“‘CityBeat San Diego’, has an annual short story competition. Stories are limited to 101 words. Here are my entries from 2008, of which ‘Heirloom’, was published.”
They Swing freely in the open. Refreshing.
“Put those away!”
Obviously someone who has never known. Invigorating.
“Are you crazy?”
Fashion slave, coverage is unnatural. Liberating.
“Run, it’s the police!”
Erratic strides with the bump and bounce. Inhibiting.
“You. Stop right there.”
Are you kidding, I’m free, free. Empowering.
“What are you, some kinda freak?”
I’m free, free, like a bird, free, free. Imitating.
Pssssst “That’ll bring you back down to earth.”
Ahhhhh, it burns, it burns, ahhhhhh! Disabling.
“Sit still or I’ll hit you with some more.”
Wings clipped, a back seat ride. Arresting.
It was a carnival ride, bucking and swaying to the surging squall. The longest pier on the coast, open on a night like this, “cool,” he thought facing the collage of lights. The pier heaved, “Hey,” his feet were wet. A massive wave swept ahead. The pier disappeared reappeared, stalks of kelp amassed the aligning benches. Running he felt the uplift, a tide of adrenaline pressed his pace. The kelp was moving, moving to stop him. He was entangled in the tuberous tentacles when the wave hit.
She loved walking the pier during the storm breaks; it was desolate and washed.
“You are about to become a non-person.”
“Silence is fine. Soon you will be forever unheard”
“It’s just an art project. You know, like Shepard Fairy; ‘Giant’, ‘Obey’.”
“Sure, you want to be famous.”
“If it happens, yeah.”
“It won’t happen. Not now.”
“And why not.”
“You got our attention.”
“It’s an art project!”
“And yelling fire in a crowded theater is performance art.”
“What about free will?”
“People are sheep.”
“And you too!”
“You artists never get it. There is no such thing as free expression.”
“It’s just a word!”
“The death knell.”
Her palm was blistered but it was ended.
“Why keep that dinosaur?” Mark complained when they moved.
“One day you’ll know,” and now you do, Debbie concluded, no more bloody lips, bruises or 3 a.m. knockdown drag outs, at least not with you, “asshole”. The men never lasted; one or two moves at best. The O’Keefe & Merritt had been her grandmother’s, mother’s and now was hers. She reminisced the baking sessions with her mother, learning to deal with the oven’s inconsistencies and myriad of compartments. She opened a decoratively concealed door and replaced the pistol. The pie smelled delicious.
©2009 Ted Washington