Microfiction: A Story is a Story

[radfrac_archive]

I have something here in my hand, she said.
What is it? Shouted the children, though we all knew.
It's a story, she said.
About a girl? Shouted one child. About a boy? Shouted another.
Yes, about a girl and a boy, she said.
Were they brother and sister?
Yes, and they were twins. They looked exactly alike. And they had a beautiful blue boat.
Did the boat sink?
It did, she affirmed.
Did they die? I cried out in an ecstasy of catastrophism. I had seen a picture of a shipwreck, bodies green and beautiful wrack upon the waves.
No, they didn't die, she said. They sank very deep down into the sea, and there they met a mermaid who taught them to breathe underwater. But I had stopped listening out of embarrassment, since I was the only one who had not known that for a story to be a story, it must go on.

Comments

[seaopaque.livejournal.com]

Thank you.

[radiantfracture]

Now you think I am foolish.

[seaopaque.livejournal.com]

If I thought you foolish, it was long before now.

[radiantfracture]

Always already too late.

{rf}

[seaopaque.livejournal.com]

Back to being serious: if I were to make a list of "THE FOOLISH," your name would appear late, very late. And only if I was told I had to put everyone I knew on the list. (I imagine this being a task one is given upon making the journey from this world to the next. "Fill out this form. Yes, foolish. A list. You must include everyone. It doesn't matter, put them down. Everyone. Most foolish at the top, least foolish at the bottom. The pen? Oh, well, figure it out, it's the only one we've got. Here's a pin; use blood.")

[radiantfracture]

Now that is a really excellent miniature.

In a kind of ludic Kafka mode. Some sort of wonderful parable of constraint.

{rf}