Two Sentence Stories

I wonder if I’ll publish a book.
Of my own, I mean.

A major part of writing is convincing your audience that you know what you’re talking about, even when you don’t have a clue.
The hard part is getting them to read it in the first place.

This post was submitted by Martin T. Ingham.

I understand you are jealous of the position I’ve reached.
It’s not my fault I worked hard for two years and now I don’t have to work again!

Eventually there were so few barriers to writing that I really had no choice.
I spent weeks building new barriers.

Talent is a poison.
Other people think it is great to make up all those stories but they don’t have to deal with the voices in the night.

I used to be an addict.
Seven-thousand words when I hit bottom.

How is that novel going?
It is an ordinary so far.

I found some old sentences.
Did I create them?

Yesterday I finished the first draft of a children’s book.
Today I have forgotten I wrote it at all.

Me and me and the other me had a big fight about a story yesterday.
It’s been really awkward silence since then, mind-wise.

How stupid to get addicted to writing.
I’ll never be free.

I found the story I wrote for you.
Should I post “The Littlest Geneticist” or not?

The future me came back and read my stories.
Then he just laughed and laughed and laughed.

The frog is green.
That took eight years to write.

“I don’t get why micro-stories always have to shock or amuse or have a twist,” she said. “Me neither,” he said, putting the knife back in its sheath.

This post was submitted by Dan Holloway.

Saying you are a writer and being a writer is not the same thing.
One involves a lot of talk, the other involves a lot of bullshit.

Staring at my plate, waiting for inspiration.
I know – a story about … plates.

Everything I’ve ever written could be titled “untitled”.
Every girl I’ve ever been with could be called “a shocking lapse in judgment”.

All the words over all the years piled up and rotted, becoming toxic.
When they were putrid enough, I published them.

Will the me of ten years hence look back and grimace?
I bet he’ll not like “hence” sitting there like a clod.