Everyone had a brown paper bag and all their directions were different; often they told a story. Generally, it was like the song “Brandy” only with additional verses about county jail and community college. We called our friend: we were at a discount liquor place. He said they all were. Then he laughed and something fell over. It got dark. We stopped at a bar to eat. It was happy hour; then dancing; finally new friends and their paper bag. Going home she started crying because we never found our friend. I ran over a banjo on the way home.
I write because I am incredibly lazy. But everyone is lazy. Much to my delight, I have found a way that I can be even lazier: by sometimes limiting myself to hundred words. This will also give you more free time. Someday, I may make these hundred word stories longer (actually, I'm probably too lazy).
You really should tell me if this form is too short. Or is still too long. Or reads like a synopsis: Language, Adult Themes, Nudity, Violence.
Being laconic seems manly for the same fallacious reason that misogynists are sometimes thought manly: no time for this.