Is its mouth a circle?

I live in a world where death chases life. Death, as we call it, is not the slow decomposition of our cells that so commonly afflicts us. No, Death is a living, breathing creature. Ever so slowly, it traverses the world in search of its meal. We are but krill in juxtaposition. History tells us that we can move far beyond its reach, sometimes too far. The generations slowly forget, and the beast becomes legend, a tale to scare the old ones to bed. Yet the inevitable happens, and the stench of its breath creeps over the land. Run away?

The Distance

Excitedly crouched at the starting line, he waited for his moment to sprint. As the runners exhausted their energy by the final lap, he knew that he could outmotor any of the enfeebled competition. It was a risky move, but he felt it was time to show the world what he was capable of. He burst through the lanes, closing in on the frontrunners. He felt so free in the open breeze. The looks of shock and anger were priceless, and as he passed the runner in first, he knew the charges for public indecency would be worth it. Maybe.

Crazy is not an adverb.

 Sorry for going MIA this past week, but I've been so busy doing nothing that I've neglected my writing a tad. To make up for it, I'll post a few stories today that I've thought up over the holidays.

You might call me crazy, but leave the cats alone. They are personable and very normal. Sure, I might have more than average, but what’s wrong with a little company? They need me, you hear? Look at Fluffy there, mewling away for my attention. Would you dare to deprive her of my tender love and gentle care? Oh my! Take a gander at Paws over there. He’s hacking up a hairball, or so I think. Here, let me get my spectacles...ho! I was right. Now tell me you think I’m crazy. Oh wait, you can’t. Apocalypses are so lonely, Fluffy.

Sweet Dreams

The sound of her head hitting the keyboard was muffled by her own tiredness. “Huh, that’s odd,” she thought. “Surely that should have hurt more than it did.” A little weirded out, and still drowsy, she rose slowly to turn off the light. The switch did not cooperate. “Woah! Wait, I’m not animated though. Oh, duh! That was only in Waking Life. Stupid.” Elated by her newfound dream state, she ran unhindered by the boundaries of consciousness. Clambering up to the roof, she smiled and stepped off, into a coma. They fixed the light switch, but it was too late.

The Conclusion

“Any last words?”

“Yes. I may not convince you of my innocence in its totality, not today. Insofar as every action has a consequence, so too must I be judged for mine own faults. However! Let it be known that on a day in the future, it could be tomorrow, or years from now, realization will arrive of my genius, the very prescient nature of my deeds. The question is not when, but rather how much it shall affect you. Ergo, and thus, with regret...”

“May I kindly remind you, Jimmy, that this a book report and not an execution.”

What the...

He saw someone over yonder. It was too far away to make any accurate description. He walked quickly, hoping to find company at last. However, the figure remained distant. That is, until it tripped. He broke into a dead run. So close, and the figure turned. Shock was on both of their faces, and he tripped. It had been himself! His face was on that most ominous figure. They held their gaze, but he heard footsteps behind him. He spun around, only to meet the same ghastly visage. It stumbled, and crashed into him. They screamed, in succession, infinitely aware.

Applause

A big thanks to the storied Stories Inc. for yet another great submission. As always, you can find this story and many more here. 

 

Three minutes of fame was all she asked for.

A crew member signalled it was time. She nodded, getting ready. Standing in the opening to the arena, she heard the crowd roaring, stamping their feet, impatient for her. A bell tolled.

Insecurity crawled up on her. Should she smile or keep a straight face? And what kind of smile? Mysterious? Girl-next-door style? Should she be tempting, beckoning, maybe a slight bit naughty?

She plunged forward from the curtains, enshrined in spotlights, and strode across the catwalk in a leopard print bikini holding up a sign saying “Round 2”.

Applause resounded.

The Holiday Spirit

She heard footsteps. Ominous. She was alone. So alone, but also moving. Making footsteps. Her footsteps, the ones which she heard. Still ominous. The quickened heartbeat that remains after a close encounter with fear. She experienced it. After hearing her own footsteps. Which she heard no more. Stairs. Odd number of steps. Odd, but also scary. She heard creaking. Creepy. Creepy creaking. Her own footsteps. And her own creaking. What was that noise? Just physics. Creepy physics. Creaky footsteps. A light. Under her door. She did not remember leaving the light on. Footsteps. Not hers, and the light turns off.

The cake.

And so you sink amid the desert of time, each grain within grasp, yet impossible to sculpt. The landscape continues to drop, and you stumble desperately for an exit. An invisible fence blocks you. You will descend with the rest of us, good, evil, unaligned, all at the same pace and with the same end. Closer now, too close for comfort. Is the heat from the sun or from the unbearable anticipation? You looked forward to it once, but it gets faster every year. More familiar. They wish you happy birthday, but the hourglass simply turns over, feckless and cakeless.

All in All, You're Just A...

To call it a wall would be disingenuous; to call it anything else would be blasphemous. It was THE wall. No discernable end could be found, try as we might. And oh, we might. It stretched all the way across our side of the planet, a barrier to greener, imaginary pastures. Climbing over was considered suicide; all those who dared to ascend in search of that legendary mantle never returned. No cavern permitted entry to the other side, deeper only means more futile to us. All that remains is to ram our way through. What’s that? The doorknob works? Dammit.

A New Me

 Okay, finals are no fun. Hopefully I won't have to turn this site into A Week is Worth 100 Words. More to come.

I woke up today not quite feeling like myself. It should have come as no surprise, then, that my appearance was that of an elderly gentlemen. Not so. It was surprising, so I let out a scream. Fortunately, my scream was old and gentlemanly. Nothing more than a gruff moan escaped. At this point, I convinced myself I was dreaming, and that the pain in my heart was an illusion. I walked out of the room, to the unfortunate sight of an aged woman. “Hank! There you are! It’s as if you’re avoiding me!” she shrieked. I couldn’t blame him.

Killing time for the rest of us

He was more storied than the Empire State Building, which was largely unimpressive due to his short stature, and the fact that he really only had one story to tell. Of course, he spared his audience of such introductions, much to the relief of his restaurant's patrons. They preferred him to tell it as soon as possible. “I once knew a security guard,” he began, “who had a peculiar device. It was a wristwatch without any numbers. I asked him, ‘Couldn’t a thief steal something if you misjudge your shift?’ His reply? ‘Not on my watch!’” Repeat customers were few, thankfully.

Wintergreen is an oxymoron, I think.

The cold blanketed him in slight discomfort, in the very way a blanket wouldn’t. The pain was too mild to flinch at, yet too annoying to disregard. An enveloping mask of bothersome ice poked at him, taunting him. Too cold! He pulled away, grimacing as he breathed hard in an attempt to expel the cold from his mouth. Something kept bringing him back to the source of his displeasure. A force much larger, more intrinsic than the shivering cold shooting through his frame. His thoughts froze for moment. He put down his smoothie, turning to matters of more worldly importance.

Where in the...

Well, this is certainly an irksome situation. I’ve been searching for this guy, his name is irrelevant, for the longest time. He told me he’d be in this general vicinity, but lo and friggin’ behold, not a clue as to his whereabouts. Somehow I think he’s avoiding me, but I can’t fathom why. I don’t even know why I wanted to find him in the first place! What’s a guy to do, meandering around namby pamby with a dumb look on his face, searching for someone who may or may not even exist? Worst game of hide and seek, ever.

Happy Thanksgiving!

As we drive over the bridge, I tell myself not to look down, but the word tugs at my periphery. The sea. So vast, and so devoid of anything to distract my attention from its horrible emptiness. It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t have to be real. I always hope that it’s all a dream, that I won’t have to accept the ocean as fact. That somehow, I live in a world without anything to reach the horizon. The bridge crumbles, collapsing into that which I dread. A dream? No. It’s all I can see, all I will ever see.

Stop That Penny!

Well, what have we here? Another excellent guest submission, that's what. Coming our way from Diego, an aspiring writer with a hidden talent for 100 words. To find more of his writing, check out his blog. 

Son wanted to go to the park today to throw some coins into the little fountain there, I once told him it was a wishing fountain. I tell him to grab some small coins off my dresser while I find my keys. He's so happy to toss those shiny pennies into the algae consumed water. I watch him, smiling, until I notice the distinctive color of my rare 1943 bronze-minted penny, the coin flailing majestically through the air as its launched from that small hand, almost as majestic as my own form as I dive headfirst into the shallow muck.

1. -Guest Submission

There has been quite a drought in terms of guest submissions, but finally a new one has arrived! Big thanks to Stories Inc., a fellow short story writer. This story is one part in four shorts with a restaurant theme, the rest of which you can check out here. Now, onto the words:
 
She looks delicious. Much better than the meal. Not what you’d expect, with three stars. Good thing I ordered oysters. And wine. Isn’t it time for another bottle? I know what I look like. The waiter fills her glass to the brim once more. I paid him extra to, as a polite alternative to just jamming the bottle down her throat. She’ll be feeling it when we head back to my car. Her lipstick on the edge of the crystal. So sensual. I need to remember to take my shirts to the drycleaner’s before the wife sees them this time.

Food for Talk

The man felt empty inside, and with each unfulfilling moment felt an increasing desire to change that. As he prepared his lunch, his thoughts traveled nowhere in particular, each tangent fading from memory as the next took hold. He froze, now intensely aware of being alone. No one could hear him. “No one can hear me,” he said, as if to prove that he could, in fact, hear himself. The noise startled him. “Why am I talking to myself?” Again, surprise. “Stop it!” “Am I going insane?” Only chewing silenced him. He finished his meal, but the empty feeling remained.

Bus

The bus as usual, a mix of extremes. Very little eye contact and too much physical contact make for an uncomfortable trip, but you are used to the breach of personal dignity. You just stare outside, making up stories for people outside. Perhaps that woman is running from the police. Even criminals wear track pants. Maybe that man has realized the meaning of his very existence, which oddly involves ice cream. You nod off as people get off. You dream of tripping, ahhh! You jerk awake, but no one is watching except the driver, reminding you it’s the last stop.

Extra! Extra!

There once was a girl with a fiddle, who swayed patternless like a riddle. Yet with each place she’d go, her arms akimbo, she’d end up right back in the middle...

Of the world she’d wax ever poetic, in which all her thoughts fit quite aesthetic. Not a tad apathetic, almost too energetic, her musings were pretty frenetic...

Her pace was, in skipping. Never once did she falter by tripping. No pause for farewells, as quick as gazelles, some thought her the wind gone by whipping...

A cake, so frosted over with the sweet, sweet cream of denial and fantasy.

Dulled Senses

Izak picked up his plastic mechanical pencil, an act he hoped would stir him to greater things than picking up pencils. A twirl or five later, he had accomplished nothing of worldly importance. He could feel his very resolve to do something, anything, slowly diminish as his pencil dropped onto his desk, its untouched lead a modern reminder of futility. And then it hit him. He jerked upwards immediately. He had dozed off and slammed his head on his desk. Not even sleep was an option to cure his inactivity. He rubbed his aching head, and resolved to do, nothing.

A Knight in Rusting Armor

Am I a coward or a realist? Is one a euphemism for the other? These are the questions I ask myself as I avoid my commitments. The answers are never satisfactory, even uncomfortable. They serve only to remind me of my incompetence, my fear, my...stop! Gosh, I’m just wasting time acting depressed, when really this is an easy job. It’s been done before, and it will be done again. Really, who am I to doubt my own abilities? That’s for everyone else to do. Yeah, I can...not do this! I mean, really people? I have to kill a dragon?

Roses are hurtful...

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

I don’t think my wound

Should be turning this hue.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Why can’t my misfortune

Fall onto you?

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

You expect this poem to rhyme,

Don’t you?

Not often are poems

Backwardly read,

Violets are blue,

Roses are red.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Without different rhyme structures,

Poetry would be dead.

Roses are red,

Violets are purple,

Contrary to

Popular belief.

Roses are reddish,

Violets are purplish,

I’m now a haiku.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Pass the mustard

Please, Steve.

A Faint Reminder

The pink reminded her of a time when colors had meaning, when her peers either ridiculed them or worshipped them. The pink reminded her of the flavor of the quotidian, sweet with fruit, savory with meat, yet always familiar and ever pleasant. But she was being ridiculous. Pink had no flavor, just as orange had no discernable flavor. The color orange, she had to remind herself. She had chosen a bad example. Yet the thread of her thoughts held on amidst distraction. Pink had no real reason to exist, for light red would have sufficed. She hated light red eye.

A Day is Worth 55 Words

Well, I've done it. This post is my 50th, a milestone I didn't think I'd reach. This project has been more entertaining than I thought it would be, when it was just a way to curb some summer boredom. So, in honor of this...momentous(?) occasion, here is the story that gave me the inspiration for this site. It is only 55 words, which is in some respects even more challenging. Here we go:

Everyone said the boy was observant,

But he couldn’t quite see it.

The girl read the last line of every book.

She had dreams, but tripped on her own shoelaces.

“I remember her, always stuck in the future.”

“Will he ever stop thinking of yesterday?”

They crashed, and saw each other for the first time.

A Twist Ending

I found myself in an open field. To be honest, I knew it existed, but the rare solitude in which I passed through was pleasant. I closed my eyes, expecting to trip on the wet, tangled grass. Instead, I felt this odd sensation of floating. With every tentative step, I was lifting into the sky. My eyes snapped open, expecting a large pole or some such obstacle to be in my path. But no, I wasn’t even halfway across. I closed my eyes again, for longer this time. I floated along, rising in the darkness, rising above an invisible world.

I scream for...

His ice cream matched so perfectly with the smooth chocolate floor. He liked to admire his cone before taking the first, overly sweet taste. With every bite from that point onwards, his palate would be too numb to register the frozen treat’s wonderful flavor. In a daze, he imagined life on an ice cream cone. Oh, to prance and wallow in the cream of sugary bliss. Yet, there was always the slight chance of being devoured. This sudden dark thought brought him back to his melting cone. As he chomped happily down, the sky turned dark, and he was eaten.

Running Out of/in Time

The ticking drove him to the parapet of sanity, a fortress that had before now seemed so secure. Incessant, ubiquitous, each paralyzing click carrying with it the knowledge that a chunk of time was being ripped from his existence. There were no hearts beating under the floorboards, no underlying guilt, yet his mind crumbled even faster than Poe’s ligyrophobic subject. Hickory dickory dock, his end seemed to be a lock. He tried to close his eyes, yet the ever increasing light spelled his doom. Then it came. The alarm rang, shrill and punctual. He rose and got ready for school.

Oops! I accidentally pressed all the buttons.

“Oh boy, today is my big day. I’m glad I already know why it’s my big day. It would be difficult for people if it was left intentionally vague. Anyway, I should get going. Don’t want to be late. Oh no, I haven’t been listening to my boss! Maybe if I nod, she’ll understand. Okay, finally safe. Ow! Why do I have this uncanny ability to trip on flat pavement? Yikes, there’s my elevator! Hello, sir. What’s that? You were just saying hi, and you didn’t want a high five? This is going to be a long ride into space"

A Tall Tree/Tale

I was meandering around the city, with no particular destination in mind. I always chose the path of most resistance, hoping that in some way I would be filtered slowly to a place of solitude and away from the incessant noise. A girl walked into my periphery. At this point I froze, staring with a faint hope that she would yell at me for being a creeper. This is when I ran into a tree. Only there was no tree, no girl, and I was in the middle of the ocean, alone. This is when I ran into a tree.

Anchored in Boredom

She was saying something, of this he was sure. What exactly were her words, now this was a mystery. His thoughts muffled them into incoherency. It didn’t matter. She was as likely to notice his disinterest as to stop talking altogether. His eyes wandered upwards. Seeing her expression of concern, he knew he should probably pay attention. Life? Money? Politics? There were too many words to filter through to make a guess. Glancing sideways, he counted the number of tiles on the tessellated floor. “Do half tiles count?” he pondered. Deciding they don’t, he went back to watching the news.

It was a Dark and Stormy Night

There was no doubt that Jason was a lucky man, – just ask his college professors – a fact he was well aware of, so when he was touring an underground bunker as nuclear warfare broke out with his girlfriend of two months and three weeks, he decided the time was ripe to propose.

“Wait until you see the whites of their eyes,” thought William as he loaded his bayonet on Bunker Hill, yet when the assailants lowered their heads in their headlong charge, he became confused at the hypothetical and literal complications of such actions and panicked; William is my ancestor.

These two sentences were inspired by a competition for the worst opening line to a novel. You can find better (worse?) ones here.

Stop it, I'm blushing.

A word. A word that sets off a fire in the woods with a cigarette butt. A word crazy men rant and rave about until everyone turns away in shame. But the shame you feel is much worse. The shame you feel is your own. Miserable wretch! How dare you do such things and how dare you forget? The word reminds you. You can’t breathe and you can’t think and everything is going so fast and you are skipping skipping a beat and the jolt you feel from your heart stopping stops it again and you see it. Your guilt.

Poor Execution

 For those too lazy to do a handstand, here's the original text:

I swear it wasn’t my fault. I was framed. I have a semi-plausible alibi. At least, those were my excuses. I deserve to be hanging upside down like this. Kings don’t get assassinated every day. I suppose I should curse myself for getting caught. What’s that? I should curse myself for murdering someone? Don’t make me laugh. Seriously, it hurts. I think I’ve got a few hours of consciousness, tops. So, listen up. King Obid planned to turn the world on its head. Up would be down, right would be wrong! It sounds like a nice plan right now, actually.

Life Of Luster, Callous And Torn

Do I regret my actions? Perhaps, but in no way do they haunt me. I might toss and turn on particularly quiet nights, but sleep is the perfect remedy. Fame nearly ruined me. Nearly. Not quite. It started innocuously. It was just a picture, inartfully rendered. However, the responses were instant and almost crazed. People laughed, raucous and inattentive to any nearby neighbors. They were rolling on the floor with unbridled mirth. I had soon become a sensation, and yes, I enjoyed it. This is all in the past, mind, just a phase in my life as an internet cat.  

Skipping

No matter how many rocks I chuck into the ocean, they all sink. The water, angry at the sudden disturbance, ripples outwards as if searching for the culprit. My visage stares back at me, judging every downward glance. Its resemblance, while uncanny, is never perfect, blemished by the passing waves. The weather worsens, doom-laden clouds unleashing their latent fury. I am suddenly plunged into my double’s world. A whirl of water converges around me. Stricken by icy lashes, I fall. A slow freefall, yet just as effective in stealing my breath. Looking up, my reflection has vanished. Or have I?

A Squirrel's Dilemma

The warm breeze transforms the patch of grass into an ocean. A glint of light races towards the sidewalk, a tendriled wave. The slow swaying, coupled with the lazy weather, is mesmerizing. A squirrel pops up, frozen in alertness. Suddenly, a feeling of self-awareness passes over as easily as the wind. It sees itself from a distance, alone in the gaping hole of sheer scale. What is a nut in comparison to the infinity? It realizes that it is merely hurtling through space on a crusty rock. Never has it felt so impossibly small. Seeing a bike, it scurries away.

Piqued Interest

The young man skips up the mountainous terrain with all the vigor of youth. “Put one foot in front of the other,” he whistles cheerfully, bounding up the chilly slopes. With a spring in his stride, he reaches the peak beaming at the wise guru before him. He wastes no time to ask about the secrets of the universe. “Do you know the purpose for which I live?” The guru opens one eye, contemplative. “I know nothing,” he replies. The man’s bursting enthusiasm fades. “Then why are you here?” he sputters. The guru smiles. “I believe I have already answered.”

Full of Hot Air

I live life as if I were on a sinking ship. I don’t live on a sinking ship. That would be silly. I live in a perpetually floating hot air balloon. It’s a cozy lifestyle. I think nothing of boredom with my trusty kitty, Hawk. We left our shoes on the ground when the news arrived. Yet another doomsday climate prediction. It was time to embark on a cool adventure. Hawk purred with irony when our vessel started descending. The air has gotten too hot for our furnace to overcome. I wish people would stop running away from the problem.

Knock Knock (Part 2)

The man was a sight to behold. A blue hazmat concealed his clean, pin-striped suit. After nearly a year alone, the boy and the woman had given up hope of contact. Their worries were soon put to rest. The man was kind, with a particular interest in the woman. This troubled the boy. Strange signs were clearing his judgment. A hole in the hazmat suit, when levels of radiation were still fatal. Yet before the boy could tell the woman, the woman was already gone from this world. The man’s knife was red, a welcome respite from the yellow wallpaper.

Self Reflection

“Oh, Jean-Pierre III! We need to scale the dragon’s impregnable castle before Mathilda dies of her incurable-except-under-very-sketchy-circumstances illness!” 

“What are you doing, Guinivere? For the sake of the audience, I will break the fourth wall and pretend I have no idea what the hell you are talking about. You know that our author has no time for exposition. It’s all about the action, which is going to be pretty lame with only twenty odd words left.” 

“But my dearest Jean-Pierre! He always forgets a deep moral or personal hidden meaning. Why all the twist endings? Alack, I’m out of...!”

Knock Knock (Part 1)

The boy was wary of the man. The man was wary of the woman. The woman was wary of the boy. All had their reasons, soon to be justified. The woman and the boy had survived in the bunker for many months. While highly advanced and not much different than an underground trailer, they had grown tired of the yellow walls and canned foods. They were trapped, radiation on one end and lack of purpose on the other. Without any relation, their bond based itself on a mutual experience, the trauma of nuclear warfare. Then, a knock on the door.

What is Ambivalence, Alex?

I don’t expect you to believe me. It’s tough to understand radical changes in the laws of nature. I don’t often witness a shift in the Earth’s center of mass, myself. However, when the world tilted two degrees, everything became strange. Rivers ran upstream. Buildings collapsed. Perhaps oddest of all, that incorrigible wall hanging straightened out. Riots broke out against the sluggish government. The science community scrambled to rewrite physics amid proclamations of the apocalypse. You would have thought the world had turned upside down. As for me? I just put a book under the T.V. and continued watching Jeopardy.

An Awesome Regret

I look exactly like him, a product of our identical DNA. No one can tell us apart, making my predicament all the worse. The one aspect that separates us is our power struggle. I say struggle, when in reality the battle is already won. He controls me, forces me to submit to his juvenile will. I’ve done his homework. I’ve cleaned his room. I’ve even asked out Rebecca Walters to the dance. You’d think I would be able to escape the evil clutches of such a coward, but deep down, I know I’m the same. It’s why I cloned him.

My Bad

Where did it all begin? When did we start to spin in opposite directions? Are we so far apart that even our outstretched arms could not bridge the gap? What happens now?  Why am I still happy with my life without you? Would we still be friends if we were to chat at our favorite coffee shop? If we aren’t who we used to be, then where did we go? Did we leave our last good moment behind us, to fade away, forgotten? Why does it still feel like yesterday when our last smiles were exchanged? Oh, it was yesterday?

Odell Down Under the Weather

In a rare flash of existentialism, the bluestreak cleaner wrasse felt the characteristic pang of futility. Did it clean simply for food, slowly swimming through life in a survivalistic haze? Perhaps the grouper it had been cleaning at that very nihilistic moment would go on to eat the fish it loved. Perhaps the next would go on and save the life of a drifting refugee. Did it even really matter? The reef was dying, a depressing grey crawling towards the wrasse’s puny existence. Yet, as with all empty feelings, it faded. How unfortunate, then, that a shark ate the grouper.

Water Works

He needed to say something. He saw her every day, his affection growing with every treasured encounter. They shared lunch together, and he seemed to brighten with each meaningful conversation. The signs of a mutual feeling, present while never certain, maddened him. She shared her secrets, but how would she react to his? She glowed at the sight of him, but how could he bear to see her leave? So he kept his love inside, never so much as hinting to his burden. Others might not have understood, but he remained silent. After all, he was just a house plant.

Next Stop, Please

The daily bus ride could never be called exciting. Far from it, to be honest. Sure, an occasional homeless person would cuss out the driver, to the increasing impatience of everyone in need of getting home a few minutes early, but nothing not easily forgotten. This is why the crash came as such a shock. I flew straight into a nearby pole, jolted from my people watching as the world turned sideways. Only a few passengers remained. Where had they all gone? I crawled out, surprisingly unharmed. The crowd of the city had dissipated. Dying had never been so easy.

Casing the Joint (for an easy job)

As he stood there, patiently waiting for his arrival, he pondered the very essence of space travel. It should be noted that by standing I mean floating, and by patiently waiting I mean jetpacking through the dark vacuum of space at near light speed. He was relatively short. Two meter sticks tied together would beat him in that department. It didn’t matter; the universe had no preferences for appearance. He approached a planet, the first one ever considered habitable by the awkward scientists back home. He had no expectations for intelligence, and the so called “Earthlings” only confirmed his suspicions.

Idio(t)m

The phrase haunted us. Surely it could not be merely a casual cliché. Meaning stood behind those words like a spider behind your pillow. And so we followed our hunch to the ends of the earth. Our first step was to find a beginning to our world’s circular geography. A beginning implies an end, but implications were of no help to us. We soldiered on, inch for inch searching for our elusive destination. Yet somewhere between Rome and Omaha, we stopped. The ends of the earth were figures of speech, something painfully obvious to all. Thus, our journey ended. Darn.

Not a good ice breaker...

I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. No description could adequately express my delight at that moment, my apologies to any writers who wish to tell my story one day. A fascinating tale, one of suspense and derring do, but at that moment my troubles threatened to jeopardize my safe return. I had woken up, dazed, surrounded by the dreams of spelunkers worldwide. It had taken me days to reach the light. At last, as it approached my stumbling legs, I collapsed. Wait, it approached?

“Hello! Have you seen the end to this tunnel? I’m trapped!”

Moonstruck

The moon is lovely on days such as these. Sure, the landscape is barren and scarred by an eternity of travel through the continuum of space, but something about the muted colors gives the rock a unique charm. Sure, the inhabitants might only exist in amateur fiction, but solitude is seldom experienced on Earth. Looking up at the sun, I’m reminded of my youth, when seeing the moon and the sun simultaneously confused me tremendously. That’s what piqued my interest, one I still hold today. My dream was to live on the moon. I hope I never have to leave.

A Dry Lack of Wit

A sky, blue yet still parched. Sand, more than ubiquitous. A man, carving a slow path between the two. A vulture, patient and nonchalant. Heat, oppressive and draining. The goal, out of reach. Hope, a mirage as real as the others. A groan, weak and fatalistic. Memories, far away and all that remain. Emotion, long lost in the battle with exhaustion. Night, cold and dry and stifling. A dream, welcome but oh so painful. A snake, sliding and gliding and the only witness. A cactus. A pillar. A tombstone. Last words, too choked to escape. Life, circular yet ever ending.

Saturday

That's right folks, I have more than one friend. Our newest guest is a good friend and an even better enemy, the one but not only Michael. When he isn't busy coming up with futile arguments, he's a writing machine. Luckily for me, he stopped at 100. Here it is:

My chair is padded, but not enough to make it super-duper comfortable, although on the other hand, it is reasonably so. At any rate, I'm sitting on it trying to decide what to do. I do have my computer. All its original Apple sexiness is basically gone, now its just another fixture in my life, not unlike my reasonably comfortable chair. I think to myself of the 1,000 things I could do, and I don't do any of them. Instead I tool around on my computer, flitting from one pointless website to another. Ah, the faded joy of Saturday mornings.

Heading Out

He loved to turn the world upside down. On warm, humid nights, he wandered the fields, drifting between the border of humanity and nature. A stone bench was a cold reminder that the city’s influence stretched far beyond his own limits. A bench will have to do. He sat down, slowly but calmly lowering his back. His world shifted, the horizon fading into an endless black. He couldn’t name the stars before him, but it was comforting to know that they still existed. He was slipping, slipping away from the world. As his head hit the floor, he passed out.

True Story

Never had terror paralyzed me so completely. This paralysis was metaphorical, at least until the deluge of water came crashing down. I was pinned, stuck between a rocky surface and the veritable wall of liquid. Oxygen was minimal; it was all I could do to stay alive, clinging with what little strength I had left. Without warning, a shadow cast down, adding darkness to my list of problems. I was being shoved, pushed by giant phalangeal masses. I was brushed aside, but before I could prepare for death, I was flying. Free at last! I buzzed away a happy ladybug.

Pardon me, only interjecting. Terribly sorry.

“I really hate quotations.” “Huh? What brought this on?” “Well, you know when there is more than one person speaking?” “Yeah...vaguely.” “And they go on and on about something?” “Yes, just like you” “And suddenly a third speaker pops in?” “I know what you’re talking about! Get to the freaking point.” “Anyway, I just get annoyed when the third guy talks, but you think it’s the first guy, so when the first guy talks, it sounds like the second guy, and then there’s a fourth guy, and what am I talking about?” “I have no idea.” “Who are you?”

Out of Film

She had this vague notion, an idea gnawing at the back of her mind, that the world was larger than people said it was. Of course, she would never remember it. She walked around in a haze, a timeline with a future but no past. She spoke in a whisper, cogent while distracted. She was both present and distant simultaneously, mumbling thoughtful answers as her mind wandered the far reaches of who knows where. I bumped into her, and after we exchanged hasty apologies, we shuffled off. Afterward, I had this vague notion, that she had already forgotten our encounter.

The Blues

You look up to see the cloudless sky. You’re past the age of asking why it’s blue, but you’re still fuzzy on the details. Something about the reflection of the ocean, you think, before remembering it was just what your mother would say to make you go away. She spent too much time with her nose in a magazine to care for any problems beyond her periphery. So you believed her, despite living miles from the nearest puddle. And here you are, staring at endless oblivion, without knowing why the whole damn thing is blue. Oh well, it doesn’t matter.

He was out of Lucky Charms.

As the blaze cascaded from my palms, I felt immediate regret, as well as third degree burns. “Hot hot hot hot!” The life of a wizard is no walk in the park. I prefer to hover, anyway. My bread sufficiently toasted, and my hands recovering with an ice pack, I perused the morning newspaper. The local baseball team had won. This came as no surprise, as I was present when some mysterious errors had occurred. My magic was not very practical in important matters, however. After years in a dead end job, I wished I could disappear. So I did.

Trepidation

Thunder claps abruptly. My heartbeat quickens. Loud noises have exaggerated implications. A strike of lightning becomes the apocalypse; fireworks turn into a gunman on the loose. Returning to my book, the kind that gives me these unconscious fears in the first place, I start counting. A few seconds from now, the blue flash will light up the room. Coincidentally, it takes about that long to realize my stupidity. I give up on locating the storm’s proximity, and get up to drink some water. Pitch black, yet I still think an intruder would find his way around seamlessly. Time to sleep. 

Here's what happened...

She was privy to the killer’s identity, but with her editor stressing new material, she could wait. After all, serial murders are good reads. Research was her favorite part of being a novelist. The myriad crime shows could not replace the feeling of being at the actual scene. She could see it now. Her dashing protagonist, a detective by day, author by day as well. He was not a night person. A line both humorous and dark popped into his mind. A perfect opening to the perfect book. He could see it now. “She was privy to the killer’s identity...”

Help! I've already read Goodnight Moon three times already.

One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four. Jump, jump, jump? Since when do sheep jump? Five, six, seven. Surely there must be a faster way of counting sheep. Well, actually, the brain can’t just create a herd and expect to count it objectively. I’d just be coming up with some arbitrary number already determined by the preceding conjuration. It’s much easier to fall asleep when I have nothing to think about, but then I start thinking about thinking, and it would just save us a lot of trouble if I took some sleeping pills. Wait, why is it bright outside?

This Leaves Me Winded

Today I tried to follow the wind. I wish the wind had a color, but it likes to hide. It is shy. Maybe I could pour food dye so I could see it, but my brother said that you can’t put food dye on a gas. I don’t know what he meant by that, but I’m sure the wind wouldn’t like it, anyway. The wind is very important. It pushes the rivers, and helps sailors reach their destination. My dad has to point the sail so that the wind knows where he wants to go. That is what he said.

Elementary...

The blood pools onto the rug, blotting out the intricate geometric patterns. Scanning the room, I notice signs of struggle. She had fought admirably, but this was a poor ruse for an accidental killing. Efficient placement of the solitary bullet points to a seasoned assassin, or at least someone comfortable with a gun. My deductions are on par with even the well-known detectives. I have the mind of a criminal, that’s what it takes to be the best. I notice the marks of a handprint. No gloves! My smile fades to intense focus. I have a lot to clean up.

The Prelude to a Midafternoon Nap

No matter how much you love the song, you’re already sick of it after hearing it blaring into your ears every morning. You tell yourself to change the alarm to something less memorable, but you will inevitably forget. Despite your propensity for disorder, breakfast is always routine. You horribly botch the English muffins, cutting one side too thin, but you have learned to love the taste of crunchy bread. Someone used all of the butter, yet you still scrape away at the container’s fat laden edges. You never flinch when you realize that your day has no plans, none whatsoever.

Untitled

 At this point it would be a valid jump in logic to say that Dana might be my only friend. Sometimes, I wonder. She has now swept the podium of guest submissions with her third installment in three days. Chalk it up to her insane passion for 100 words, people. Here we go:

oh, darling.
you have become quite used to being talked at
in this strange and circular manner-
haven’t you?
you must sort through terrible metaphors,
badly formed and hardly representative of a whole.

what I suppose this is
what it must be classified as
is a sort of apology, a mangled mea culpa.

you deserve complete sentences,
the kind with nouns and verbs and thoughts.
baby, I don’t have what you need.

I suppose it doesn’t help that the only inroads you are afforded
are disjointed/ unintelligible.
I suppose you must learn to embrace incoherency.
It's all i really have.

Time Well Killed

‘Darn, I still have thirty minutes until my appointment. Waiting sucks. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting? What does that even mean? Who decided to make those two syllables, those two guttural utterances, mean such a thing? Utterances, now that is a crazy word. No matter how many times I say utter, it always sounds like udder. I wonder if people think I’m weird. Am I weird? Then what is normal? Is that generic painting normal? Jesus, lady, nobody wants to hear your sob stories. Wait. Normal. Normal. Tangent? Circle? Sir? Sir?’

“Sir? Are you all right? We’re ready to see you now.”

Long Distance Gestures Never Work

Gosh, I'm being more prolific than I first thought. This entry is not mine, but yet another guest submission. Now now, please hold your wild applause. This time, our guest is...oh? It's the spectacular Dana, once again! Read on:

A curious thing about living in the middle of nowhere
Is that road trips become commonplace,
and you never complain about sitting in cars for a long time.
I always felt this was one positive side effect
Of living thousands of miles away from Real America.

But now a thought occurs
if I loved you, and you lived in some far locale,
and I drove all day so I could spend the night with you-
would the fact that I have so often spent my day driving
steal the sincerity and drama from my gesture?

sadly, I think it would.

And...Action!

Bang! He surprises himself at how quickly he can run in skinny jeans. As more gunshots rend the foggy evening, he imagines himself in a comic book, with onomatopoeias accompanying his every heroic move. He trips from lack of attention, and he curses this momentary lapse in focus. His pursuers surround him, shady characters to be sure. Thinking quickly, he leaps, flailing into a somersault out of their range. “Shit!” he thinks, “Why didn’t I try harder in gym class?” Exhausted, and lying sprawled on his back from his failed escape attempt, he tries his last trick. “I give up?”

A Gripping Tale

Sluggish would not be the best word to describe him. Considering the heights he was about to ascend, his careful approach meant the difference between a successful climb and a disastrous one. A less experienced traveler might be stunned at the dizzying view, but he was sure of his grip. Sheer cliff faces are a daunting task for anyone, and the hard, red stone posed a challenge beyond average ability. There were no footholds, but it was a matter of little consequence to him. Hours passed, perhaps days, but finally the intrepid slug reached the top of the brick wall.

Jumping the Shark

Yes, readers. Merely two posts into my ramblings, we have our first guest submission! Claiming first prize in this competition of one is the lovely Dana, who is no stranger to imaginative writing. So, without further hesitation, here it is:

And there you go,

wobbling crazily as both of your legs are completely asleep.

This is probably because you like to sit with your knees crushed up under your chin, though in all honestly, you like doing most things in this position.

Something about the fetal position reminds you

that this would make it very difficult for someone to shoot you in the stomach.

These are the things you think about.

“fuck the whales,” you scream, waving your fist around wildly.

“and save the sharks, instead!”

you do not care deeply about whale welfare.

You’re just that sort of person.

Well Wishing

I woke up to an indescribable scene, mostly due to the unshakable darkness. Paralysis prevented me from feeling my way around, but a glance skyward confirmed my suspicions. A shaft of moonlight appeared on the well’s rim, nowhere near enough to shed any light on my situation. I did what any rational person would do at this point. I yelled. Screamed. Hollered. Yodeled. To my surprise, a reply echoed back. “Hey, are you alright?” The tenseness of the moment made the voice clear. “If I’m going to die in this goddamn well, at least let me do it in peace.”

Should I do it...again?

As my eyes glazed over from lack of interest in the barren wall, my mind occupied itself with the subject of time travel. Perhaps triggered by the end of summer, I wondered how a trip back in time would unfold. Yet, without a machine, my thoughts drifted back into obscurity. That is, until I remembered the fictional nature of my being. As I stepped forward into the past, I paused. What if I was merely rewinding life, remembering the trip only once it was complete? Needless to say, that wasn’t the best time to have a moment of déjà vu.