Radio Control - Pravesh

The newspaper got it wrong, as usual. Trumpeting the sensation in BOLD HEADLINES, they blared out a barely connected cacophony of adjectives, calculated to shift The Times. There was a key to this, and we searched because it struck a chord. This was our language, our culture, our happiness. The music did not condemn souls, only liberate them. We played until we couldn't stand - drained but still full, possessed but still free.

Untitled - by Shaakera

As the rays come gently peeping over the horizon nudging me out of my slumber,my comfort from the darkness is stripped away.The light gets stronger,illuminating unfriendly dark corners,making dust particles shimmer in the air.Without warmth the light is,making the hairs on the back of my neck stand.Its supposed to be warm in the light,but it s not very different from the dark.Maybe the darkness is only in my mind where the light can't reach?

Dead Poets - by Vimal

Arms pointing to the sky, exclamations of 'the winner', glory dripping from his face, the hero. A conquistador of modern literature, pioneering and path breaking. SLAM. visions of blurred raggae unseen. Aristotelian truths in Jung's shadow boxing championship. Graceful and amazing, beauty sleeps. Great pretenders, we are the champions. Who waits forever anyway?

Uninspired - by Priya

Nothing, the sound of locusts fill the air, playing sweet somethings to their counterparts, but still nothing. Nothing to inspire us, to make us worthy, meaningful, purposeful. My head feels heavy now, like an engine running on bad fuel, polluting my space, my sweet heaven, my oz - I can't feel it. My inspiration has deserted me. Abandoned the cause, it's the price we pay for abuse.

Sarah - by Adi

Below the darkened city streets, beneath the broken fragments of forgotten sorrows, beauty awaits to bloom. Hope walks the avenues in the heart of a redeemed woman called sarah and as the sun awaits its awakening her ardent love already illuminates the city.

Communication Error - by Pravesh

4am.
An empty room.
My words reverberate again and again in the void of two million offline users, the echoes returning to me in a teasing parody of conversation, a vast conspiracy of voices, all agreeing with my every utterance. I am not lonely, but this space is too big for me.

End.
What do you think? A new genre of really short story that must fit in 3 sms's. Could spur creativity. Or is it a 4am idea.