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I was astounded.
"A hundred words, and that's it?"
But that's what the page read. Being a writer who "runs off at the mouth" I couldn't imagine writing something and having to stop at a certain point. It sounded extremely difficult.
So I sat down and thought to myself.
"100 words, huh?"
Can't be too hard! Others do it! I stared at the computer screen. What subject could be used? A story? Nah, I get too into those. Poem? Nah, putting a cap or goal on word amounts just impedes creativity. 100 words. Well, here you go guys!
Peering past the heavy muddled crowd, she watched for no one in particular. Crossing her long leather booted thigh, Dolphana sat up straighter in the bench seat. Modern dressed youths and rich bored middle aged men and women passed, noticing her and not noticing her – craving her yet detesting her. But to her it felt all the same. She curled her plastic coat around her shoulders and raised herself to her feet. She bravely strode with the colorful hurry of the sidewalk. Her lighted see-through platform sandals clomped past them all, inviting their eyes to her confident romp with society.
The colors were dull and expired. How could she possibly look at them now with the same tender love and admiration as she did only months before? It was humiliating. Yet, there was a grace in their graveness. Perhaps they had always been so, but the excitement of her youth had made them invigoratingly strong and intoxicating. Perhaps she had just "grown up." It had been known to happen. She took the course cloth between her fingers. Evenings' sun drops chased across her hands – the hands of a woman. She pressed her lips together, and somberly shut off the light.
is an art.
is not venting out feelings of love, lust or anger. It is a channel through which you tell a tale, describe a moment, not likened to writing a letter! Save that for your friends! It's rare, I find, to actually come across a "poem" written by an amateur that isn't about "lost love," or "how like the sky are his eyes." Bleck. I'd rather eat rusty fishhooks. Thing is, I love poetry, the kind that reaches into your soul and squeezes. What care have I for the mechanics? Just live for words.
It's the little things, really: comfy chair, green grass, paper and pen, an envelope with my name as the "
." As you can see, it can be the trivial mundane little things that can keep me going and make my day. And yet likewise it can take some little banal detail to taint the whole day, to turn my thoughts and mood to a mush pit of dark blues and blacks, like a mental bruise. Sleep, a walk in the cool autumn breezes, or a good laugh at something completely stupid can easily bring me around. Wish me luck today.
Every rib on the sole of her sneaker, faintly smelling of bubblegum, dug into my throat. She spoke riotously into her cell phone. I had found her alone, held my gun in her plain sight, her rigid body close to mine as I made her walk. But she soon fought me in the parking lot, her elbow sinking into my stomach and then cracking across my neck as I keeled. As I write this now, I remember as she kept my gun on me, calling to turn me in, she never took her accusing pretty blue eyes away from mine.
if little boys play with dolls? It isn't a bright flashing sign that your kid will grow up to be "queer." I doubt that sexually standardized toys would even influence at that age! Parents take the toys away immediately. Oh Please! At that age it wouldn't be showing up as blatantly as that. Kids don't understand the difference! Let‘em use both! But should they be tending toward that choice, you can't stop or blunt sexual preference by seizing toys. It just makes you feel better, should you have a problem with it. The kid's creative! Let him play!
When was the last time I actually lost myself in my writing? I could type all day, ideas stream-shooting out of that tiny pinhole at the center of my brain and off I would go! Meals would be put off, phone calls ignored, barely taking time out to "answer the call of nature…" I miss those days! Perhaps it is just a function of growing up. You lose the time and patience for things that aren't practical. Words come and go and flighty inspiration is no longer that dependable angel on your shoulder. Or is this just called writer's block?
The painting was blotty with buffeting oranges and burnt looking red and pinks. It was far from what Sands would consider pleasing.
How about the study, Sands?
" his wife implored, calling him by his last name as did all his business associates.
Honey, it's ugly.
How can you say that?
Easily, and honestly.
Well, I want it!
" she insisted. She had her heart set on it, her hands on her hips. Sands took another long glance at the watery French Riviera scene. He wasn't sure he could ever live with it. "
Well? What do you think?
How about the shed?
Feminine wiles. What did that mean? Gracie had the phone receiver up to her ear. Her jaw had dropped at the accusing tone in her boss's voice. "Fired? For what?"
"I told you why, Gracie. You're too distracting. You screw everyone up-"
"These feminine wiles, you speak of – what exactly can that consist of?"
"They way you dress, talk, walk – everything."
"Why don't you just say I'm offensive. I can't change who I am."
"That's why you're fired."
This could go in circles,
she thought. Either she was too sexy or too dowdy. She couldn't win
"No. I quit, dammit!"
The autumn waters cast harsh light into Wright's eyes. His boat was so close to shore, but the waves were rough and the sun was cruel. It beat onto his bare head as he tried again to restart the engine, but no use. He was meters from the shore. He tried to oar his way, but he wasn't young anymore and got tired immensely quickly. Wright gasped. There wasn't anyone on the beach he could call to. Each lapping wave threatened his life. He wished he could swim despite his bum leg. He would be helplessly carried out to sea.
Coffee tasted like battery acid in his mouth and he winced, but returned his mother's smile. He was home for only 10 hours and already he was aching to get out. He had forgotten how evil his mother's coffee could be. And no wonder his father was always miserable all the time! Keith stared non-comprehensively at the tiny stark words of the New York newspaper his father held like a tent around his head (and he says he doesn't need glasses) while the little kitchen radio blared his mother's polka. He could only hope Christmas would come early this year.
today is like tuesday
without the tues
and hardly day
and since we are here
let's call out hurray
and nothing could be better
than to this carry delay
because we all know
that it's better than monday
Picking the puppy off the couch, Sharlet watched with interest as two grown men played with Barbie dolls – her father and her uncle. She carefully bookmarked her place in the book of poetry and entreated the men to stop being such morons. They continued forcing those plastic limbs to crack the other doll over the head, like two anorexic blonde sumo wrestlers.
How much does music mean in my life? I can't tell you I know much of a difference there is between Bach and Beethoven, but I'm sure they are great in their own particular way. Perhaps I'm too modern. I can't even get through much of the seventies tunes without being rocked to sleep. These days things are so fast-paced, like Madonna's Ray of Light video that we don't appreciate a good musical note for what it is. If it's not high on the charts, it's not worth listening to. Look deep; what kind of soul opera plays in you?
Feebly she rose from the chair to greet the dapper young man entering her parlor. He nodded in her direction before his eyes deviated to the decorum of the room. "Looks familiar, doesn't it?" she asked, chuckling. "Your mother always liked my style. She imitated almost everything."
"The house is beautiful," she young man confirmed. His boyish smile was trusting. He was charming, and had an outgoing easiness to his manner. She was glad she had bumped into him on the corner near Tony's Market, now able to get to know the young man she never got to raise herself.
Andy drew his crooked forefinger to his chin as he perused the paper. His nose was nearly touching it, fearfully close to smudging the print and giving himself away. He was in the back room, under the pretense of "sorting" the mail. He was sure almost everyone suspected his activities – but were all too afraid to say anything. Every one of them had secrets that they'd rather keep hidden. Andy never went to them for any compensation for his silence. He just found their letters entertaining – and he only opened the juicer ones. Some stamps just seemed to promise it.
Sometimes she wondered whether it was all worth it. She had three kids all under the age of seven, a workaholic husband she never saw while trying to hold down a job herself. ‘
All this while trying to complete college
,' she laughed bitterly to herself.
Marrying at twenty was a stupid idea but she was in love. That was until three kids came barreling into her life as soon as the ring was on her finger. Marilyn grasped her thick computer-programming book between her fingers, trying to suppress the frustrated tears. '
Mid-semester crunch, that's all
,' she reasoned, tiredly plugging on.
"Please pass the salt."
"You get it. It's right in front of you."
"I am not."
"Just pass the salt, will you?"
"What do you need salt on that for anyway?"
"For taste, duh. What do you think I want it for?"
"Don't get sassy with me. And don't talk with your mouth open."
"And sit up!"
"What's gotten into you tonight? Jesus?! Can't make a move without being lectured."
"I'm not lecturing."
"Ha! Yeah right."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"There you go again!"
"Just eat and shut up."
"Can you just pass the salt?"
Robbie kept glancing up at the New York's Grand Central station classical looking clock. He couldn't help shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again. He stuck his hands firmly into his suit pockets, paced a few steps then took them out again.
A woman sitting on a bench met his gaze as he looked around. She was giving him a look – something between pity and confusion. He squeezed a tight uncomfortable smile and turned away. He felt a tap on his shoulder.
"Looking for me?" the brunette asked.
Robbie smiled and zealously hugged his sister.
I write the written word but sometimes it can be such a chore!! Life tends to get the better of me and I lack the attention to detail as I rather wish to keep by me. Friends call to say hello, but seldom. That's no excuse. Books litter the floor of my room and it's beginning to look pretty wretched. I have notebooks to take notes from books – so much to learn from in this world, and I keep feeling guilty I should be doing other things. And so – nothing gets accomplished. If only there were fewer minutes that passed.
She was rather plain, to be honest: unoriginal in her high school uniform that practically the whole township of girls was seen wearing. The first time I saw her she was sitting under an elm, her freckled face taught in concentration while she appeared to be reading a biology book. Her hair was tied in two polite pigtailed braids accompanied by a lack of jewelry. Even her notebooks were a uniform black. Her lazy grey pants and green school jacket fit her better than it seemed to on others, though. Perhaps, though ordinary, it was her smile that swallowed me.
Jersey felt the grinding spears of hunger poke his insides. The smoky window of the Elephant Coral café separated him from a warm place with food. It was only four in the afternoon but the tiny shoebox café was crowded beyond capacity. Jersey blew on his fingers and lightly stamped his numb feet on the concrete. Four weeks until Christmas and he had to skimp with money to be able to afford bus fare after work. He hadn't eaten in days. He felt nauseous. Dizzy. Yes it was true. But he loved his three kids more. God damn bless Jesus.
Strange. All summer it's been as dry as hell. Now we're being catapulted headlong into autumn and – it's only August 23? That's gotta be wrong! It's still August! * Sigh * Here I am with all my school supplies all packed and ready to go, like an excited child weeks before Christmas. There's certainly something wrong with me. Who gets
excited about school? Or college, rather? Mom says I'll be a perpetual student. Just can't get enough punishment, can I? Let's hope all this goes somewhere, or brings me someplace worthwhile. I think it will. Just have to wait.
I'm freakin' hungry. I actually got out of the house today. Can you believe it? Sat in dad's truck that he uses maybe three times a year if we're lucky. It carted he mom and I all over doing regular household errands, and some business ones too. I had my "wicca bible," Witchcrafting by Phyllis Currot cracked open, trying to see a ray of sunshine in the bleary New England grey. Weird stuff. It's all about finding yourself, discovering who you are in the big scheme of things. Not in the scheme of civilization – but everyday nature. It's kinda sweet.
I thought I was actually heading into a state of higher consciousness – into enlightenment. But it was only a caffeine and sugar rush. I have been studying Wicca and couldn't help but laugh at the concept of asking a tree for wisdom and then thanking it aloud. It all sounds silly. But to listen to nature – just the wind, bees, or watching a tree bend and the cloud float by of their own accord – it's all so peaceful. I did it every so often, but Wicca tells you to take a hell of a lot more time to do so.
School books, painfully uncomfortable chairs, and out till all hours – that's what I have to look forward to in a week's time. I have decided to throw fiction out the window here. It's kind of useless to fit a tiny scene in 100 words. I find that even 100 words for a tiny daily entry about my life can be intriguing enough. Everyone's life is so different – thoughts, parents, jobs, ideas, theories, affectations – why not give the world a little peek into my own? Who knows, maybe someone will fashion a character after me! I'll be famous! Well, maybe not.
It feels so good, doesn't it, to pamper yourself? As a woman, I am exposed to all the sexual prejudices and I hate to abide by them. My hair's always just ‘thrown' into a ponytail and never styled. My nails go unpainted, broken and all sorts of lengths. My clothes are always casual and never accentuate my form. I am far from a walking advertisement for my sex. But tonight for the first time in a while, I've actually gotten around to filing, painting and pampering my nails. It feels good and I can really feel pretty: like a woman.
This whole 100 words a day is REALLY a pain in the arse. Once Dad's birthday comes and goes, and the 31st is over, I'll be quite glad to see this project go. I'll probably find my way back here come January. But until then, I'll be hitting the books and wishing I had just decided to flip burgers for a living. I'm getting smarter, and the more I learn, the more impressive I'll be to higher quality men I'll come into contact with. White collar, middle to upper class responsible males that have the same basic principles I do.
Who knew people's handwriting could be so complicated? Handwriting exposes a person for who they are: "brainwriting" they call it. Depending on how small, big, hard, light, wiggly or perfect – you can think any NUMBER of things. The more I study and look into it, the more self-conscious about my own writing I am. But hey, who knows if I'll actually get anywhere with this odd little hobby.
And then trying to get friends to submit samples of their writing is HELL! They ignore me, or drag their feet. Being self-conscious about exposing your true self could be tricky business.
Brilliant and rude, Garry Russo made the world his enemy. Nothing pleased him, nothing touched him, nothing made him feel small. And unfortunately, the world needed his genius. The FBI was after him – Italian, French, and Russian Intelligence were also hot on his trail. He had already been kidnapped twice by fighting factions and both times he slipped past them to freedom.
He was a genius and egotistically smug about that fact. He was a wanted man – but was he hiding? No. Unabashedly he got off the boat floating in the Grand Canal of Venice and window-shopped like a tourist.
Birthdays. What a concept. A celebration of the day you were officially breathing on your own, officially your own person. You are then put in a separate room to await honest adults that will either make or break you: to start their influence over the tiny unformed mind yet to be molded. You are catered to, but only when it is convenient or to try to force something that you really don't want. You want a blanket and they give you food. You want food and you get whirled around. We have come a long way since our birth day.
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