Not a story but a rather brutally minimalist poem written on Christmas:
what?
sleepy now
at 4 a.m.
I hear the siren
of a white
ambulance,
then a dog
barks
once
in this tough-boy
Christmas
morning.
I love this for it's Scrooge like sparseness, its lack of sentimentality; you can clearly picture Bukowski sitting in a lone room typing this on his typewriter smoking a cigarette, and possibly polish off a bottle of vino and fall into bed.
Love it.