Elsie works nights as a nurse, volunteers every week with the elderly. She prays on her hands and knees. She is vegetarian, vegan on Sundays. Her clothes are second-hand. Then, one night, Jesus comes to her in a dream. He says, I can grant you one wish – peace on Earth, eternal life—anything. Her dream self asks for a tree that grows Louis Vuitton purses. Jesus is surprised but he obliges her. Elsie wakes up embarrassed. She’s nearly forgotten the whole thing when she steps outside and there it is: a tree decorated in designer purses. “Hell yeah,” she whispers.
Reggie Watts: my cosmic hero
one hundred word story #72: Bedside manner
"Open wide," the dentist says. Clarissa hates the dentist. She hates the smell of his gloves and the brusque way he flosses her teeth, see-sawing between molars like he secretly wants to saw them all down. He always asks he questions when his hands are deep in her mouth. One day he asks her to recite the Quadratic Equation, then waits while her mouth fills with saliva. Clarissa takes this as a sign, and studies before her next doctor’s appointment--a pap smear. When the gynecologist says “Open wide,” Clarissa recites the Pythagorean Theorem. “Um, other end,” the doctor says.
one hundred word story #71: Ninth life
Their mom said they could no longer afford the cat. Rudy filled a burlap sack with rocks. Gerald coaxed the old girl inside, her fur matted and dirty. Tom tried to block out the mewling, the incessant throb of her purrs. When they got to the bridge they saw that the riverbed was dry and cracked. The brothers looked the other way while Tom wound up. He didn’t notice the fabric shred just so. When he released, the bag was light and airy, the cat gone. There was no plop. The boys waited. And then: the bridge began to purr.
one hundred word story #70: Hit and run
Burt is a lonely medical student. He spends long hours studying in the library and as many hours at the pub, decoding graffiti on the wall. And then he meets his match: a leggy brunette with fascinating viscera. Her lab report says it was a hit and run. Burt cannot understand who could run from her. They keep her face covered but a single curl escaped below her jaw. He writes her poems on pub walls, leaves notes in biology textbooks. One day he sees a note balled in her fist. Fuck off, it reads. Burt hits her and runs.
one hundred word story #69: Penny Pincher
Stefan was afraid of money—the leathery, scratchy feel of green in his palms, the metallic smack of coins. He sold artisanal crafts at local flea markets, although he turned away cash-paying customers. His bottle-cap mobiles were a big hit. And then it occurred to him: his cure. He kept his eye on the asphalt for stray dollar bills. He spent weeks weaving bills together, George Washington’s face kissing Abraham Lincoln’s. The result was a patchwork quilt; Stefan’s biggest piece yet. Though a bit unwieldy, the quilt worked: for years it was his bargaining tool. His money never exchanged hands.
one hundred word #68: Speech impediment
Fern was born with a strange ailment. Every word she uttered, she could only speak once. She wished she could say her name, that beautiful way eff curled so easily into ern. Her parents devised a complicated sign language, along with color coordinated flash cards, to get her through each day. Whenever she made up a word her jaw would lock. Then Fern discovered William Shatner. More importantly, she found Esperanto. Because so few people spoke those words, there was enough room in the universe to repeat them. Each night before bed, she whispered dankon, dankon. Thank you. Thank you.
The Moment from SMITH Mag
Exciting news: my piece 2.10.01 is included in SMITH Mag's latest book, The Moment: Wild, Poignant, Life-Changing Stories from 125 Writers and Artists Famous and Obscure. The anthology includes pieces from such writers as Benjamin Percy, Elizabeth Gilbert, Steve Almond, Dave Eggers, and Shalom Auslander. A version of the piece I submitted started here on this blog, posted on the anniversary of my diagnosis of type 1 diabetes.
I will be reading my piece, along with a number of other Bay Area writers, at the Booksmith bookstore in San Francisco on March 8. SMITH Mag is hosting promotional book events around the country to highlight writers from various regions.
It's nice, as an obscure writer, to have a moment every now and then.
I will be reading my piece, along with a number of other Bay Area writers, at the Booksmith bookstore in San Francisco on March 8. SMITH Mag is hosting promotional book events around the country to highlight writers from various regions.
It's nice, as an obscure writer, to have a moment every now and then.
one hundred word story #67: Démon
I swore in church and so my babysitter washed my mouth out with soap. Organic, tea tree sandalwood soap, French milled vegetable soap the color and texture of satin. She didn't realize the soap would alter my vocabulary. After I'd choked back the silky suds, the first words I said were por quoi? Shut yer trap, she said. I tried but my lips bubbled. Voulez-vous dansez? Quit yer fooling, she whispered. She didn’t want to dance. Instead, she took me back to church to exorcise the demons, this time with good old-fashioned industrial strength Dial soap. Il n'a pas travaillé.
one hundred word story #66: Dangerous liaisons
Ernest never learned to compliment. "Your face," he says to Belinda, "looks like a thousand tiny suns, all converging in a massive eclipse." "Your eyes," he says to Emily, "are like apple seeds, except bigger, and shinier." “You’re pretty and everything,“ he says to his barista, “but really, it’s your insides I’m interested in.” This time it registers. Words don’t work; gestures do. He brings her a cup of coffee at her café. “For you,” he says. “Is this from down the street?” she asks. “This coffee is like my feelings—hot,” he says. “Then keep it,” she says, “please.”
one hundred story #65: The truth
Harriet could not handle the truth. It was so hot it burned her hands. She let it simmer on her stove. And there the truth sat, curdling in her kitchen until the smell drove her housemates away. But Harriet had grown accustomed to the air, which was so thick she had to cut through it with a flashlight to get to the sink. Then the fog grew so strong it sprouted arms and legs and shattered the kitchen windows. It wasn’t until the truth permeated the atmosphere that Harriet was forced to accept it: she never was a good cook.
one hundred word story #64: Art?
Her cellmates don't understand. "The thing was mocking me," she says, fists balled under her arms. "Some dude sprays red and black on canvas -- with a trowel -- and they call it art." Carmen paces, shoes clapping the linoleum. “Who’s to say that what I did wasn’t also art?” One of the women says, “Didn’t you piss on a painting?” Carmen isn’t listening. “I had color, shape, form, perspective.” The warden appears. “I was provoked. All artists want to provoke an emotional reaction, right?” He sighs. “Wait til you see what I can do with a trowel,” she says.