A Very Short Story, after Lydia Davis

A friend is going to see a band called Gigamesh. They’re performing at a theater around the corner from his apartment tonight. I have confirmed this information with my friend several times.

“Gigamesh?” I say. “Not Gilgamesh?”

“Gigamesh,” he says.

“What’s Gigamesh?” I ask.

“Why should it be anything at all?”


Another Story, Even Shorter, after George Saunders

Suddenly everything was capitalized. We could no longer find our way home. Or rather, when we got there, it was impossible to know if it was home or Home.


A Story after Julio Cortazar

The writer of this story did not realize that, at the end of it, they had installed a trapdoor; and that if you open this trapdoor, there is a ladder: and you can go down the ladder as long as you’d like. There is no end to it, except for old age, and the moment one’s hand slips from the rung.


Another, the Last One, after Augusto Monterroso

When the world has finished, this is where they will put the ocean.





© James Tadd Adcox