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Now you can print a short story from a vending machine
Specially designed vending machines dispense short stories on a receipt-like paper roll.
Some people prefer to read on a paper rather than a screen. And sometimes they forget to get a book with them. Is there a solution?
Vending machines that dispense paper books are quite popular (although we’d love to see them in many more places), but this project is truly exceptional.
A French publisher Short Édition has come up with the idea of a special vending machine that prints out a short story on a receipt paper, in one of the three lengths: one, two, or five-minute reads.
Quentin Plepé, the co-founder of the company told Independent that their team came up with this highly creative idea while waiting for a meeting near an office snack machine. He added:
Stories are an important part of our life. We need them to construct who we are as individuals. More and more people don’t take the time anymore to sit and read a book. This is a way to have a little ‘bite’ of a story, just for a couple of minutes.
More than 600 short stories, written by Short Édition authors and community members, are available for purchase via orange-and-black vending machines.
For the time being, the machines are located in Grenoble. This was possible thanks to cooperation with the City of Grenoble and the Department of Isere. Quentin Plepé hopes the project will attract other French cities as well.
Image credits: Short Édition. Via The Next Web.
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About Piotr Kowalczyk
Ad-man who decided to devote his life to books. Founder of Ebook Friendly, ebook enthusiast, and self-published short story author. Prefers reading on his iPhone, but when it comes to history books – Piotr always picks print.
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Now you can print a short story from a vending machine https://ebookfriendly.com/short-story-vending-machines/ via @ebookfriendly
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Instead of comments
The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes
The Hunger Games Prequel
by Suzanne Collins
Part 1: The Mentor
Coriolanus released the fistful of cabbage into the pot of boiling water and swore that one day it would never pass his lips again. But this was not that day. He needed to eat a large bowl of the anemic stuff, and drink every drop of broth, to prevent his stomach from growling during the reaping ceremony. It was one of a long list of precautions he took to mask the fact that his family, despite residing in the penthouse of the Capitol’s most opulent apartment building, was as poor as district scum. That at eighteen, the heir to the once-great house of Snow had nothing to live on but his wits.
His shirt for the reaping was worrying him. He had an acceptable pair of dark dress pants bought on the black market last year, but the shirt was what people looked at. Fortunately, the Academy provided the uniforms it required for daily use. For today’s ceremony, however, students were instructed to be dressed fashionably but with the solemnity the occasion dictated. Tigris had said to trust her, and he did. Only his cousin’s cleverness with a needle had saved him so far. Still, he couldn’t expect miracles.
The shirt they’d dug from the back of the wardrobe—his father’s, from better days—was stained and yellowed with age, half the buttons missing, a cigarette burn on one cuff. Too damaged to sell in even the worst of times, and this was to be his reaping shirt? This morning he had gone to her room at daybreak, only to find both his cousin and the shirt missing. Not a good sign. Had Tigris given up on the old thing and braved the black market in some last-ditch effort to find him proper clothing? And what on earth would she possess worth trading for it? Only one thing—herself—and the house of Snow had not yet fallen that far. Or was it falling now as he salted the cabbage?
326 words read…
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