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WORKS OF SHORTEST FICTION It had been three years since Leslie had written her painstakingly precise Christmas present list to her father. She had long removed the fictional Santa Claus character from the loop, not to mention her mother, whose financial contributions to the household she recognised as negligible. By the final draft, her letter was unambiguous. She had even drawn a diagram. When she ripped open her present, however, what she found was not a Sexy Egyptian Bruce Willis Sphinx medley. It was nowhere near. The disappointment enveloped her, like twenty sneering Demi Moores doing the hokey-cokey around her, and she sighed for twenty seconds, until there was no air left inside her to sigh with. And her joyless lungs refused to take in another breath, to sustain the life that had been so cruel to her. Her parents, wracked with guilt, had their daughter stuffed, and put her outside their house. They lovingly tended to her, replacing her eyes with Ferrero Rocher when the crows plucked them out. One day, her father tried to move her into a different position, but she hadn't been enbalmed properly, and her arms came off in his hands. Because he had pulled quite hard, and the arms came off very easily, he accidentally smacked his wife in the face with her right arm, and she fell under a tram. What was the tram called? The tram was called Bruce the Sphinx. |