HISTORY OF A LONELY SHORT STORY

CHAPTER ONE


Although he couldn’t have picked a worse moment in the history of his hometown, the Short Story decided on a spring morning—after once again waking up in deep contemplation—that things could not go on like this. That something had to happen. That he had to do something about his situation.
For quite some time, he had been plagued by one single issue: in his heart, he wanted to be a Novel, sometimes a Screenplay, and very often a Script for a thirteen-part television series. At least, a different genre. A manifestation with more perspective than he possessed.
Days like that usually ended with him crawling straight back into bed, believing he was simply too short to ever become a book of any significance. That’s what his mother—a Whodunnit—had always told him. And so, a twenty-four-hour cycle often passed quickly, during which the Short Story didn't experience much and thus remained limited in scope. Behold the vicious circle in which he had found himself for years, a circle that was finally broken on said spring morning.
The immediate trigger was an encounter with the Gossip Column the day before.
That creature was avoided by everyone in Bookstore City because of the painful stories he kept tucked away. Despite being overweight, he always managed to be quick and vicious with his remarks. And yesterday, the Column was in peak form. He was sitting on a terrace with his thick layout and glossy cover, tucked away under an awning to stay in the shade.
‘Hey, Short Story. Come here. Fast!’
That was the annoying thing about the approaching summer weather. Because of those terraces, you couldn’t avoid anyone on the street. He had no choice but to approach him.
‘Just now, in an attack, a Crime Thriller went absolutely out of his mind,’ the Gossip Rag wheezed. ‘A serial thriller, even, with many different instalments and a massive amount of misery. A settlement in the criminal underworld. They say the screaming could be heard for miles.’
Violence had increased sharply in the book community in recent years. As a Crime Thriller, success came easily. The greater the amount of brutal Incidents and murderous Ideas, the higher the circulation. The Short Story had never understood why that was.
To find an answer to this matter, he could have consulted a couple of old Greek Translations on the outskirts of town who had an explanation for everything, but he hadn't felt like it yesterday. Those Classical Works were even more long-winded than the Gossip Column, and then he wouldn't have gotten around to his own content at all, which surely wasn't the point.
Therefore, without saying goodbye, he left the terrace, conveniently forgetting for a moment that books, in their deepest essence, were thoughts—and when those thoughts became obsessed with a certain subject, you became personally involved. That’s how it went with books. And so it went for the Short Story.
After that optimistic decision this morning, he first went to have a pleasant coffee with his dear friend: the Lexicon of Literary Terms. His somewhat good-natured companion who, due to his kind-heartedness, gave some the impression of being in a perpetual struggle with depression. Nevertheless, they had these wordy coffee sessions almost every day. To wake up. In the writers' café: six round tables with Thonet chairs and a purplish marble bar behind a grand window facing Bookstore Square. This time, they had a very fruitful conversation about story arcs.
By early afternoon, however, on his way to the library to consume some solid literature, he got quite entangled in his own plotline. Overcome by a sudden snack-craving, he visited a nearby snack bar. If only he hadn’t. Soon, a suspicion crept over him that he was being followed. On either side of a canal, a few figures had been walking alongside him for some time. Or was it his imagination? After all, suspicion was no stranger to him. To see if his impression was correct, he darted into a side street. Where was he? Most certain. He had never been in this dead-end alley before.
Parked against a fence was the transport of a theatre company; an antique moving truck with a wide cargo bed of brown wooden rafters that extended over the red cab. On the wooden sides, white letters spelled out words of which any possible transfer of meaning went way over his head.
Now, one shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, that was well known, but when four Crime Thrillers suddenly appeared at the entrance of the alley, he decided to hide behind the scenery transport. Between the fence and the cab. Using a running board, he climbed up and held on to a side mirror.
At that moment, a cowardly thud. As if someone had fallen. As if the Great Reader in the clouds had dropped a book, which had found its destination with a bang at the dark end of the alley.
Meanwhile, the Crime Thrillers looked inquiringly at the street sign.
This is Punctuation Alley, isn't it?’ asked a black-clad Potboiler.
If you can read, it is.’ A massive Crime Novel, with ‘MURDER’ embossed in silver letters on his leather cover, gave his colleague a sharp retort.
‘Say, I don’t know about you lot, but I have more to do today,’ the Potboiler spoke again after a while.
‘Oh, like what?’ teased a small Pocketbook.
‘You better stay very close to the truth, or you’ll be a lost Paperback in no time.’
A speckled Ledger—at first glance a curious appearance within this company, but apparently the advisor, the consigliere, and the intellect of this crime family—made an attempt to calm the tempers.
‘Take it easy now, here he comes.’
From the dead-end side, a light green Booklet with an unclear title approached. Not too large, not too small. He had clearly endured a lot: there was a tear in his cover, and here and there the plastic foil layer—which once gave him shine—had abandoned the cardboard of his cover and hung down in curls. He passed the transport on the other side and stood with his damaged spine toward the Short Story, so that the latter—peering between the cab and the cargo bed—couldn't read the title. For a moment, he thought he perceived a number.
‘And? That was the last one?’ the Green Book asked.
‘No. Not by a long shot. It’s quite a job,’ the Potboiler confessed submissively. ‘Nobody wants to give up their Incidents. Especially not that Serial Thriller from yesterday. He went completely ballistic.’
‘But can we settle up now, before the Tax Guide gets wind of it?’ the Ledger interrupted.
‘Not here. An alley is so... alley-like. You can’t do business here.’
‘What would you prefer? A country road?’ the leather-bound Murder Novel provoked. ‘That’s just asking for Incidents, while I thought that’s exactly what we...’
A tense silence followed. Like the bridging silence between two rings of a telephone. The kind of silence that becomes more intense and threatening the longer it takes to pick up. Here, too. Not without consequence. The Green Book turned red. The ground shook. An inner outburst of aggression, a magma eruption, caused him to increase many times his size—swelling from a handy Pocketbook into a massive hardbound Edition. As if widening a maw, he flung his cover open, from which a fluorescent shower of sparks—words and letters—spattered from between his pages, threatening to scorch the Crime Thrillers.
‘No, calm down. We know. Truly. We’re doing it all as inconspicuously as possible,’ the Ledger spoke quickly.
Listen then. When all the Incidents and Ideas are out of the city, I’ll bring the whole amount by in one go. And don't you dare keep an Incident for your own use, or you’ll have a bunch of Reference Works coming down on you. Clear so far? Adieu.’
After his final words, the Green Book disappeared back into the darkness, while the Story was still trying his absolute best to decipher the name on the cover. Unfortunately, the green cover was already too far out of sight for a little Story with poor vision.
‘Well, then we're quickly counted out,’ said the Pocketbook.
‘You’re right,’ the Ledger agreed, just as the Short Story tried to turn back around and produced an unfortunate creaking sound.
‘What was that?’ the Potboiler said, startled. ‘Have you been eating onomatopoeias again, Pickpocket?’
‘No, that came from over there,’ the silver Murder Thriller knew.
The Pocketbook and his Murder colleague approached. Through the front of the cab, the Short Story now tried to reach the dark section himself, but the two Thrillers blocked his way.
‘Dammit,’ hissed the Pocketbook, ‘this one heard everything. And a little scrap of a story like that loves to have something to tell.’ The Pocketbook pulled a razor-sharp phrase from its contents. Luckily, the Ledger spoke again.
‘Easy. Let’s first see if there’s anything to be earned before we exhaust ourselves for nothing.’
‘Why? As a Pocketbook, I’d love to give him a massive print run for his first edition.’
‘First, look at his liquid assets.’
‘Well, looks good to me. Look at the jumble of words running thin through his book,’ the Murder Novel chuckled.
Indeed, the incoherence that had already emerged from the last sentences of the Short Story now ran like a stream of loose syllables from his table of contents: 'Hello. Hey. Not. Whereby? Sure. Together. Dammit brat. Tatort. After-thirst. Whipped cream... and after a long wait the attendees thought... alarm... state of alarm. Dirt poor, warmly recommended by the small intestine...’
‘Stop it, will you!’ the Potboiler screamed. ‘Even we can’t make head or tail of this anymore. This way we lose all meaning and grip, and then it’ll end badly, you’ll see.’
The reticence of the Short Story was now truly unsurpassed.
‘What’s the deal? Shall I just give him a metaphor for his preface then?' the little Pocketbook hissed.

A few hours later, the victim sat trembling with a Law Book at a table in the police station. The Law Book almost completely disappeared behind a massive typewriter. To calm the mistreated one down, a Police Report brought a cup of coffee.
‘There, there. First, your name.’
‘Short Story.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Short Story.’
‘One more time, please.’
‘Again? It’s not going very smoothly, is it?’
‘No, no. Falsification of documents. Giving a different title, surely. Just a moment ago you said something else entirely.’
‘Yes, Short Story.’
‘Exactly. You won’t fool me, because that happens to be my favourite character. Fine. Am I still on duty? Too bad. Go ahead then. What happened?’
‘I was on my way to the library because I wanted to become a novel so badly, and then...
‘Wait a second. I have to type this up. Delicious. Then I'll have something to tell during the coffee break. Better than all those legal articles and rules of conduct we have to trumpet every day. Yes... yes... and then?’
‘Then my Cover was stolen from me. Because they didn't find any Ideas or Incidents on me—I never carry much cash when I go into town—they just took that instead. In a gutter, a few streets away, I found it back. Empty, of course.’
‘Stop. Someone swiped my Wite-Out. Moment. Hey, which Law Book has been messing with my Wite-Out with his filthy manners!

Much later than he wanted, the Short Story lay on his shelf that evening. How was he ever going to become a novel if he didn't even dare to go near the library anymore? He had gained yet another fear. That was just great.