I submitted this story to a local short-short competition. Although it was a finalist, it didn’t win. I hope you enjoy it, then write your own short-short. What’s the best story you can tell with the fewest number of words?
It was every bit of December outside. The writer didn’t have a pen but he was determined to get his story out before it turned putrid in his gut.
His mind swam and his tongue was cotton. He needed another drink.
A moment of reflection, then, release. He had to do it quickly. To get it out. To get her out.
“You’re drunk,” a voice said behind him.
The writer shrugged. Shimmied. Zipped. The purge left him lighter.
Her name would sit, steaming and yellow, where he’d written it, forever. Or at least until Spring.