So I joined a site called 100 Words, where you have to write 100 words a day for a month, then at the end of the month, the batch is posted. you can write about anything you want, whether it be poetry, mini-short stories, diary entries, or surrealistic prose. Entries have to be exactly 100 words, though.
The only thing I don't like is the lack of feedback. So I figured I'd post mine here. I caught up for the first half of the month last night, here they are:
July 09
07/01
It was a dark and stormy night. Or at least, it should have been. Traditionally, heroes are supposed to be born on nights that would make a seasoned sailor sweat steel balls. Traditionally, heroes should be born caterwauling like a mountain cat with his tail caught in a bear trap. Traditionally, heroes should be boys, too.
In short, the universe had got it all wrong. This hero was born in mid-afternoon, on the prettiest day of spring. The child did not pull itself from the mother's womb screaming, but slid forth rather quietly.
And this hero was a girl.
07/02
Somewhere in the world, a man sits atop a hill, smoking a pipe and idly humming the theme to Breakfast At Tiffany's. As hills go, it is not much of a hill. As men go, he is not much of a man. But the pipe . . . it's a hell of a pipe.
Most pipes come in the shape that it is generally accepted for a pipe to be. They are often made of various materials, from exotic woods to ceramics.
Not many pipes are made from clogs sized to fit a giant, though. This was.
07/03
"Cheese is a very interesting subject, don't you think?"
"Cheese? Why cheese?"
"Think of all that goes into making cheese! All the churning, all the . . . what does go into making cheese, on second thought?"
"Have you slept at all this week, Hugh?"
"No, why?"
"I think you might want to give it a shot, that's all."
"Well, I'm trying to get massive REM rebound."
"That's what she said."
"C'mon, man, I'm serious. I'm going to try to have a wake-induced lucid dream. Or, hopefully, a whole chain of them!"
"What the heck is a 'lucid dream,' Hugh?"
07/04
"Pa, what happens when you step on a frog?"
Jim Daniels looked down at his six-year-old son's innocent, curl-framed face. "Well, son, why would you want to step on a frog?"
"To see what happens."
"I don't think the frog would be very happy about it."
"But Pa, it's in the spirit of scientific research!"
The man smiled, suppressed a chuckle, then replied jovially, "Now where did you hear such big words as those, youngster?"
"The Science Channel, Pa. I watch it every night, remember?"
"Hmm . . . well, to put it bluntly, son, the frog would go splat."
07/05
Here we see sand. Quite a lot of sand, of the sort that gets into interesting places and refuses to come out again, no matter how much you wash. This sand is red, and if sand had personality, this sand would be disturbingly angered.
Most sand you see is on beaches, or in deserts. Or perhaps in some little boy's large wooden sandbox. This sand, though, is not most sand. This sand is inside a private jet which belongs to a very rich young man, and it is accompanied by several bottles of cheap liquor and four very confused people.
07/06
I often think to myself about the past. Sometimes this is accompanied by feelings of intense nostalgia, sometimes by regret, and sometimes by that undefinable feeling I can only call dreaminess.
One of the most nostalgic periods of my life involves a black Labrador named Jake, who disappeared when I was five. One of the most regrettable moments is a time two years ago in which I did not pick up a telephone. And the most dreamy moments are spotted all throughout my life, but the figurehead is the day a cottonmouth lay on our kitchen bar; I was three.
07/07
I was running. Not because I was in a hurry to get somewhere; I wasn't really thinking about the 'to' of it. I was running because I had discovered a pressing need to not be where I was anymore. I was quite good at the 'from' of running.
My bare feet slapped against the cobblestones of the old street, the sound not as loud as that of my heartbeat pounding in my chest. I'd left my cheap shoes far behind, in a cloud of proverbial dust.
This was not really new to me, I'd had to esca—
"That's him!"
Damn.
07/08
It was a small, quiet place on the edge of town. A good place to stop by after work, grab a pint and let the vagaries of the day slip away to be replaced by an alcohol-induced stupor of giddy inebriation.
In theory, at least. Most evenings, this theory worked out just as well in practice. Tonight, though, things were different. It started when the blonde with the pink boots walked in, of course. This is how many of these things start.
It finished with a man in a leather jacket, a switchblade, and quite a lot of blood.
07/09
Guessing games are fun, when you are young. Ideally, the other person guesses, while you shake your head smugly. It doesn't matter if they guess correctly or not, in the end you're the only one who knows.
"Is it blue?"
Well, it was, but now the boy chooses another object as the subject of the guessing game. "Nope!"
"Is it round?"
After inclining his head to the side for a moment, his forehead scrunched up tightly, he answers thoughtfully, "Yes."
"Is it orange?"
That ruled out the oranges on the counter...
"Nope! Guess again!"
Oh, to be his age again.
07/10
"At last, the Amulet is ours! The world is our—"
The tall man in dark robes struck a remarkably grim pose atop the craggy peak. Before he could finish his monologue, however, he was promptly struck by lightning. This goes to show that bad things do not happen only to good people.
Some distance away, a humble cobbler was laughing. He was a very honest man and charged fair prices for exceptional work. On this day, he had discovered an envelope containing a large sum of money in his mailbin. This goes to show the opposite is true as well.
07/11
In a world where peaches are lemons, and lemons are kiwi fruit, one man will prevail against the Lost Sons of Aragath. This man's name is, quite simply, John (John's parents lacked a certain gene that assigns creativity).
It is a time of civil unrest, as the Freathing Fraths are waging war against the Meeping Mags, and nobody knows how to stop a charging Frath except to sneakily obtain his MasterCard, which is easier said than done..
This summer, Arnold Schwarzenegger is . . . The Man Who Single-Handedly and With Very Little Effort Saved The World As Someone Else Knows It.
07/12
I realize I haven't given much of an introduction yet, so now is as good a time as any, I suppose.
First, I have to come clean. I'm not really a Knight Templar, and I'm not actually made of steel. Now that's out of the way, on to who I am.
I am commonly accepted to be human, and could probably produce papers to prove it should this be in doubt. I have been alive for exactly four lustrum, I am an aspiring writer of words (if not stories) and I really quite like girls who like guys like me.
07/13
I was on The Price Is Right once, you know. I always thought he was talking about the models that show off the products, so I'd always guess, "Priceless."
As it turns out, I was not right even once. This led to a very depressing phase of my life, where I shouted at elevators a lot and sung many lullabies to dead squirrels in the park. It is surprising how many of them remained dead.
My psychiatrist says I am too metaphorically minded. I say it is better to be metaphorically minded than to have a metaphorical mind.
07/14
Did I ever tell you about the time I died?
It wasn't much of a day, apart from being the day that I died. It was a Tuesday, and it had rained in the morning.
I did die in a fairly gruesome and cosmically inventive manner, at least. However, I'd rather hoped I'd go out with a metaphorical bang. Instead, I went out with a very literal schpooish.
This is the sound my brains made hitting the wall of my kitchen when my toaster exploded, sending the little knob that you turn to make the bread darker through my skull.
07/15
I often think about what the world would be like without watermelons. Would it really change things that much? They say that the beat of a butterfly's wings can cause a hurricane, or your great-great-grandfather not be born, but what could the lack of a watermelon do?
I guess you'd have to find something else to eat on the Fourth of July; maybe honeydew, or just cupcakes. I always did like cupcakes, preferably with strawberry icing, and sprinkles. Sprinkles make the cake, in my opinion.
I really do think the world would be a better place without watermelons.
*~*~*~*~*
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