4: Violence

At the bar, Elliott says he never loved you. “How unfortunate,” you say, because it seems like fortune, out of your hands. Pool balls crack like knuckles. Chatter hangs with the smoke. “Is it because I’m a pacifist?” you ask. Elliott is a boxer. “No,” he says. “Is it because I hate action movies?” You need to understand. “Of course not.” “Then why?” Elliott can’t explain. Futility sends hot spiders of frustration up your arm. You hit him in the stomach. His gut folds deliciously around your fist. Suddenly his world makes sense. There are moments when only violence can save you.

3: Holiday

No one woke Molly for school, like a holiday. Her mother sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around the snowflake mug. Outside, her father washed the car. “God took your cousin, Peter, up to heaven,” her mother said. Talking about God made Molly’s face burn, so she put on her roller skates and went to the laundromat. A woman in a tank top folded socks. Molly climbed an empty washer and dangled her legs inside. On roller skates, she could spin herself dizzy. “Peter’s in heaven,” she said, but the woman only glanced up and smiled. So Molly spun herself again.

2: A Letter to the Good People at Marlboro

Thank you. You must not receive many letters of gratitude, but you fill a void in me that I never knew existed. Sometimes I wake at night yearning for you. Each morning, dreams draining away, I think first of you. Indignant friends cough into fists, but they can’t ease the ache in my lungs. Anthony takes me to dinner. I forget my wallet at home. “You remembered your cigarettes,” he says, wadding his napkin. “I guess I’m paying.” Outside, I take a drag then apologize to Anthony. Smoke nudges the corners of my lips. Tell me why we crave what harms us.

1: Cicada

The last time the cicadas climbed out of their underground burrows, drunk on sap and eager to mate, Carter was only seven years old. He had pinned the delicate creatures to his shirt like jewelry and declared himself an evil queen until one of the older boys had called him a fag.
Seventeen years later, a cicada crawled up Carter’s arm and whispered in his ear.
“Fag,” the cicada said.
Carter plucked it from his sleeve and stared into its eyes, two red beads like taillights retreating into the dark, the car of his latest ex-girlfriend.
“Quiet,” Carter said and crushed it.

The Challenge

Recently, I read a very short story, "Father, Father, What Have You Done?" by Russell Edson, featured in Anti-Story: An Anthology of Experimental Fiction. Inspired by the story's succinct yet compelling narrative, I intend to compose 102 short stories, each containing 102 words. Why? Because a writer should use only the most necessary words. Why else? Because I love a challenge. Well, "love" is a strong word. Challenge and I sleep together, but it's more like a friends with benefits relationship.

What is a story? Although I hate relying on definitions at all, I will concede that it is possible to define "story" in a traditional sense. Even though I like to see this definition pushed, in order to give myself structure (and increase the challenge of the exercise), the stories I post will not merely be character sketches or descriptions. In each story, an event will take place. There will be a beginning, middle and end linked (more or less) by cause and effect. Otherwise, anything goes.