The number 3 is a magical number. If any of us truly understood the depths of its many mysteries, there would be no limit to what we could achieve – our knowledge would be such that we could have sexual intercourse with light waves. Each of these three stories is just three sentences long, and consequently all are profound beyond depth itself.
Short Story No. 1: Love
Once I knew a woodlouse by the name of Stetson Breadbie, a louse who was never great in stature, and never had a dime to his name, bless the little twat; I loved him dearly with all my heart. When he left me, as all lovers do, it was as if someone were shoving rusty nails under my eyelids and waggling them around. Since that fateful day, I have clad my face in an impenetrable iron mask that makes me look like my uncle would if he was a robot.
Short Story No. 2: Fear
As I was getting in to bed one night (in the dark might I add), I trod on something cold that was poking out from under the bed, and breathed in sharply. Sure, it was probably the buckle on the strap of a bag that I kept under there, but maybe, just maybe, it was the hungry, reaching finger of some cold, dead thing that made contact with my heel that night. If I think for too long about this incident, I urinate in my clothing.
Short Story No. 3: Anger
One morning, as I was a about to tuck into a bowl of cornflakes, said flakes were suddenly knocked all over my nice clean table by a lost child who had come stumbling through my house, crying and shitting all over the place. “Please mister, have you seen my mummy?” he asked pathetically, unaware of the breakfast catastrophe his thoughtless actions had brought about. As I systematically broke each of his bones, using my Turkish hobbling stick, he knew my wrath – and I knew sweet, bloody satisfaction.

