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.
one hundred word story #63: Caving
Follow me, she says. He sidles up, one hand on his hip, edges inward. Mind the gap, she says. The sunlight splits above her head, a hundred shafts of yellow splintering through blackness. They hear water. A thousand things could happen here, where it’s dark and dank. A thousand invisible, undoable things could happen. He could lose her. He could lose himself. They both could lose the sun. Instead, they trundle forward, grabbing rock when they don’t grab each other. When it’s over, they measure dirt in their palms, grateful they can see. Next time, she says, bring a flashlight.
one hundred word story #62: If only Benjamin Button learned to surf
Let loose the rope and cock your knees. The water won't reach your chin. Watch the egrets hover. See how everything on the river does what the water wants? There's no fighting this. Even when you accept the cold, every moment you sit here, you float backward in time. You shrivel. Your jacket dwarfs you. Hit it, you want to yell, but you’ve waited too long. The boat, too, has morphed. You are tied to a lousy sapling; the engine sank miles back. Don’t panic. You made it to the sea. Surf those waves, and you just might grow up.
one hundred word story #61: Winning
The arena's full. Fireworks ejaculate off baskets as the players emerge one by one, unsnapping pants at the knees. We pay these men to play. We hope these games have meaning. When they score, we shout. When they foul, we squirm. When their opponents huddle, sweat beading their brows, we beat our chests, yell Give up--go home. If only we could sweat out our problems on some grand stage. If only we could slam dunk our tiny victories, paid bills and good health. If only our labor strikes were half as fruitful. When we win, they’ll buy our words.
one hundred word story #60: Unfurling
The butterflies hang still like discarded paper bags. But then the wind shifts. The bags open and out pop a thousand orange wings. They are out of reach. When you get home, back where tule fog lingers, where the only ocean is the tousle of dried corn, you want to recreate that moment. You drape scarves from your rooftop. Wait for the perfect unfurling. You look up for hours. Your neck is sore. Your scarves are thick with fog. And then: a single butterfly, orange and translucent, perches on your windowsill. No pops, no pizzazz; wings brush glass. You unfurl.
one hundred word story #59: From the desk of...
Dear diary, today we made a small nation smaller. Then we had lunch: pastrami on rye. We were out of money so we nixed elementary school arts programs. Lord knows we don't need any more fourth graders with recorders. After that we played handball with some entrepreneurs—and won. It was Happy Hour before we realized we’d bought a half million homes on credit. Not again! Luckily, we were ready to hire 100,000 new builders. Only problem? They’ll have to telecommute—from India. Hey, this is globalism in action, right? That’s what we’re doing, right, diary? Yeah, I thought so.
one hundred word story #58: Turkey drop
There are turkeys on my car. The first one seems friendly; his gobbles falsetto. But then James drops the trail mix. They peck at the windshield. They scratch the doors. They shit on my sunroof. I can see their turds settling. The flock—the gaggle—the monsters attack us with holiday cheer. Start the car! James yells. But turkeys blockade my wheels. I turn the ignition. The big one jumps on the hood, levels his face to mine. I can’t, I say. You should, says James. The turkey shits on the windshield. We lurch forward. That night, we eat turkey.
inspired by a recent This American Life story about rogue turkeys
one hundred word story #57: Ways to fall in love
He bought me glucose tablets. He held my hand while we biked. He took me to see the seals in the snow. He left a birthday gift outside my parents’ gate, close to midnight on a day I thought he’d forgotten. These are all the ways I’ve fallen in love. But this one unrolled the country and we hiked right across it. He vacuums. He lets me drive his ATV. This one woke me that night I'd fallen off the bed, wet and shaking, and didn't mind that I'd broken his glasses. This one is afraid of the right things.
one hundred word story #56: Take care
After the cicadas stop humming, after the moon flushes the sky clean of stars, we hear it. A thrashing, a clanging, a hurtling, is whirling towards us from below the campground. You pace on the pulsing soil. Don’t worry, you call. I’ll take care of it. The earth is loud. Insects gather at my feet. Then I notice it: the ground has seams. Stick your finger in and up it rips, soil and roots and worms, concrete foundations, wooden beams, gravestones. Don’t! You say. But my fingers are hungry. I pull back the earth beneath your feet. I take care.
one hundred word story #55: Dad
You run in the evenings, long after dark. You line the counter with mason jars of fresh pesto and pomegranate jelly. I cost you more than you’ll say—the boxes of needles under the stairs are proof enough. Once, when I was abroad, you called late at night to make sure the world hadn’t broken me yet. But that’s just it. Everything I break, you fix; sometimes with epoxy, sometimes by running past turkeys in the rain, clearing the trail before I get there myself. Someday I’ll make you dinner. Clear your path. Who knows, maybe we’ll get there together.
one hundred word story #54: Cure
You have the cure for what I've got. You carry it in a locket around your neck. Maybe that's why you keep me at arm’s length--you can feel the keening. You don't know your own power. How could you? There aren’t any holes in your body. The systems, they all work. Your nerves are superfine. You think I like you. Really, I’m sticking around long enough to see that locket open. I want to be there when the cure spills out, maybe like smoke, maybe like gunshot. Either way, I’ll be here to remember what it’s like—being whole.
one hundred word story #53: Hold this
What if, every day, starting the day we were born, the world gave us something to hold? Pencils, pixie sticks, chickadees. We'd go everywhere holding things, hands so full that we'd give up introducing ourselves. Instead we’d trade things. A Coke for a dictionary, a dictionary for an iPad, an iPad for a robot. And what if, at some specific moment in time—our twenty-first birthdays, say—the world took it all back? Our houses, they’d empty. Our cars, they’d disappear. We’d be left with only our hands. Maybe then we could put a name to this feeling—this quiet.
one hundred word story #52: Politics
The candidate was up in the polls until the first woman came forward. His campaign manager assured him that it was nothing; what difference did one measly affair make? Then the second woman, his former employee, called the press. Best to address it now, his manager said; nip it in the bud. But it was too late. The women, they came out of the woodworks. They showed up at his restaurant. They met him on the golf course. They occupied city streets. On election day, they surrounded his car. Your voice might be loud, they said, but your words—powerless.
one hundred word story #51: Coming up roses
Bob and Sharon hated to see their flowers turn color in the shop. Floristry was wilting. One day a customer forgot his credit card. They watched him trot a redhead across the street. Without knowing it, he donated to their store. Bob and Sharon had never seen anything grow so fast. It was easier than planting seeds. And thus it started: tulips, peonies, daisies, rhododendrons, orchids, all blossoming in their store. Men queued up outside, hoping to appease angry wives and sullen mistresses. Bob and Sharon understood it all as donated romance. Later, in the courtroom, he brought her roses.
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.