Ernest Hemingway is credited with helping change the face of what people thought beautiful literature could be with his straight-to-the-point stories of love and loss. But should he be? One of the most famous examples of his writing style (if one can even call it that) is the six word story “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Heartbreaking? Sure. Clever? You bet. But in reality, Hemingway was a drunk and a hack trying to write down his experiences in the only way his lizard brain could manage through all the booze and concussions: with as few words as possible. A real artist creates. To prove my point, I’ve taken the liberty of writing five stories even shorter and better than Ernest fucking Hemingway’s:
Eggs hatch under dead bird.
The death in Hemingway’s “story” was tragic but is it more tragic than a nest of cute baby birds with a dead momma bird? And honestly, isn’t this a more a beautiful reflection of the human condition; so full of potential, surrounded by looming death from the beginning? What’s more. it was a piece of cake to write. just like:
Lottery winner loses ticket.
Hemingway needed 6 words to bore is to death and with but four words I’m exploring how our ideas of success and defeat are determined by a system designed to exploit human folly. Or, you know, at the very least my four words get that important conversation started. You’re welcome society!
Mom made eggs, not waffles.
Eggs are bad and waffles are great, I mean, this one speaks for itself. Furthermore, this one displays a range dour old Hemingway couldn’t dream of. It’s just nice to laugh sometimes; to forget about Hemingway’s world of war and death and lost love. And it’s so easy:
Two of these feature eggs.
OK, so a couple things. First off, I am aware that two of these short and brilliant stories have to do with eggs in some way. Listen, I’m just churning these churning these expressions of the soul out at an impressive clip just to prove a point and I think I’m doing a damn good job. And, hello? Have you ever heard of theme? I’m just now realizing that including this entry, now three of the stories have to do with eggs. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. I swear this is an accident.
For Sale: Hemingway books, never read.
Listen this was never about me anyway, I’m just saying Hemingway blows, OK? And no matter how much he blows it’s not enough to put out the fire of my last story because its 451 degrees Fahrenheit in here and HEMINGWAY IS BURNT, BABY!
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