Thursday Errands
A story where nothing makes sense.
Mrs. Kellman watered her azaleas while the radio listed today’s tides. She’d always preferred gardening in her house slippers, even though the neighbor’s tabby kept digging up the petunias. The hardware store had run out of lightbulbs, so she borrowed a stapler from the pharmacist next door. “For the recipes,” she explained, though she hadn’t baked in years. The pharmacist nodded and handed her a roll of gauze instead, saying it was on the house.
A boy on a blue bicycle delivered a stack of tax forms to the diner counter, where Helen was peeling apples for the casserole. The apples were Granny Smiths, but Helen swore they tasted like saltwater taffy. A truck driver at the counter ordered scrambled eggs and a carburetor, then left without finishing his coffee. Outside, the sky was the color of dishwater, and the streetlamp at the corner flickered even though it was noon.
The bank closed early for a staff pottery class, and the librarian reminded everyone that umbrellas couldn’t be checked out past noon. “They’re not waterproof after dark,” she added, adjusting her glasses. Mrs. Kellman considered mentioning the radio’s tide report but decided against it. At the bus stop, a man in jogging shorts studied a laminated map of constellations, nodding as the 2:15 to Hartford rolled by without stopping. His sneakers were spotless, and he hummed a jingle for a brand of toothpaste discontinued in 2004.
A dog barked in Morse code from a parked sedan, though no one mentioned it. The sedan’s windshield wipers swept rhythmically, though it hadn’t rained in weeks. A woman walking past paused to tie her shoe and muttered, “Dot-dot-dash,” but kept going.
Jenny practiced her flute in the produce aisle, pausing only to ask if the grapes were diesel or unleaded. The grocer shrugged and handed her a banana instead. “They’re out of tuning forks,” he said, rearranging a pyramid of soup cans labeled BEANS in bold letters. The postmaster stamped letters with a faint smell of cinnamon, insisting it was unrelated to the bakery fire. “Coincidence,” he said, licking a stamp that tasted faintly of cloves.
By dusk, the bakery had sold seven baguettes and one unmarked key. The cashier wore oven mitts and refused to make change, directing customers to a fishbowl of pennies by the door. Mrs. Kellman bought a loaf, though she didn’t own a bread knife. On her way out, she tripped over a garden hose coiled in the shape of a question mark.
At home, Mrs. Kellman folded the laundry, noting the socks matched perfectly. The dryer had left them slightly warm, like stones baked in afternoon sun. She found a button in the lint trap that didn't belong to any of her clothes. The weatherman predicted sunshine, but the pavement glistened like it had just stopped snowing. Through the kitchen window, she watched Mr. Peterson across the street waxing his mailbox with lemon oil.
She turned on the porch light, though it was still daytime, and the phone rang with no one there—just the sound of a kettle whistling. The receiver felt heavier than usual, and when she hung up, the clock above the stove jumped forward seventeen minutes. A faint smell of burning sugar lingered, though she hadn't turned on the oven.
When she opened the fridge, the casserole was gone. In its place sat a library book titled Basic Calculus, overdue since 1998. The due date card showed seven stamps from different countries. She shrugged, ate a spoonful of peanut butter, and went to bed. The peanut butter jar was nearly full when she opened it, but empty when she put it back.
Downstairs, the radio hummed static, still reciting tides. The volume knob turned itself clockwise slowly, though no one was near it. Outside, the blue bicycle from earlier leaned against her fence, its basket now holding three eggs and a harmonica. The tax forms from the diner were neatly stacked on her porch swing, held down by a smooth river rock.
Mrs. Kellman woke at 3 AM to the sound of someone typing in her living room. She found her typewriter uncovered, a single sheet of paper rolled into it that read: "The azaleas need more tide." Her gardening gloves lay folded on the keys, still damp from morning. The radio had switched to playing a piano sonata backwards at half speed.
At dawn, the hardware store's sign flickered to life, though the power was still out across town. The pharmacist waved from his window, holding up what appeared to be Mrs. Kellman's missing casserole dish. Through the glass, she could see all his shelves were now stocked with nothing but lightbulbs of varying wattages. The boy on the blue bicycle rode past again, this time delivering yesterday's newspaper to no one in particular.
Back home, Mrs. Kellman checked her azaleas. The soil was damp with saltwater, and tiny seashells had appeared around the stems overnight. She turned on the radio to hear the weather report, but it only played the sound of someone stapling papers in another room. The weather vane on her roof spun lazily, pointing alternately northeast and "potluck."
She decided to return the library book after breakfast. The library wouldn't open until the staff finished glazing their pottery, so she left it in her mailbox with a note that simply said, "Thank you." When she looked again an hour later, the book was gone, replaced with her long-lost umbrella—dry as bone, though the sidewalk still shone wet.
That evening, she watched the 2:15 to Hartford finally stop at the bus station. The man in jogging shorts boarded without his star map, carrying instead a potted fern and a bag of flour. The bus driver announced they were making excellent time, despite having no particular destination. Mrs. Kellman watered her azaleas one last time as the radio began listing tomorrow's tides, which included both AM and PM high tides occurring simultaneously at midnight.
She went inside when the streetlights came on, though they'd been burning brightly all day. As she locked the door, she heard the flute from the grocery store playing softly in her hallway. The socks from this morning's laundry were folded on her pillow, still warm.
Thank you!
This story chapter was generated using DeepSeek R1. (95% AI)
Prompt: Think of a short story of a single scene where nothing makes sense. Each sentence must sound reasonable by itself, but nothing should add up.Title: "Tuesday at the Intersection"
The librarian shelved cookbooks in the subway station while humming the national anthem of a country that dissolved in 1987. A barista across the platform poured steaming mushroom soup into ceramic mugs labeled COFFEE, and a man in a polka-dotted trench coat fed origami pigeons to a vending machine that only accepted seashells. Rain fell vertically, drenching the ceiling but leaving the floor bone-dry, and a toddler in a business suit lectured a flock of mannequins on quantum thermodynamics.
A clock on the wall ticked backward, yet everyone agreed it was 3:15 PM. A cat wearing a tiny crown pushed a shopping cart full of glow-in-the-dark turnips, and the air smelled distinctly of fresh paint and burnt toast. A woman in the corner knitted a scarf from her own shadow, pausing only to answer a rotary phone that hadn’t rung. The train arrived with a screech of brakes and a conductor’s voice announcing, “Next stop: existential vertigo,” though the intercom emitted only whale songs.
A man reading a newspaper frowned at the crossword, which was written in a language invented that morning. When the lights flickered, the flickers pooled on the floor like liquid, and a voice from nowhere declared, “Remember to recycle your memories.” The librarian handed a passerby a book titled How to Disappear in 10 Seconds; it contained 300 blank pages and a single paperclip.
As the crowd dispersed into a hallway that led nowhere, a sign above the exit read, “You are already where you think you’re going.” The protagonist woke up, realized they’d been awake the whole time, and checked their reflection in a puddle—only to find it wasn’t theirs.
Let's make it all a little more subtle. We want perfectly normal sentences, even mundane ones, that don't quite fit together. The resulting story should be baffling. But all of this should be subtle and unspoken. Try again.Title: "Thursday Errands"
Mrs. Kellman watered her azaleas while the radio listed today’s tides. The hardware store had run out of lightbulbs, so she borrowed a stapler from the pharmacist next door. A boy on a blue bicycle delivered a stack of tax forms to the diner counter, where Helen was peeling apples for the casserole.
The bank closed early for a staff pottery class, and the librarian reminded everyone that umbrellas couldn’t be checked out past noon. At the bus stop, a man in jogging shorts studied a laminated map of constellations, nodding as the 2:15 to Hartford rolled by without stopping. A dog barked in Morse code from a parked sedan, though no one mentioned it.
Jenny practiced her flute in the produce aisle, pausing only to ask if the grapes were diesel or unleaded. The postmaster stamped letters with a faint smell of cinnamon, insisting it was unrelated to the bakery fire. By dusk, the bakery had sold seven baguettes and one unmarked key.
At home, Mrs. Kellman folded the laundry, noting the socks matched perfectly. The weatherman predicted sunshine, but the pavement glistened like it had just stopped snowing. She turned on the porch light, though it was still daytime, and the phone rang with no one there—just the sound of a kettle whistling.
When she opened the fridge, the casserole was gone. In its place sat a library book titled Basic Calculus, overdue since 1998. She shrugged, ate a spoonful of peanut butter, and went to bed. Downstairs, the radio hummed static, still reciting tides.
Let's expand this story into something twice as long. Every statement in the story should be kept; just add sentences in-between that make sense. Write the [first,second] half now.
🥸 Groucho wants his words back.