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100 Words – White Angel

Standing in a cemetery, staring at the white angel headstone. The grave she watches over sitting at a jaunty angle, destroying the pattern of organized headstones. The base reads, “Lilith.” Nothing else. Just a beautiful white angel in a sea of gray.

Then I heard the voice, telling me to leave. To walk away slowly. Not to run. Running would mean death, putting me in my place under the ground. That’s what the voice said. It was neither man nor woman. It was inside and outside my head.

I did as I was told and walked slowly to my car.

#100words #whiteangel

Tags: 100 words,white angel | Comments (0) | Author: Tom | Published: May 16, 2020

Express – 100 words

Anthony stepped into the path of the 37 Express. The driver, distracted, saw Anthony too late. It hurt less than expected. As Anthony’s body arched backwards, instead of having his life flash before his eyes, he saw a highlight reel of the worst movies ever. Before he could scream “that’s not fair,” his head hit the pavement and everything became pain and darkness.

When the light returned a crowd was gathered around him. He felt he should say something profound. So he said, “Something profound.” One woman laughed and took his picture. Satisfied, Anthony surrendered his spirit to the void.

Tags: 100 words,express | Comments (0) | Author: Tom | Published: April 15, 2017

Yawn – 100 words

Photo by nabriola

She yawned her sing-songy yawn. At this hour, just past midnight, that yawn could mean any one of seven things. Only one involves me. Just to be sure I reached towards her and found her bare shoulder.

She didn’t react. That’s not always bad. She didn’t pull away. I rubbed her shoulder gently and I felt her muscles relax. That’s good.

Then she made the worst of all possible noises. A steady snore that indicated that she was not only asleep but was well on her way to a long deep hibernation. I pulled back my hand and drifted off.

Tags: 100 words,yawn | Comments (0) | Author: Tom | Published: April 1, 2017

Bitter – 100 words

Standing on the peak looking down at the fogged-over city. Headphones blasting. Patti Smith Pissing in the River. The holiest of the holy punk prayers. Feeling inadequate.

I see the beauty. Hear it. Know it, but have no passion for it. An emptiness of creativity. I’m not living up to my subversive potential. It says so in my permanent record. Formalism missing that final spark. A weeping frog. A misplaced pencil.

Only following, never leading. Always fear, never folly. Finding, at my best, only mediocre otherness. Hiding from horizons of triumph. Never daring. Rejecting, in my youth, rebellion’s bitter tit.

Tags: 100 words,bitter | Comments (0) | Author: Tom | Published: March 27, 2017

100 words – drinking

The dog is staring at me. He knows I want to run screaming into the night. A block or so away is booze. The forbidden nectar. Forbidden to me because I need a drink so bad. The trick of my brand of alcoholism is that I’m only allowed to drink when I don’t need a drink. Wanting a drink is OK, but needing is verboten. The real trick then is to be honest with myself about what is want and what is need. Often a mighty struggle, but not tonight. Tonight I know there is no doubt. It is need.

Tags: 100 words,drinking | Comments (0) | Author: Tom | Published: April 26, 2015

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