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

A Grand Conclusion to Very Short Story Week

The White Shoe Staff

[Redactor's Note: Today is day five of "Very Short Story Week." Hence, we proudly bring you four more of the best stories we received. Our final featured story this week is especially noteworthy, as it is the shortest story submitted to the contest. If you are not familiar with this contest, or if you missed the winners, please go here.]

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Daniel Yasser, CEO, really needed to use the bathroom. He had had a rough night, so he drank an extra two cups of coffee, and the morning status meeting was running more than twenty minutes longer than he had expected.

"…lagging in the Asian market. And not because of delays in shipment but because of delays in communication…"

Stienhurst from Mergers-Acquisitions was the reason things were going late. The decorative Japanese fountains trickled in the corners of the room.

Daniel Yasser, CEO, crossed his legs in an acceptable executive manner and flexed his thighs, nodding.

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The Naysayer

"One hundred words? There's simply no way you can write a story using just one hundred words!" My professor scolds me after class.

He must know about my afternoon visits to his wife's office across campus. He's been riding me extremely hard lately.

"You need character development, plot, theme, and resolution. It simply cannot be done," he says.

"I've got all that," I reply.

"All I see is the blank paper on your desk and that stupid blank look on your face!"

"I've got this," I say, pointing my starter's pistol.

"Ha! Even that shoots blanks!"

"Wanna bet?"

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No Help Here

The phone rings, loud in the predawn. "Hello," my voice is ragged with a cold and other things.

"Jake, I'm telling you one last time. You've got to marry me and give the baby a name. If you don't, I'll tell your wife."

I laugh and hang up the phone. It rings again and I flick the ringer off.

Now I put on my mourning face, but it is hard to hide the smile in my eyes. I guess Jake's little amour doesn't read the obituaries.

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Long September

When you're gone, the bedsheets are itchy.