100 word story blurts

[Guest]

. . . .

 

[tickledkitty]

So the only difference between this and the flash fic thread is that you get to choose your own topic?

 

[Guest]

. . . .

 

[Zeb_Carter]

I had a cat on my elbow this morning and the topic didn't fit anywhere else.

I had a monkey on my back once...does that count?

 

[tickledkitty]

I really like doing these. It will be interesting to see if more people will participate on this thread without the constriction of sticking to the current topic.

 

[rgraham666]

What is it about the pictures she uses? Why do they never fail to make me smile?

Is it because I know her so well? That everything she shows reflects something I know and like about her?

Or is she communicating something to me? Does she use those pictures because she knows they'll speak to me, resonate in my soul?

I know none of the answers. And I don't care. The speaking is more important than the reasons.

 

[Guest]

. . . .

 

[Guest]

. . . .

 

[The_Fool]

I knew it was over when I ordered coffee. With her, when dinner was through, it was time to leave. No time to linger after a meal. Perhaps she was tired of sitting. Perhaps she was ready for that cigarette. Then she would dissect the meal considering what was good and what wasn’t; how that meal had compared to ones from other places. She was good at dissection, including how she dissected us when it was over. More information than I wanted. But now I am going to enjoy my coffee, stirring in a little sugar to cut the bitterness.

 

[Zeb_Carter]

The rain was pouring out of the sky as I hunched my shoulders against the cold of the night. Was I supposed to just sit at home and wonder? Was I to not see the little signs and digs? Should she be here with me as I was following our progeny? She was eighteen and a sneak and a thief. It was many a night she returned to her bedroom drunk and disheveled to fall into bed and sleep the night away.

She was a slut! She was my daughter!

 

[buxxxom]

Splinters pierced my hand as I pushed against the old barn door. Wonderful smells of aged leather and saddlesoap wafted through the air. The old tomcat lay as peacefully and quietly as a setting moon on the feed trough, accustomed to the sounds as Dutch and DC pranced in their stalls. Saddles and bridles later, the forest welcomes us.

 

[neonlyte]

Never thought it would happen. People say it does… but can you really believe it? I mean, it’s not as if I was looking for her. Didn’t even know she existed… and I travel that route every day, same time, same train; we’re like mice on a tread wheel running going nowhere; suits and blouses noses buried in books or journals… or asleep like me.

“Can I squeeze in there?”

Ok, I wasn’t asleep, just pretending so I could steal space.

You know it only takes a look… and a smile, a shy hint of perfume to fall in love.

 

[Guest]

. . . .

 

[tickledkitty]

She couldn’t understand why she missed him so much. His going had left an aching black void in her soul; a vast, seething emptiness that refused to be filled by anything or anyone else. Her skin hungered relentlessly for his stroking fingers, the brush of his lips, his flesh pressed hotly against hers. The silent, echoing vacuum in her ears could only be filled by his voice. When had he become so important to her? She lay in bed reliving every precious moment they had spent together, trying to pinpoint the exact moment she had become so irrevocably his.

 

[Nirvanadragones]

She wore a scarlet dress to celebrate the end of mourning. By then, mourning had become a way of life, determining her appearance, and her behaviour, the very essence of what she was. A woman in mourning.

I did it more discreetly. I didn't drape my body in black, merely my heart. I painted my lips earth colours, and laughed provocatively. After seven years I lifted a corner of the black velvet to peep at my heart. Testing, testing. And was so horrified at the mess underneath, that I immediately covered everything up again. Now the end of the next seven-year period approaches. Time to peep under the cloth again. Perhaps I need not wait another seven years?

 

[impressive]

Weekends made her feel pathetic, and the weekdays weren't much better of late. Squeezed into the transitional moments of a well-worn orbit, real change hovered just out of reach, teasing. She asked herself for the umpteeth time why she put up with it; why she allowed another to put her on hold. Where was this love? On what plane did it exist? When she reached for its sustenance, her hands hit… a black hole of promises. The complete lack of any sense of urgency fueled her growing dissatisfaction. Time passed inexorably and with it, the gravity of her hope.

 

[Dar~]

It is madness, laughter, and giggling, sweet music to a soul needing respite. Ubiquitous silliness, lightening a house consumed in a grey pallor. Each peal ringing out brings light into the crevices and corners. Wakening memories of happier times and calling them once again into existence; peaceful yet jubilant, effusive yet restful, the joy gives emotion to a heart locked away, disconnected. Being near their passionate fun causes tears of contentment; my children, my saviors, and my reason. How do I hold this moment above all others in my heart? How I long to freeze you forever in this time.

 

[bluebell]

Oh, vanity. You and Self-Esteem need to get together and work it the hell out.

I’m writing a poem. Which seems preposterous to me.
A former English major who is afraid to write? Don’t bore me with the details.
But I’ve been writing this poem. For a month now. Day by day. Hour by hour during lunchtime. I make words.
I wish I could give all my ideas to someone else to shape and create. To be what I see in my head. I don’t think I can write them.
How can I look at my “work” and separate what’s actually good from what seems to be good just because it came from me?

 

[The_Fool]

Pressing her hands above her head, restraining her body with his. He samples how she tastes from lips, neck and shoulders. His free hand wanders her body, touching her in places that maybe he shouldn't, but not really caring. Not really caring about her modesty either as buttons yield to his fingers. After all, he is taking his pleasure. If he takes his pleasure slowly enough, she might enjoy it as well. But if he becomes so inclined to simply take, forcing himself upon her and in her, so be it.

 

[Nirvanadragones]

Her throat was full of water, her eyes and her ears too; her chest felt like it would explode. She was small, three or four, no older. She had been playing in the shallow water of the farm dam, near the earth wall while Andrew and someone else - her dad? - swam in deeper water. The slimy mud on the bottom had sucked at the soles of her feet, squished between her toes, tickling her and making her giggle.

And then, suddenly, she couldn't feel the bottom. An emptiness under her feet. Her mouth stretched wide in panic, her legs kicking in alarm, water burning her throat and nose, something pulling her under, down, down, down. A monster's arm, an octopus tentacle, something worse than her worst nightmare. Deeper. Colder. Blacker.

 

[Nirvanadragones]

Her throat was full of water, her eyes and her ears too; her chest felt like it would explode. She was small, three or four, no older. She had been playing in the shallow water of the farm dam, near the earth wall while Andrew and someone else - her dad? - swam in deeper water. The slimy mud on the bottom had sucked at the soles of her feet, squished between her toes, tickling her and making her giggle.

And then, suddenly, she couldn't feel the bottom. An emptiness under her feet. Her mouth stretched wide in panic, her legs kicking in alarm, water burning her throat and nose, something pulling her under, down, down, down. A monster's arm, an octopus tentacle, something worse than her worst nightmare. Deeper. Colder. Blacker.

And then she felt her mother's sturdy arms folding around her sinking body, dragging her up, back to gleaming white light. Her mother's comforting voice as she coughed and spluttered and cried. The sun behind her mother's head, a halo around the dark hair, more lovely than the picture of the angel in the Children's Bible. That is how she remembered her at that moment.

 

[impressive]

Stepping off the roller coaster, Chloe blinked in an attempt to balance. Her body still swayed with the memories of the excruciatingly slow uphill climbs followed by the inevitable gut-wrenching plunges. How long had she ridden; how many circuits? She couldn't recall when she last felt terra firma beneath her feet. Her first steps were unsteady, tentative, but as she distanced herself from the ride, her confidence grew. It felt good to be moving on her own terms, at her own pace. Leaving the ride behind, she lifted her eyes to the horizon. There, she smiled. I'm going there.

 

[OneLustyWench]

Dark Secrets

Bound in the dark I remain, my only companion the voice in my mind. Is this truly what I desired or was I again playing at finding who I am? Can only look inward not outward to find what I desire, need.

The slight padding is not enough beneath my knees, the ache small and constant. Arms behind my back, lashed to provoke a line, an image. My mind is visualizing how you will see me. My head raises greeting you proud but tamed. I am yours for you are what I need. I give you my will, respect, trust.


New thoughts, comments welcome.

 

[cloudy]

She danced, her feet pounding the earth with a rhythm as old as the sky above. The bells on her dress danced with her, singing in high clear voices with each step she took. The drum song took hold of her soul, and time only existed between each beat. She closed her eyes, never missing a step. She could feel them all dancing around her, sharing her joy: her mother, her grandmother, and all the women who had danced before her. The drum sang her into the next step, the next breath, the next prayer.

 

[WRJames]

The Tin Angel

When he met her, he had been waiting, waiting for so long. And when she left him, she took his heart, his soul, his reason to exist. “I love you,” could he ever say those words again? But now there was another breathing against him, their bodies spent from sex. From making love? Never. A soft kiss, then, a murmur, “I love you.”

No! It could not be! He had no heart to give again. “I love you,” he had answered, without thinking. He’d forgotten that it was not her sighing in contentment next to him. Could it be true?