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This week, Monkeybicycle is pleased to bring you the first of several one-sentence story installments. More will follow in the upcoming weeks. If you'd like to try your hand at a one-sentence story, please send it to websubmissions@monkeybicycle.net. By Jensen Whelan For the second time that night, Detective Maxwell Abbot picked up his bottle of Maker's Mark, put it to his lips, and thought about some of the several possible ways he could have saved Jane; all of which depended upon a sufficient level of understanding of some of the following things: his own drinking problem, Jane's stunning beauty and charm that all men, especially serial killers, found irresistible, that certain kind of evilness that affected Oscar's behaviour just so, and the undeniable, terrifyingly undeniable, fact that he loved her. By Darren Chase By Jennie Brown He lived with other people all his life, but died without telling the whole truth. By Kevin Sampsell I went onto the field where they were tearing the goal posts down and several people were stuffing the various parts under their arms and carrying them out to their cars (right crossbar, left crossbar, the actual net where the football lands) and I asked one of them what they were planning on doing with the goal posts but he was interrupted by a fan of the other team sulking away and spitting into the astroturf, "If our fucking kicker wasn't a shitheel, we would have stole the game," and I wondered if that was the right word: stole, stolen, stealed--I wasn't really sure because sometimes in the excitement of post-game goal post tearing down, I lose track of grammar, of the way words change with time and tense and as I was getting into my car to drive away two men tapped me on the shoulder and I noticed that they were both exactly twenty-five pounds overweight (as if they each stuffed a bag of dog food down their sweats) and they held out part of the lower crossbar, asking if I had room in my trunk for it and saying they needed a ride out to the beach because that's where everyone was going and that's where the goal posts would be buried and that's where we would drink more beer and that's where we would sing into the wind and that's where we would wait for something to bloom and grow further. By Pasha Malla I've never been that good at reading my fortune in the leaves of Caesar salads, but it's just as well because tonight's buffet is only lettuce and croutons and by now my family expects little more of me than to eat my greens anyway. If you would like to link to this story, please use this link. | ||
