughtto check the bell tower, because it locked automatically assoon as it clicked shut, something the bride hadnt known,so voiceless from shouting, exhausted from ringing thebell, she watched from above as they departed.

THE BELLSJ. BROSNAN


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Spinning and sparking, I plunged from the sky, as allmothers warnings bounced o the clouds: Dance toohigh and youll trip on a moonbeam but we never listen,

do we, always thinking we know best (and, lets face it,sometimes were right) so there I was, in gravitys demonclutches, expecting any moment for my light and life to besnu ed out, when I felt a sudden scratching and tugging,and oh that dear old tree, I cant thank it enough, for Iclung to the twiggy hand it o ered, and now here I am,gleaming each daybreak (not high in the heavens, asmother intended, but close to the earth where the sun hitsthe dew on the crisp golden apples) so you see, we can stillshine in unexpected ways, even when we fall.

CATCH A FALLING STARJOANNE FOX


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. . .this will be the last story I ever tell you, my sultan, andso I humbly beseech you to listen and to delight in it, andto keep your promise of allowing me to nish this very

last sentence, uninterrupted, even as the sun is alreadyrising from beyond the Eastern dunes and the executionersharpens his scimitar; I have told you a thousand stories tales of ying carpets and bottled jinn, bold sailors andtreacherous viziers, magic and wonder and all manner ofthings beyond the mundane but this last story is aboutan ordinary young woman, a woman who caught the eyeof her sultan and who managed to survive their weddingnight, and a thousand nights a terward, using no weaponand no magic but her imagination alone; the sultan wasmesmerized by her wondrous fables at rst, always eagerfor another, but as the years went by she found it more

and more di cult to keep his attention until, nally, hehad had enough and wanted to hear no more stories butbeing a kind and generous ruler he graciously consentedto allow the girl to nish speaking before the guardswould take her away (everyone knows that the sultans

word is his bond) and the poor girl swallowed her tears,drew in a big breath and began her tale thus:

this will be the last story I ever tell you, my sultan, and soI humbly beseech you. . .

ONE THOUSAND AND FIRSTALEX SHVARTSMAN


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To learn more about the contributors in this book, visit:

thechairparade.com/OneSentenceStories

A.T. Greenblatt Xanthe Elliott

Richard J. Dowling TJ Radcli e

Lisa Marie Lopez Abigail Wyatt Ron Collins Mari Ness

Megan Engelhardt Kit Yona

Sue Ann Connaughton Judy Darley

Wayne Helge J. Brosnan Joanne Fox

Alex Shvartsman

CONTRIBUTORS

16 single sentence stories

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