The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis: An American writer who specializes in very short stories.
ODD BEHAVIOR.
You see how circumstances are to blame. I am not really an odd person if I put more and more small pieces of shreded Kleenex in my ears and tie a scarf around my head: when I lived alone I had all the silence I needed.
FEAR.
Nearly every morning, a certain woman in our community comes running out of her house with her face white and her overcoat flapping wildly. She cries out, “Emergency, emergency,” and one of us runs to her and holds her until her fears are calmed. We know she is making it up; nothing has really happened to her. But we understand, because there is hardly one of us who has not been moved at some time to do just what she has done, and every time, it has taken all our strength, and even the strength of our friends and families, too, to quiet us.
DOG AND ME.
An ant can look up at you too, and even threaten you with its arms. Of course, my dog does not know I am human, he sees me as a dog, though I do not leap up at a fence. I am a strong dog. But I do not leave my mouth hanging open when I walk along. Even on a hot day, I do not leave my tongue hanging out. But I bark at him: "No! No!"
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