Christ Centered Gamer

There was a brief outbreak of two-line horror story writing in another thread yesterday. Lots of potential for storytelling in two sentence tales. Anybody have anything?

Well, it's impossible to mention microfiction without mentioning the Hemingway classic:

"For Sale: Baby Shoes. Never Worn"


"Mommy, why does that man's face look funny? Hush child, it's not nice to talk to veterans that way."


"In the United States, the death toll in New York has recently reached a toll of thousands. And now, sports with our correspondent, Jim Breck"

Understand too, microfiction includes word count maximums anywhere from 300-1000 words. I'll jump in this weekend.

I sense a micro/short story event coming. That'd be preeeeetty sweet guys

How short are we talking? 500? 300? A couplet?

My assumption was a couple sentences tops. There's also the classic Hemingway challenge of the 6 word story.
But, as Oro pointed out, it can be a bit longer than that.

I'm curious, if we're trying our hand at microfiction, shouldn't this be in the Creativity Corner?

Aye. My mistake.

Made a new thread for it in the Creativity Corner.

I can just move this one.

"Microfiction, let's roll. Again? Already moved."

Running a marathon at his age was quite the accomplishment. Everything's more challenging at 100 years dead.

"It's not every day you see people stare at us across the street in droves. Maybe I should ask my neighbors why they're hanging the body from the balcony."

Not trying to screw with your stuff, but my first read through I read it this way:
which I think has more of a kick

Oooh, good point. I do like that one better.

I'm departing from the three second horror theme going on, sorry guys.


He closed his eyes as he stood in front of the old bar. Even though it had been closed for months now, he could still almost see himself through the smoke stained glass. He was younger then, when he met her. The alcohol didn't dull his memories of that night; the soft rustle of leather as he turned to look as the door swung open, the smell of the spring air vivid against the smell of cheap beer and cigarettes. Then she walked in. Terminally pretty, that was his first thought.

There was a tap on his shoulder. The demolition crew was ready. He opened his eyes as he crushed his smoke under his heel, turning to leave without a word. He had always been told that we live forever through memory. But memories are dead things.

He considered the differences between creation and destruction as he raised the hammer.