The short story-how modest in bearing. How unassuming in manner! It sits there quietly， eyes lowered， almost as if trying not to be noticed. And if it should somehow attract your attention，it says quickly， in a brave little self-deprecating voice alive to all thepossibilities of disappointment? \"I'm not a novel you know. Not evena short one. If that's what you're looking for， you don't want me.\"Rarely has one form so dominated another. And we understand， we nodour heads knowingly: here in America， size is power. The novel is theWaI-Mart， the Incredible Hulk， the jumbo jet of literat-ure. The novel isinsatiable--it wants to devour the worldo What's left for the poor shortstory to do? It can cultivate its garden， practice meditation， water thegeraniums in the window box. It can take a course in creative nonfiction.It can do whatever it likes， so long as it doesn't forget its place--so longas it keeps quiet and stays out of the way. \"Hoo ha!\" cries the novel.\"Here ah come!\" The short story is always ducking for cover6. The novelbuys up the land， cuts down the trees， puts up the condos7. The shortstory scampers across a lawn， squeezes under a fence.