The White Shoe Irregular:
It was fun while it lasted.

More Very Short Stories

The White Shoe Staff

[Redactor's Note: Today is day two of "Very Short Story Week." Hence, we proudly bring you four more of the best stories we received. If you are not familiar with this contest, or if you missed the winners, please go here.]

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Poetic Justice

"Did you walk the dog?" She set down grocery bags, scowling at a chip in her perfect nails.

"Working on this contest entry, dear."

"And if Smidget pees on the carpet?" She slammed the refrigerator door. I winced at the shrill.

"But they're giving away books, dearest!"

"I do everything around here, and you're working on some stupid contest entry?" She kicked the closest ceiling-high stack of books.

Stack fell into stack, domino style. Books showered down with heavy thuds, covering my dearest and Smidget.


Now, where was I?

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Another rat is in the trap on our kitchen counter. It tries to get out. I try to watch it from my place on the beer stained living room couch with my sisters asleep on my arms. Mom is at work and I'm in charge, and I won't let them sleep alone in their room when there are ants in their mattress and rats in our kitchen.

The metal on that rat's neck is as heavy as the sisters on my arms. Both of us still try to get out.

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Pay Phone

I chew my sandwich. I see him come inside, coat dripping. He slogs across the floor to a phone.

He drops a quarter, punches numbers. "It's Daddy," he says.

I chew, listening.

"Your brother there? Sleeping. How long? Wake him? Doesn't want me to talk? Tell Mommy this is Daddy's weekend. Baby, put Mommy on."

A pause.

"No, I need to talk. Yes, Mommy needs to talk to Daddy."

His body sags.

He says, "Hello?"

Head bent, he hangs up, then pulls his collar close and steps into the rain.

I return to my sandwich.

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Untitillating Trauma

Sitting here in this oppressive room, staring at the ugly lavender-flowered wallpaper and wearing an absurd flowing garment with three armholes, I try to avoid looking at the portentous beast which cowers in the corner.

A pair of Keds approaches, poses me properly facing the aforementioned beast which grips first one breast, then the other while emitting whirring groans of pleasure.

The Keds shuffle from the room. I am free to dress and leave. As I depart the lavender room, a facetious button is pinned to my sweater that reads: "I Keep Abreast with a Yearly Mammogram."

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Read the third installment of Very Short Story Week here.