The old man is looking out of the window with his book resting on his lap.
Obviously in a pensive mood, he says, “Short stories have always been a passion with me.” He looks back at his visitor. “They keep me going somehow. Just can’t get enough of ‘em.”
“I know,” the younger man says, sipping his coffee and going back to tinkering with his phone.
Still staring out into his back yard, and in a wistful voice the older man goes on, “I often do this. I read something that only takes a couple of minutes, then I gaze out into the world and think on it. There is often so much said in them, between the lines. A slice of life. A brief look at a single moment in other people’s lives.”
The visitor smiles.
“So many great writers,” he says. He nods slowly as he continues to murmur. “Doyle, Dickens, O. Henry, Maupassant, Poe, Chekhov, Thurber, Wells, Saki, Wilde, Kipling, Twain…,” he looks across and raises his eyebrows, “the list just goes on and on. All those writers, opening up tiny windows for us to peek in.”
The other looks up and nods momentarily.
“Some of their stories go beyond short. I’ve always favoured the really short kind. Some call them flash fiction. No page after page of endless descriptions, no drawn out character building, no sub plots cluttering the scene. Just a few hundred words is all it takes. Just enough time to take it in, no more. A minimum of time reading and all the time in the world to reflect on it…” He sighs deeply. “Yes; the sort you can read in less than five minutes, then put your book down and just think about it,”
The other smiles again.
The old man looks over at his visitor, who is now showing signs of getting up.
“Thanks for calling in. I do appreciate it, you know.”
“I know you do. Anyway, I better get going. Sorry I couldn’t stay longer.”
The old man waves him off. “No. Not at all. That’s fine. I’m always happy when you look in.”
Going back to his window, he repeats in a whisper, “Not at all… anyway… short is good.”
