Short Fiction

I’m very much a child of our generation. If it ain’t short, my attention span will not meet it eye to eye. It will examine it circumspectly and dismiss it outright as “too big.” It is for reasons such as these that it took, seemingly, many lifetimes to read more ponderous tomes, even those which I actually found amusing, such as Vanity Fair or Bleak House. I suppose Catch 22 was an exception, but even then, only proving the rule: its chapters are essentially a parade of little, bite-sized, self-contained bliss.

So short fiction does something marvelous for me. Something short but sweet, like a Wilde fairy tale, or something short and sharp like a nightmare from Poe: its very brevity adds a certain quality. I love a Saki or a Dahl. I find that smaller portions tempt me to take on many, many helpings.

For my own smalls and shorts, as it were, and similarly plagiarised texts, just  follow this.


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