I'm starting a new series: Microscopic works of fiction, too short even to be called short-short stories. I won't be submitting them as deviations, they'll appear only in my journal. A little bonus for my watchers.

These aren't meant to be full-blown stories. They're light snacks. They're the three-second glimpse you get of a TV show as you're switching channels. They're designed to sound like a short passage of a larger story, even though that larger story will (most likely) never be written.

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Herbert's heart froze as he realized the man approaching him was a police officer. It was too late to run, his only hope was to act innocent and hope for the best.

"What's your name?" The officer asked. The question caught Herb off-guard. He didn't want to tell the truth, but he couldn't think of a good lie. He spotted a Fed-Ex truck in the distance. "Fred," he blurted out. "Fred... X."

The policeman had heard some good lies in his day. This wasn't one of them. "X? Your last name is X?"

The response that popped into Herbert's head was so perfect he felt it had to be correct. In fact, he was sure that this lie was so good, it would be more believable than the truth. "X," he said confidently. "Like Malcolm X. In fact, Malcolm X is my grandfather."

The policeman suppressed a chuckle. Herbert was white. "Malcolm X is your grandfather?"

Herb nodded.

"So," the officer continued, "shouldn't your name be Malcolm XII?"