Short Story Writers?
I rarely come across writers who specialize in short stories nowadays. Once upon a time, that was a badge of honor. Saki, O. Henry, Guy de Maupassant, Maugham were masters of the miniature. They didn't just dabble between novels; they lived in the genre, packing whole worlds into a few pages. They understood what bonsai growers know—that constraint breeds artistry, that the smallest forms can hold the deepest roots.
Of course, plenty of novelists release the occasional story collection, but I can't recall a recent name whose reputation rests entirely on the short story.
Perhaps we're in an age where the short form has migrated elsewhere. Social media feeds have made us fluent in fragments—texts, tweets, reels, and memes. Like selfies and mobile phones redefined photography, maybe WhatsApp and TikTok reshaped our attention—and ironically nudged the short story aside.
But all is not lost. I recently stumbled into a hidden alley that I'd somehow missed: microfiction. Stories not even short, but tiny. Some barely take a breath. Some feel like a punchline; others, a poem in disguise. Here are a few that stopped me in my tracks—followed by a handful I tried writing myself.
Classic Micro
Take Hemingway's six words: "For sale: baby shoes, never used." A complete tragedy in half a breath. Or Fredric Brown's two-sentence horror: "The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door." These aren't just short stories—they're literary bonsai, each word deliberately placed, nothing wasted.
O. Henry could pack a complete narrative arc into two lines: "The chauffeur lit a cigarette and leaned over the gas tank to see how much fuel was left. The deceased was twenty-three." Dark humor, character development, and plot resolution in twenty words.
Then there's that British contest winner who managed to include God, the Queen, sex, and mystery in a single sentence: "My God!" cried the Queen, "I'm pregnant, and I haven't a clue who the father is!" Or Turgenev's brutal efficiency in matters of the heart: "I love you." "Go away."
Some writers blur the line between story and philosophy. Zhuangzi's butterfly dream asks: "Was I a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming I was a man?" And the Zen koan that reminds us: "Not the wind, not the flag—the mind moves."
amateur attempts
Inspired, I decided to try my hand at this delightful, compressed form. Some are absurd, some quiet, all under 50 words. Two one liners.
The DEF Cow The cow had read Darwin, Freud, and even dabbled in Einstein between cud sessions. She declared the pasture a construct, the farmer a projection, and time itself relative. The others mooed politely. She was still the first to the trough at feeding time.
Counter Offer At twenty-five, he rejected the job offer. Too dull, too safe, too soon to settle. At forty-two, after three startups, one TEDx talk, and a side hustle selling artisanal vinegar, he reapplied. The AI recruiter replied: "We've matched your skills to our new pro-bono mentorship program for ambitious interns."
The Bird Who Never Left The others migrated, but she stayed—perched year-round on the same wire outside the tea shop. Locals left crumbs. Tourists took photos. No one knew if she couldn't fly or simply didn't want to. She watched the world move. It never looked better.
He said thank you to the chatbot. Just in case.
Prometheus Rebooted ¹ "AI will liberate us," Sham declared. "It'll end drudgery, bring peace, and spread prosperity." Within an year, no one cooked, wrote, painted, or parented without prompting. The board fired him and appointed RxDx, a model trained entirely on his Slack history. Sham is now a lotus-eater. Peace, at last, comes without a prompt.
Happiness, Revised After years of being the family's unpaid social coordinator, she made a New Year resolution: more self-care, less people-pleasing. By January 10th, the WhatsApp group had moved on without her, and her husband had learned to microwave his own tea. She called it progress.
She let go. The world didn't notice, but her shoulders did.
Final Thought
We often think of small things as incomplete. But like bonsai trees, the tiniest stories require the most careful pruning. Every word must earn its place, every silence must speak. Especially now, when the world moves too fast, and quiet truths have to be snuck in sideways.
¹ Prometheus stole from the gods & brought fire to humans—he was punished—chained to a rock, his liver eaten daily by an eagle.
Sir,you draw attention to short stories and how they matter—something I really learned.Yr thought —We often think of small things as incomplete. But like bonsai trees, the tiniest stories require the most careful pruning. Every word must earn its place, every silence must speak—yr narratives do Speak and the Bonsai Tree Concept Resonates !
Loved your micro stories , keep them coming.