Hannah

I'm in a hurry so this story needs to be fast, because in the twenty-three years I've worked as a city bus driver, I've never been late, not counting of course the day my wife went into labor, but this morning as I was leaving the station a little girl was standing in front of the bus--I figured she was probably ten years old, and that would have been how old...well you can't expect me to talk about that--forcing me to slam on the brakes and I was certain I'd run her over but when I hurried round to the front she was unharmed, though she was crying pretty hard and said that she was lost and needed my help so I followed her across the street to the city park, down a path I can't remember ever having seen before into a place that was dark with ancient trees and cold and I was starting to get worried but she said this was the way home and she couldn't get there by herself, so I took her by the hand and we walked together and even though she said she'd never been here before she was the one leading me through the darkness until we finally came to a warm, bright clearing where she stopped and said goodbye and I didn't want to leave but she said that I had to go back and drive the bus and finally she told me her name was Hannah and that's when I understood and today was the first day I've cried in ten years and now that I think about it I don't really mind if for once I'm late to work.

Here's another one sentence story. Enjoy!

Poe Would Attribute His Carelessness To The Weight Of His Guilt Pressing In On Him

He begins the search casually, with a measure of optimism, fully expecting it won't be difficult to find, but with every crossed-out possibility his equanimity lessens, as he goes from pocket to pocket in all his jackets, even jackets that haven't been worn in years just to be sure, and finally to the pockets of his man-purse--the one she always mocked him for--until he's all out of pockets, and then it's to his Range Rover, where he looks methodically from back to front so that he's really beginning to panic because all he finds are stale fries and dog hair and a few drops of blood, which are all attributable to her and he needs to clean up soon, but there'll be no point in cleaning if he can't find it, and now he begins retracing every stop of the last six hours, first to the ATM that is supposed to be his alibi, but there's nothing in the parking lot, and then to the dumpster in the industrial park that was a really stupid place to put her bag but it's too late now, and in any case, it isn't there either and now he's driving to the waterfront and he's nervous because it seems like those headlights in the rearview mirror are following him despite his driving so slow and steady because it would be really bad if he gets pulled over when he hasn't washed the blood and he's still wearing the same clothes and the car is speeding up and its lights are flashing and oh my God it's the cops, so he thinks about speeding up too but that never works and he best play it cool and he's just about to ask what seems to be the problem officer when the cop demands to know why there's a handgun on the top of his car.

Today's story is a deviation from the 100 word format. Instead, as you probably already noticed, this is a one sentence story, a concept first introduced to me by Matthew Bennardo. It turns out they are quite addictive, and the thrill comes in trying to make them as long as possible before they collapse in upon themselves, much like a house of cards (I was going to say a game of Jenga, but the analogy doesn't really work.