Saturday, November 27, 2010

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.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

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.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

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.

Monday, November 22, 2010

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.

Sunday, November 21, 2010


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.

Friday, November 19, 2010

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.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

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?

Monday, November 15, 2010

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.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

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.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

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.

Monday, November 8, 2010

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.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

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.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

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"

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

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.