Stories for Days

Story a Day projects frequently result in large clumps of dross - I should know, I’ve done one myself. So when I stumbled across Ommataidia, an archive of over 1000 bite size stories written daily for years, I expected the same.

And to be sure, some of them are forgettable. But some of them are quirky, clever, and/or hilarious. And all of them are well written. Just browsing through randomly for twenty minutes gave me these lovely examples:

Maryland In the morning the doorman smiles (it’s not the best apartment complex, but it has a doorman) and calls her Beryl, and that’s who she is until she slides her card at the office and the reader recognizes GAINES, MERYL. She answers email to mary.gaines and signs off on expenses as MMmyyGOO, or something. She pays for lunch as 1222 0129 7269 4118. “Hello, Beryl,” says the doorman again, just after dark. Hello MARYL ! say the TV Guide and Capital One. “Hello, city,” she says through glass, as her breath fogs her cold apartment window. Hello, lonely, says the city back.

A few other favorites, under the cut.

Lin The butter’s alarm goes off. “Barooga!” it yells, rattling the door of the fridge. “Barooga!” “Stop that, butter,” shouts Lin, who’s about to beat Guts Man. “There is a quantum entity shifting toward bakeable in the kitchen at this moment,” it replies. “I demand that you use me to create cake!” “I still think your whole existence is unethical,” groans Maggie, “and I really don’t want to make a cake right now. Lin, seriously, did you have to get the psychic stuff?” “You said psychic.” “I said salted.” “The entity is coalescing!” bleats the butter urgently. “OH SHIT,” say the eggs.

Hepzibah “We were lupine-only,” says Nurse Rusch, “until some mad Hungarian generalized the virus. Now we take all kinds.” “And it’s treatable?” says Hepzibah. She’s still weak, leaning on her IV as they amble the halls. “Therapy can reduce outbreaks from thirteen to four a year, but more importantly, we provide community.” She smiles with a hint of moustache. “People who’ll understand your condition. We have chiropterines like yourself, ophidioforms, pseudolphins, entomorphs…” Hepzibah peeks in a door and freezes. “Oh.” Rusch bites her lip. “Should have waited for that. Mr. Alvarez is our only werejellyfish.” Hepzibah leans over and vomits moths.

The Crucible The receptionist fell quickly to Crucible’s hammer, and they beat back building security, but the enchanted cold of the server room made them easy prey for sysadmins: they lost Elfstar to a razored backup disc. Black Dougal’s eyes were cold with vengeance when they burned HR to the beams. Now they stand in another reception room, eerily recalling the start of their adventure, but glass-walled and empty. Beyond waits the chief execulich officer. Crucible hefts what they hope is his phylactery and offers one last prayer to Machina. Behind them descend the chicks from Sales, blueteeth glinting in the shadows.

Franceschina Pierrot remembers Franceschina in the morning, hanging prayers from the roofbeams, between onion and thyme. “Who are they to?” he asked, bemused. “Do they have to be to anyone?” She tiptoed to reach the doorframe. “Maybe they’re just prayers.” “I think that defeats the purpose.” “If you must know, they’re to everyone. Hera and Frigg and Ganesha and I Am, and Other Gods I Haven’t Heard Of But Maybe They’re The Real Ones.” He grinned and kicked away coverlets. “You really think the smattering approach will work?” “Nobody minds a little business mail,” she said, and hung one off his nose.

Go read more!

(You an also buy a collection of 101 of the authors favorites here.)