Story Collection

Here is a conglomeration of all my one-sentence stories...They were getting pretty numerous, so I thought I'd condense them.

i. She was one who enjoyed ambiguity.

ii. Vengeance is a simple truth, you know.

iii. He leaves in haste -he fears to see me this way, to know his doing thrusts me in these unkind throes.

iv. I once hoped for a daughter, a tiny female in a blush of satins, with finite, curling toes.

v. After her memories, I am indifferent.

vi. The loss did not bear his name.

vii. Etienne once ascribed innumerable values to this face.

viii. He knows.

ix. The dying whinny woke a palace guard, who in his panic thrust me against a tree trunk -couldn’t see I was the dauphin in the moonless cast.

x. He entranced me in ways I couldn't name.

xi. I just watched The Princess Diaries even though I'm many moons an adolescent, because that's just how pathetic I am.

xii. The word "coffer" bears a certain hollowness that belies its meaning.

xiii. It frightens me how I can talk myself into and out of loving you, as though you're no less suggestible than a broken doll.

xiv. Her eyes remained wide and somnolent, though they'd been formerly emboldened with all the mettle of a sultry mistress.

xv. I love [adore, fancy, enamour] to use [utilize, implement, exploit] big words [bons mots, statements, utterances].

xvi. You've seen how pathetic I can be and still you love me for it.

xvii. Screw metaphor -I want it real.

xviii. I'm still waiting to be disillusioned.

xvix. His face was thin and many-faceted, as though he had been formed, too neatly, too strictly, on the edge of some dramatic blade.

xx. He was the most handsome boy I'd ever seen, and two years later, that assessment is still heartbreakingly correct.

xxi. Don't show me your two-car garage and tell me it's rustic.

xxii. I hate you all, with your prefab houses and your homogenized diets and your unworked souls.

xxiii. I liked it better the way it was.

xxiv. Don't tell me what I did was right.

xxv. I've always had a subconscious desire to be on the Dr. Phil show, and I think that's one of the reasons I find pathology everywhere.

xxvi. In the morning they found the vicar, strangled in his sleep by his own unforgiving collar.

xxvii. She hated philosophy, because its confrontational ideologies rendered her, always, the loser.

xxviii. My, someone's out of the loop!

xxix. I am a killer of men and a victim of men.

xxx. The moon in its full revelry tampers with my senses.

xxxi. Their fractured syntax holds a truth that smooth, artful prose will never reach.

xxxii. Listen, damn you.

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