Pick a Card... Any Card!

BWCVillage

The postcards came from everywhere in the world.

The director thought of finding pen pals for the residents of the home.

"Pick a card. Any card!"

Everyone was thrilled.

Everyone, except Mr. Morris whose card was the only one left. An unknown town in the middle of nowhere... "I didn't get to pick. Now I'm stuck with this..." He waved the card in the air dismissively.

"Be grateful, Mr. Morris."

Grateful, huh... When the police found the card Mr. Morris hadn't picked shoved in the director's throat, Mr. Morris was long gone... That unknown town would now become quite famous.

100 Word Stories

Gaspar

Photo by Miguel Pires

I left the door open for you to sneak out as you always did, cries of Gaspar, Gaspar chasing your cheekiness.

I left the door open for you to go and explore the terrace and its mysteries that so fascinated you.

I left the door open and tiptoed behind you for a bit, not wanting to let go, and you looked back and my heart broke in a thousand pieces.

Now, each time I go to the terrace I see you, sneaking around behind the flower pots, trying to play a game of hide and seek, your tail swaying right there where I could see it.

And I'd walk slowly towards you and you'd run behind another flower pot, the game of hide, but not completely, and seek and run and giggles from the silly humans who always fell for your charm.

I left the door open to the terrace, and walked outside. And for a split second, I thought I saw your tail, swaying playfully in plain sight.

Go now and be free, my beautiful kitty.

But you'll always come back to your terrace, won't you?

I'll be there too...

                1. October 2007 - 26. August 2020

Traitor

Chang High Trinity Sisters Show

He had copied those documents. He was a traitor. And yet, he was enjoying the show, drooling over the obscene amount of money hidden in his backpack.

The head dancer had tucked away the papers under the mattress with a nod of indifference.

He tried to kiss her, but she blocked him with an assertive arm.

On his way home, the security goon beat him to a pulp. "She is mine."

When he got home, the cops had a search warrant.

Good thing the goon had robbed him of all his money.

Being a traitor often has its lucky moments.

100 Word Stories

Writer III

Milk Wood

A few years after creating my current Second Life avatar, I stumbled upon an event where someone read his own stories. The stories were very short, only 100 words long (drabbles).

When I checked his profile, I realized this writer had made a commitment, to write a story a day until the day he died. I found this both intriguing and remarkable.

Later on, I found out he not only wrote a story a day, but he wrote a bunch of them ahead.

His name is Laurence Simon (R. Dismantled in Second Life). He keeps a website where you can read all his stories. I strongly encourage you to drop by for a visit.

After reading dozens of his drabbles, I thought... Could I do this? And there it was, the answer. Laurence organizes a weekly challenge. He provides a prompt (a word or expression) and we write a drabble, record it and send it to him. With these files, he creates a podcast.

My first story, back in 2012, took me hours to write. It was about 500 words at first. No freaking way would I be able to cut off 400 words... No way.

Well, that was the challenge, right? And I did it! I recorded it and... hesitated for such a long time, the mouse hovering over the Send button. I finally mastered the courage to click that darn button and off it went.

Practice made me faster. I don't take hours to write one single story anymore. It became much easier. The hesitation is often still there though. “Is this good at all...?!” But eventually, I click the Send button and that's it.

I've been taking part in the Weekly Challenge since 2012. Eight years. Hundreds of drabbles written. That's a lot of oxygen!

2020 hasn't been an easy year. Writing is not my priority now, I must admit. However, I've never stopped writing those drabbles.

Confucius said “It does not matter how slowly you go so long as you do not stop.”

Well, I... I do not stop.

Beans

France Portnawak

Beans, the shark, swam across icy waters, happy to be alone.

His buddies preferred the South. They also enjoyed scaring people.

Beans didn't. Too bloody, too messy, too loud. He could chew a leg as an appetizer, true, but the chaos was unbearable.

One day, Beans spotted a diver.

"No, don't," he thought.

He looked away. He looked away some more while swimming towards the diver. Then that scent of the diving suit...

When he swam away in shame, he decided to go farther North and become a hermit. That decision lasted... 3 days. That's when he spotted another diver.

100 Word Stories

Writer II

Milk Wood

Now that we have established I am not a writer, we can safely move on to less dangerous territory.

It is said that what really matters is not reaching you destiny, but the path you tread to get there. This is exactly my philosophy regarding writing. I'm on a learning path, a continuous learning path, that will eventually take me to my destiny. I don't know what my destiny is, if it is a place or a circumstance. If it is a feeling or a certain amount of knowledge. All I know is that I am on that path.

Years ago, to document the route I'm taking, I decided to create a blog. It's an uncensored workshop where I store everything I write except the long fiction. My novels are not online. They are stored away in folders, and flash drives, and external drives. I'm not sure if the first ones are backed up in the good old floppy disks!

When I created the blog, I decided it would be for myself. It would be open to visitors, yes. Everyone enjoys visitors! But it would essentially be for me. On a regular basis, I go back to what I have written a few years ago and compare different texts, different stories, different styles.

It's remarkable how some of the early stories, written by a very inexperienced writer, are actually pretty good. Sometimes being inexperienced is an advantage. Your brain is free to travel in all directions. Experience brings technique often at the expense of creativity.

Ever since I started to write long fiction, the blog became less active, making it look like I haven't been writing. I have!

Well, this year was miserable. The only stories I have been writing on a regular basis are the 100 word stories. Those keep me afloat! They are my oxygen! I'll write about them in another post.

I have struggled with the idea of posting snippets of my long fiction in the blog. I am totally against showcasing something that has not been polished. Enough bad material is already posted online.

Would the blog benefit from having bits and pieces of my novels, as they are being written, posted online? I seriously doubt it especially because those bits and pieces might not even be in the final version of the story or they might be heavily changed. 

I could post the statistics of what I write every week/month. But, again, would that be useful in the long run? Would it bring any interesting data to my writing when I look back on it a few years from now?

Einstein said “Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.”

So, I... I keep moving.

Writer I

Milk Wood

A writer who doesn't publish is not a writer.

I have heard this over and over again, even coming from people who should know better.

Am I being judgmental? Yes, a bit. However, saying a writer who doesn't publish is not a writer is the same as saying an athlete who doesn't go to the Olympics is not an athlete.

I have been writing all my life. First, I wrote on and off. Then, a few years ago, I started writing every day. Have I published anything? Apart from this blog, I haven't published anything, no. I did take part in a book that was a compilation of stories, non-fiction. Does that count?

Regardless, I have written hundreds of very short-fiction stories, a few short-stories, a few novels, and a bunch of poems. But I'm not a writer. I'm not, because I didn't go to the Olympics of writing.

A while back, someone mentioned my blog's low traffic. I'm sure the remark wasn't mean. I'm sure what was meant was how can such an extraordinarily awesome writer have close to zero clicks on her blog? I jest!

The fact is that this remark once again showed what people think. If you exist as a writer but your blog doesn't have clicks, your social media doesn't have likes and you don't have anything you've written being sold out there, you're not a writer.

You write to tell a story.

You write to vent.

You write to bring out the best and the worst in you.

You write to please an audience.

You also write to have a lot of success.

And, finally, you write to be famous.

Some people do all this.

Asimov said “I write for the same reason I breathe - because if I didn't, I would die.”

I... Well, I write to breathe.

“Who’s blood is that?”

France Portnawak

“Who’s blood is that?” 

He tilted his head, wriggling his nose. Strange card.

The monthly dinner party was a scrumptious meal seasoned with intelligent conversation.

Who'd written this? Certainly not the host. Mrs. Bates would never make such a blatant mistak...

“Wait...”

He folded the card. “Who's that?” Makes sense. These dinners were always slightly mysterious.

He folded it again. “Who's blood?” Ummm...

How about “Blood that?” Too much folding.

He set the card aside and dinner proceeded as usual.

At midnight, the letters on all cards turned red.

He was the only survivor. Apparently, folded evilness doesn't work properly!

100 Word Stories

Chewable and Deadly

Betelgeuse

The greenish sky wasn't a good omen. My grandfather said when the sky's like that, don't chew the air. I laughed. Chew the air. OK! I won't! As time progressed, the sky got worse. It looked poisonous. Some people wore gas masks. It looked quite dramatic. I wondered if I should too. And then the teeth. People's teeth became green. And in a matter of days, they were dropping like flies. Earth was condemned. I moved to P205. There's plenty of work here. But they pay close to nothing. Too many people... I wonder if I should've chewed that air...

100 Word Stories