I have recently been reading some stories, written in 100 words or less. I have enjoyed them rather more than I expected, so of course, I decided to write some myself. I shall post them here when the mood takes me. Of course, I will not settle for anything more, or anything less than 100 words. So my decision is that apart from the title…the stories must have exactly 100 words.
The Last Flush
I was tired before I even began. It is now seven hours since I got my foot stuck in the toilet bowl. My phone is downstairs, and I can hear it beep as it runs out of battery . I too, will run out soon. I know I should have left the shower curtain rail where it bloody was. Got someone else to do it. Now, I’m here with my foot lodged firmly in the u-bend. We are in lockdown. I have no friends, and even if I did, they wouldn’t check on me. A life being slowly flushed away.
I’ll give her a ring
Steve suspected that once more, he had left it far too late again. It had always been a trait that he found unattractive in others, and yet, couldn’t seem to prevent in himself. Susan was completely perfect, and he knew that they were destined for a long and happy life together, but the nagging doubts were tapping away at the back of his mind. When is a good time though? He was looking good, he scrubbed up rather well, but he couldn’t help but think that he had left it too late as Susan’s father led her down the aisle.
When the clapping stopped
I clapped every Thursday. It made me feel part of something. Made me feel that there was a community. There wasn’t of course. When I fell ill, they disappeared. The same people I saw every Thursday didn’t seem quite so keen on togetherness and a shared cause then. As I descended into illness, before I was taken into hospital, I remember two Thursdays. Hearing the clapping start sporadically, and then build into a crescendo of pots and pans and distant trumpets I fancy. I wondered whether it was more important to be appreciative, or simply to be seen as such?
Don’t look down
So it had come to this. Standing on the edge of oblivion, looking down at the water beneath, wondering where it had all gone wrong. 50 years alive, 24 of them married, and it was all about to end in a flash. Things had not been right between us for a while but it was still a surprise to find ourselves standing on a bridge, starring at death in the face. Could we have made it work? We will never know I suppose. I looked at him, and he looked at me, and we just knew. So I pushed him.
Back to Life
I switched off the news. It was too much. We were still locked down, imprisoned. I went to the garden and sat, solitary, silently. Everything seemed so hopeless. My eyes drawn to some petals freed from their bud. The fledgling birds taking their first journey to the wider sky. We’d all forgotten. So much of the world was already locked down. So much of what we had done without realising had started to unravel. Our imprisonment was natures emancipation. I asked myself, is our freedom deserved? Should our freedom be earned in some way? I need to make a difference.
Dave the Pigeon
Dave was a pigeon. Not a particularly unusual pigeon, but, that in itself, was not unusual either. He spent his life doing the usual things that pigeons do. The tree he spent most of his days in, provided good coverage, and just the right degree of pigeon solitude. Life was good. There was of course the problem with the man. The man who sat in his office, looking at Dave every day. Creepy This was a problem that needed resolving. He watched, waited, and then the man came out of the door…Wait…Wait…Aim…Fire! Right on the end of his giant nose
Will you marry me? Will you make me the happiest man who ever lived? Will you promise to honour and obey, oh, no, of course not obey, Cherish, that’s better…Cherish me, and all I do? Bit much? OK, tolerate? How’s that? Is that better? I’m not so sure. It makes me sound a bit new man, weak and wishy washy. How about “Respect”, that sounds a bit more like it, a bit more manly? Oh, not “Manly” as in sexist and domineering, you know what I mean? Well that’s why I phoned really to see what you thought. Hello? Hello?
This is the most difficult part. Will he like the present? He’s always been a difficult bugger to buy for, and I never really know if he likes it. I watch carefully for those little tell tale signs? The way the eyes tell a different story to the facial expression. Last year was no different. You never really get a proper thanks. I know, I shouldn’t let it bother me, I just want to make him happy. A sign would be nice, some form of recognition for the effort I go to. Perhaps I expect too much from a cat
A Tale from the Magdala
It is 13th July 1955. I’m not sure why I write a diary. Even less reason now. Breakfast was adequate, but I wasn’t really concentrating. I am going through the motions now. The last three months have been a blur of shame and regret. Why did I do it? That would take a lifetime to explain? Why do any of us do anything wrong? Desperation usually. That will have to do. Desperation. Did he deserve it? That is for others to decide. As I look up at the noose, I know that I , Ruth Ellis deserves no more time.
Born, Split asunder, Abandoned, Moved, Abandoned, Bullied, Death, Mourning, abandoned, Sister, not allowed access Brother, not allowed access, failed at school, left, heart stolen, married, created, created again, reunited, new siblings, I abandon, death, I abandon more. Life goes on, breakdown, abandoned again. Pause. Think, Breathe. Rebuild. One day at a time. Always building. Diagnosis, external doubt, Internal certainty. Building. Stop Job, Start adventure, create, destroy, create. Death, blessed death. Reunion, abandon, Still building. New family, new strength, new resolve. New mistakes, but smaller. My precious diamonds need love, I have strength now. A heart is where the home is