“Would you consider it a failure if I don’t write all thirty-one short stories this month?” He asked, passing out the last slices of pizza to the other two, lounging in a shaded bench in the sunny backyard.
“You’re not a failure, love.” She said, putting the pizza down and taking another hit from the pipe.
“I mean, I set this goal – if I don’t reach it, would that be a disappointment?” He bit into his slice.
“How many days do you have left?” The third inquired, distracted from the pizza and looking to the conversation for sustenance instead.
“Two days,” was the reply, through smoke and a bite of pizza, from the two lovers.
“I suppose I could write a few three-sentence stories,” contemplated the writer. “I wrote a chunk of haiku for the last NaPoWriMo.”
“That works,” said the third, “although I think you’d know if you were cheating.”
“You could write about this,” suggested the lover, who had moved from the pipe to the piping hot pizza.
“I could, couldn’t I?” The writer said with a smirk, and took another bite of the pepperoni pizza.