One hundred words. One hundred ways to catch a day and frame it.
I grab a moment, bruise its wings and pin it, still struggling, to the page. If I do my job well, an observer in one hundred years will still hear the echo of the moment, still see the smudge of colour; breathe in and imagine she can smell the — taste the — moment I describe.
If I am clumsy, it will lie there, faded and flat, looking sad and pitiful and regrettable, something no-one ever cared about; something that should have been left to fly forever free.
“Can someone get me out of hear?!”
The voice was harsh for that of a four year old.
It sounded like he had been shouting the words long enough to have lost patience but no for so long that he was getting upset.
I followed his voice to the bathroom. The door was closed and locked.
“Can’t you let yourself out?”
Hmm, puzzling. He’s usually so self-sufficient.
I pick the twist-lock with a coin and walk in.
There he sits, one foot in the sink, the other inches above the stool, an impish smile on his face.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I haven’t written anything here this month. I didn’t even sign up. So sue me. I’ll write my 100 words for today and I’ll write them for the next four days, and no-one will ever know. It’s all the same to me. When I first tried this, years ago, 100 words seems impossibly short. Now, after two years of Twittering, anything over 140 characters seems extravagant. I love it. Brevity. I’m not good at it in real life, but on the page (digital or otherwise) it is my friend, my buddy, my best amigo.