Five – Book

Five stories. Well, they barely count as stories, actually, they’re more like sad anecdotes told to you at the end of an impossibly long dinner party by the drunken spouse of someone that you barely know while you’re easing your way to the door, having already put your coat on around the time that these stories began. But the stories seem to suggest one another and so they all need to be told together, one after the other, in order to really get the point across although that wouldn’t be how you’d put it, exactly, seeing as where you’ve forgotten nearly everything that’s been said almost as fast as it was uttered. Five stories. Maybe they should be called ‘vignettes’ or ‘scenes’, since there’s no real plot to any of them, just the droning, unending descriptions of mundane people’s lives. It’s probably a bit like reading a transcript of your neighbor’s day off in which they decided to stay home and go through a couple closets and sweep out the garage, maybe see if that snowblower still