I don’t usually have the attention span or intellect for any of the fiction (or non-fiction, for that matter) in the New Yorker. Plus, I’m threatened by the success of its writers. Plus, I have Netflix. But over the summer I did find this “tragic micro fiction” column quite chuckle-worthy. Now, I may be too stoopid to understand what the term really means, but I personally interpret “tragic micro fiction” as shrunken stories – written with dramatic flair – about day-to-day annoyances that are minor on the scale of things but can still drive you bat shit crazy. Someone posted about the column this week and reminded me of its greatness. So, unable to think of anything else to write about here, I attempted to craft my own tragic micro fiction, based on “micro tragedies” that have befallen my friends and me over the years. Note: names have been changed to protect the guilty.
He was very cute and they seemed to hit it off. Then he ordered kale.
Lynn was intrigued to see seven missed calls from the same number. It was a telemarketer.
The injury was too severe; there was nothing more they could do. Nicky Rabbit was going to lose his leg.
A local family reported him missing after he failed to return home. Last seen at show-and-tell, the pink teddy bear’s body was never recovered.
The boots were on sale, but came only in whole sizes.
Was it really melasma, she wondered? Or did she need to start tweezing in better light?
She attempted to show off her Spanish skills by asking the delivery man his name. Pedro was startled to hear her profess her love for him.
Aileen noticed too late that her new glasses were adorned with a tiny Peanuts logo at the left temple.
In reality, only certain LensCrafters could actually custom craft your eyeglasses in about an hour.
It was all starting to make sense: the green jelly bean was spearmint, not lime.
Evidence suggested someone had eaten corn the night before.
Karen couldn’t see out of her left eye, and the stabbing pain was unbearable. The side of her face was covered in a black soot-like substance. If only she hadn’t poked herself with the mascara wand.
The office candy bowl was filled to the top with grape Jolly Ranchers and three fun-sized Twix wrappers.
And Susan knew at that moment she would never eat creamy Italian dressing again.
Melanie asked for a trim. The hairstylist heard “chin-length bob.”
She had wanted her name, in German class, to be “Sabine.” Frau Schickelheimer assigned her “Hildegard.”
For Thanksgiving, Stacey asked her mother to bring cheese and crackers. Later, she wrapped the untouched seven-layer bean dip in tin foil.
Suddenly, she remembered that Chicago was an hour behind New York.
Outerwear was the one category not eligible for free two-day shipping.
Liz smiled at the famous screenwriter who was settling into his airplane seat, then made her way back to the last row in Coach.
Unbeknownst to them, Uber did not serve suburban Trenton.
VIP tickets were still available, but only for American Express cardholders.
Snooping through her boyfriend’s medicine cabinet, Leigh discovered a small bottle of Just for Blondes shampoo. Her hair was brown.
The “special surprise” promised on the children’s menu turned out to be a side of fruit.
One had to be very careful, she reminded herself, to type in the SEARCH field and not the STATUS field when stalking on Facebook.
The lipstick color did not, in fact, look good on everyone.
Some dogs, they learned the hard way, simply could not be trusted on the bed.
Beneath the absurdly cute, fuzzy exterior lurked the dark soul of a canine chew toy serial killer.
But “ankle-length” meant different things to different people.
It became obvious, after a few sips, that this was anything but Diet Coke.
An unsettling crunch in the molar region indicated that the Bit o’Honey was not as fresh as Erica had initially thought.
Perhaps, in the end, she could not do anything she put her mind to.