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100 Words

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 Here?”

“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.

Beginning 100Words Anew

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.