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Sister Rose knelt before the statue and lit one of the candles. With hands clasped tightly in prayer, she lowered her head. This daily ritual-- this was her life. She'd never once questioned it until today. She tried to keep her thoughts focused on the task before her, but her mind kept drifting. If only she’d not caught that accidental glimpse of the convent’s benefactor. But she had, and now she was tainted. God would punish her for these thoughts, she knew, but she could not erase them from her mind. She forced her lips to move in silent prayer.
I couldn't believe it--the pain I felt as the twenty-gauge, nickel ring was ripped from my eyebrow--excruciating! Blood spurting in all directions as I howled in pain, a scream decibel levels higher than an obnoxious jackhammer's consistent droning. I clutched my brow bone, doubling over in pain. The tenderness of the fresh wound throbbed beneath my fingertips. My legs began to weaken beneath my solid frame. Suddenly, all went black. Hours later, with a pool of claret blood surrounding my flaxen hair, the lights in my brain came back on, slowly, deliberately. Bewilderment overcame my absence of clarity.
“Hi honey; I’m home.”
“Hi. How was your day?”
“Well, it was okay. I’ve gotten an incredible offer.”
“Yes. Would you like to hear about it?”
“Sure. Let me finish this article real quick, first.”
“So, about that incredible offer?”
“Well, you know Hank has been planning to make a huge change in his life.”
"So are they going to offer you his job after he leaves?? Wow, that’d be great—such a huge salary increase! We could become debt free in no time if you got that promotion!”
“Not exactly; he’s asked me to go with him.”
The street taunted his every effort; he had to concentrate intently to make the moves that involuntarily come to the standard, salutary human being. It seemed as though the street was chuckling antagonistically with every step he managed. After a while, his leg muscles began to burn fiercely, and he hesitated before moving another inch. Grabbing onto a nearby light pole, he grasped it and gasped for relief. As he looked toward the cobalt sky, the surrounding lights and sounds began to swirl around his head. He tried to cry out for help, but his throat was too tightly constricted.
Sacrifice—what is it?
It’s working three jobs,
two part and one full-time,
while going to college,
just so you can be the second
of ten kids in your family
to get a degree.
It’s giving up your lover
to someone else,
against your wishes.
It’s giving up your most passionate desires,
in order to get out of debt.
It’s moving from a custom-built house
on a mountain
to a mobile home
off the freeway
so you can afford to enjoy life,
and not be house poor
like most people your age.
It’s tough—but it pays off.
I love to write.
100words did it for me.
I thought I was good,
but when I went there
and read other people’s stuff
I’m only mediocre.
So now I’m practicing
Day after day
And I’m improving. I can see it.
I look forward to writing
Something I never thought I’d say.
That defies the old adage
“you can’t teach an old dog new tricks”
because old dogs CAN learn!
I know this.
So when you’re bored
Jump onto the writing train.
It boards at gate 100words
And departs from the station
Any time you wish.
Geraldine picked up the tiny, pink, heart-shaped box gingerly, carefully opened its pearlescent lid, and watched while the ballerina inside, with her faded white tutu, quickly bounced up to an erect pirouette. Geraldine sighed as the memories began to trickle into her brain. Momentarily hesitating, she found herself winding the music box slowly, as its mechanism was rusty. As the ballerina began to spin around to the tinkle of the box’s worn larynx, Geraldine gazed out the open window into the dark nothingness of the night. Memories began to flood her mind uncontrollably—random flashes of brightly glowing neon thoughts.
Red and white swirls wildly surrounded Rosabella as she spiraled, half flying, across the floor. The Tarantella was indeed her favorite dance, and she was enjoying—no, taking immense pleasure in—this evening’s exceptional performance. Her partner was executing each move so smoothly, so lightly, so perfectly! Their synchronicity flowed like never before. Rosabella felt she could read his mind; they had been performing this and several other classic Italian dances for so many years, it was though they both dreamed themselves right through every number. And the roaring applause afterward. . . countless, fabulous evenings--always with perfect endings.
Did you ever just sit down and play with words? I mean
play with words—on paper, in thought, or by mouth? Playing with words is a blast—goofing around with rhymes, tinkering around with onomatopoeia or alliteration, or simply rolling words from your tongue—reveling in their harsh or mellifluous sounds. See? The word
--it’s one of those “velvety” words. Sometimes words bring a smile to your face, just because they might invoke in you a certain special memory or sentiment. And sometimes words like PiNk or garbanzo beans or made-up, nonsense words are just all-around fun!
Did you ever wonder what it would be like if you had been born in another era? For example, I always figured if I’d have been born during the Westward Expansion era, more than likely I’d have joined up with one of those Conestoga wagon trains. What would it have been like, being a pioneer? And a woman, at that? There’s no question they endured really hard times—harsh weather, wilderness living, cooking, washing, and caring for the children, and either walking beside or riding on the horse-drawn wagon, over the bumpy trail. Question is -- would I have survived?
Part I—The Water Cooler Story: I have to share this humorous little tidbit. I buy bottled water—you know, the big five-gallon jugs that go atop a cooler. Anyhow, a couple years ago, I noticed the little well beneath the spigots was full of water. I thought that was weird because I’d rarely spill a drop when filling a glass or other container. A few days later, while watching television, I heard the water dripping out, sort of like a “diddloop” sort of sound. It happened again. And again. I went to the cooler, only to find my CAT ...
Part II—was pulling the handles down, letting out streams of water. I couldn’t believe my eyes! She apparently was taking great pleasure in her little “game”, but I was not. I was paying for that water, damnit! Well, I began to contrive my next move. However, before I could rectify the situation, she released half of the five-gallon jug onto the floor! I had come home from work after a long day and discovered it. I was mortified! So I put the plan into place; I duct-taped a rectangular plastic container over the spigots. That worked for a while.
Part III--She figured out how to get it off, to my dismay. Once again, water everywhere. Plan A failed—on to Plan B. I called the water delivery company, and the customer service agent assured me that they carried “child protective” handles for my water cooler. He was curious about what types of problems I was having. When I told him, he was beside himself with laughter. He said that was the first time he had ever heard of such a thing. Imagine that—child protective handles to protect the water from the wiles of a crafty house cat!
Has a certain delicate ring
The words even look pretty!
it’s a Hallmark
For me, it means
and rosy red
It means ruffles and frills
and dainty lace.
It means flowers—
in a standard clear
or green glass vase
from the local
And it also means
indulging in treats—
succulent crab morsels
bathed in salty butter
strawberries and marshmallows
dipped in creamy, warm milk chocolate
a wine goblet
of crimson merlot
With or without
that special someone,
is a time for lavish splendor.
Tonight I was watching a rerun of Northern Exposure, when I learned the true meaning of “gratitude” at its highest level. A native lady, Marilyn, was learning how to drive. The local disc jockey was teaching her, both literally and figuratively. He’d go off on philosophical tangents, and she would just nod, thinking he was sorta nuts. So the next day, when he went to pick her up for her next lesson, she declined. She said she didn’t wish to learn to drive anymore. When he asked why, she replied, “Because I’d miss walking too much.” Now that is gratitude.
Recently I learned that Hershey’s, the chocolate ICON of America, is closing its plant and moving all operations to Mexico. Hershey’s! It comes as quite a shock; you see, my great grandparents came to this country during heart of the Industrial Revolution, when manufacturing was dominant. Since then, the Industrial Revolution virtually fizzled, paving the way for the Information Age. Now even those jobs are being outsourced! The bitter relocation of an industry that has sweetened our palates for decades, in my humble opinion, should become a significant, symbolic event that must serve as an eye-opening wake-up call for Americans.
At first, I thought writing once a day on 100words would be a simple commitment; at this juncture, I’m realizing it's become an interesting challenge. I mean, how difficult could it be to create a succinct, 100-word paragraph about virtually anything? I’m here to say that it’s more difficult than one might imagine. First of all, you need a topic—easy enough. But then you have to expand on it, and sometimes, you have just a little
much to say. So then you have to scale your thoughts down, which can sometimes hamper the ideas you’re trying to express.
Margaret’s plants were her life; yes, she had a daily office job, but that served merely to sustain her existence. She tended lovingly to these verdant friends regularly, putting them above all else. One day, a man entered her life. He filled a void she had never realized existed. Her waking hours now revolved around this new person. The flora in her apartment began to slowly suffer, lacking the necessary food and water for their flourishing.
had shifted her focus. So one night, they decided to revolt. While she slept, they entangled themselves around her neck . . .
People ask me what my favorite song is, or what my favorite type of music is, and I cannot answer them definitively. Because, when you think about it, if you are as passionate about music as I am, then you know the answers. I listen to music according primarily to my mood, which translates to my mood choosing the type of music it needs to exist. Sometimes my mood calls for wild-n-crazy, guitar-slashing rock, while others it prefers the serenity of soft-core jazz or classical. Old-school country might add to the mix, as well as mild rap or reminiscent alternative.
Spaghetti—how many different varieties of recipes exist? I know my spaghetti is a little different from the standard Italian recipe because I use a secret Greek ingredient. It’s delicious though, and I can make it from memory—measuring nothing. It tastes the same every time, which is the mark of a very good cook. So tonight I made my spaghetti, and it tasted perfect as usual. I varied the recipe just a tad, by adding green peppers and fresh spinach. Have to get my greens, you know. It’s important to use quality ingredients, also, to keep the flavor genuine.
Lately I’ve been following the presidential candidates, and I’ve heard some strange concerns. On talk radio today, they were stirring up the pot. For example, they were talking about whether or not we’d vote for someone who smoked or was married and divorced several times. They’re also wondering if we’d vote for someone who’d snorted cocaine and/or smoked marijuana, and whether the age they did it made any difference in our decisions or not. How bizarre! I mean, shouldn’t we be worried more about whether any has a criminal record? Of perhaps if they have any practice with foreign relations?
John rolled over, thrust the quilt from his body, and forced his legs over the side of the bed. “Another boring day,” he muttered dolefully, as he gradually began to pull himself from the warmth of his nocturnal cocoon. Begrudgingly, he hobbled off to the shower. A piping pot of coffee beckoned to him from the kitchen, and as he indulged in its comforting, wafting aroma, a hint of a sparkle flashed across his weary eyes. “About the only thing I have to look forward to these days,” he grumbled. Sipping his morning elixir, John ambled out the front door.
Did you ever just sit and look at the television and not even watch it? Just sit there, staring at it, but your mind is either numb or thought-free for the moment, so you just don’t feel the need or desire to absorb what’s on the tube. Or perhaps you’re thinking about something that has much more significance than that drivel they’re trying shove down your eyeballs, so you’re lost in your thoughts while the screen dances before your very eyes. And the cherry on the top—someone’s trying to talk to you—but your brain is out to lunch!
“I am the King of the Hill!” Jack joyously jeered at his jubilant sidekick, Jill. “Be careful, Jack!” Jill admonished. “Remember what happened to you last time!” Jack stopped for a moment, scratched his crown, and pondered her point. “And you know we forgot to wear our helmets this time!” Jill reminded her pal. “Wow. You’re right.” Jack sighed heavily. “Is this what it’s come to?” Jack was perplexed. He never remembered having to take such safety precautions, but since the new helmet law was instated. . .ah! ConfoundedConformity! Jack pivoted and took a large, deliberate step forward. . .
Dazzling Sunrise in the morning
brightens everyone’s day.
It’s contagious—spread it!
Send it on its way!
Such a simple gesture
can change a single man’s fate.
Such an easy-going gesture
can magically extract love from hate.
It’s a potion that spreads
without touching one’s lips.
It’s a tonic that cleanses
from the curve of one’s lips.
So the next time you’re caught frowning,
find the nearest slice of joy.
Feel it warm you, soothe you,
and fill you up with bliss.
And dare you not to forget
Send it off to your brother,
who, too, needs an empathetic kiss.
“No, we’re not zit medicine!” Joxy retorted!
“We like to play games with words!” Croxy snickered.
“Yeah! Games with words!” Joxy echoed.
“Oxymorons--like ‘icy hot’!” Croxy declared.
“Speaking of which,” Joxy interjected, “that was an icy hot play in last night’s game!”
“Duh!” mocked Croxy. “Now back to the game. Your turn.”
“Hmmm...gimme a sec,” Joxy replied.
“Geez! I coulda said a million of ‘em already!” Croxy taunted.
“Aw I’m thinkin’!” Joxy slowly scratched his head, rolled his eyes, and started jabbering incoherently.
“Whaaaaaaat the??” Croxy incredulously stared at his brother.
“That was intelligent babble!” Joxy blurted.
Whoosh! Sandy’s foot pressed the accelerator, and she was off! Spring had never felt so good until now. All winter, she’d kept herself sheltered in the warm comfort of her modest apartment, nestled next to the window, hypnotized hour after hour by never-ending snowflakes falling to the naked earth. Eventually, everything surrounding her was concealed by a solid veil of white. So now, understandably, the itch was there, and by golly, she was going to scratch it! The only way she’d ever known to break her cabin fever entirely was to jump in her convertible and just drive. . .
I may have officially made the “batch cut” for February. I’m thrilled to have succeeded in this first ever 100-word prose-writing endeavor, but it didn’t happen without mistakes and lessons. One ridiculous error I made was reposting the same piece of writing—the one about “John”. I didn’t check to see what I’d already posted (my bad!). However, I learned that I actually have my own little flair for writing. Initially having had some concerns about running out of material, I learned writing is infinite! Now the world will be exposed to my words. Hallelujah! I hope someone enjoys them.
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