one hundred word story #50: Cover letter

To Whom it May Concern:

Please consider me for ________ position at ______ company. I believe I am qualified to ______ because of my considerable experience as a _______, ______, and ______. My interest in ______, as well as my dedication and commitment to ______, are in line with ______’s mission to be a _____ and ______ company of the future. If hired, I promise to _____, _____ and _____. I’ll ____ what you want me to ____, ____ when you say ____. I will make you money. Don’t worry about how.

Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,

_________ _________

The People United



My friend and former housemate J.T. Yu wrote this song, "The People United," in response to protests around the world. There is something really satisfying about seeing this footage taken around the globe--maybe it's because we see how many of these unanswered questions, pleas and frustrations are all in some way related. To the top 1% still profiting off all the unpaid interns, all the disenfranchised, all those held back by debt, inherited prejudice or systemic injustice: do you feel like you're in the minority yet?

one hundred word story #49: When life gives you lemons

After twenty years of marriage, Agnes can't handle it anymore. It isn't alcohol; it isn't infidelity; it's the snoring. Phil's snores are barges passing in the night. One night, he awakes the neighbors, who rattle their trash cans to the curb, thinking it's garbage day. Agnes drops him off at the sleep lab with a pillow and a glass of milk. Fix your shit, she says, pointing to his nose. That night, they affix special stickers to his forehead. The next morning, there is a flute where his nose once was. Go on, the doctors say to Agnes. Play nice.

one hundred word story #48: Interactive

The museum does not come alive at night. What happens in the museum, happens in broad daylight. The statues flirt. The abstract painting drips into a puddle on the floor—no one is the wiser. The video installation flickers, then coughs, until exactly 12:15. At 12:15 the picture is suddenly very sharp. The images are foreign, the sounds unfamiliar, but the subjects are very real: the African masks, the ancient Peruvian flutes, even the French impressionists. We see where they once belonged. Patrons blink, rub their eyes. Did you see that? They ask. At 12:16 the video flickers again; snow.

one hundred word story #47: Pies


You're eating Grandma's pies, Dad says. We look down and the boysenberries are impossibly ripe for late November. She made them in August, he says. She was always so efficient. He guts the last turkey and we feel it now, turning in our bellies like a knife. They’re just pies, you say. Sugar is sugar. But it isn’t the sugar I’m worried about. It’s the kneading. It’s those four months without light. Someone dies and everything they touch is sacred. Might pie be sacrament? The berries are sour and plump. Someone wears her apron. We eat until we’re full.

one hundred word story #46: Thanksgiving in space

Thanksgiving in the space shuttle is not so special. The dried turkey flakes off in even sheets. The mashed potatoes are so mashed that the starch molecules combust into fine particles in the cabin. Ken wants yams but there are none. Bridget says not to worry; she’s got marshmellows. She rips the bag open and out they spiral, tiny congealed globs of sugar that spin like stars. Ken turns off the light and the astronauts bob in the dark. Planets might shift and stars might form. Asteroids might collide and satellites might pass. Regardless, all that matters today is sugar.

one hundred word story #45: Poison

The rats are dead. They smell sour and stiff and you can't see them but you know that posture: toes curled, or perhaps uncurled, eyes glassy. Once upon a time you were a pacifist. You left your door open. You named them Templeton and Posey. But now you sleep downstairs. You set traps with peanut butter. You heard their shuffles in the night, the scratch of their toenails as they dragged traps full of peanut butter back to rat headquarters, where they licked and bit with a fury you now know. Dead, they taunt you still, their silence sour.

one hundred word story #44: Hero's Journey

The reporters huddle under the tree, microphones hidden under umbrellas, their faces pink with blush. A hush falls over the crowd. The earth freezes underfoot. The sun won’t show. And then: a woman in orange is spotted atop the tallest branch, leaves sticking through her long sleeves. She wouldn’t, someone says. The crowd murmurs, then growls, as she spreads her wings. She couldn’t, the mayor says. She has no permit. The tree churns. She raises a fist. A thousand shutters snap. The sun suddenly blinds. Her banner unfurls: PERMISSION IS OVERRATED. And then: the sky is flush with her flight.

one hundred word story #43: On revolution

The mice at Rodent College are unhappy. The school is demanding an extra whisker off every animal's face. The mice gather, assemble a wheel so complex, even the Rodent Board of Directors can't quite jump aboard--it's too fast, too new. The High Queen wants to protect the health and security of her students. So when the group reaches its critical mass, she summons the cats, who pad back and forth, tails twitching. The mice spin faster and faster until the cats collectively hiss. The force of their breath knocks every last student down. Days later, the wheel still spins.

one hundred word story #42: No vacancy


Night falls over Crater Lake, that blue gully with its mouth open to the heavens. The man and woman approach the summit as the rain drops like marbles. The campgrounds are full, as are the chalets; there aren't any hotel rooms this close to the crater's rim. What if we could make it to the island? She says. It’s probably vacant. When he doesn’t answer, she puts the car in reverse, aims for the rim’s biggest lip. Floor it, he says. Rain steers them down, down. The sky has never been more vacant. They push the stars aside. They land.