Felicity – 100 words

Felicity hated her name.

She worked hard to live her life as the exact opposite of her name. Unfortunately so few people knew what felicity meant that her efforts went unnoticed. Everyone just thought that she was an unhappy child.

She managed to make it to college where she majored in English. Finally her literate classmates understood her pain and irony. As a group they decided to call Felicity Jane. At first Jane liked the name but found it did not match her unpleasant disposition. She had no choice but to cheer up. This pissed off her family no end.

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Meaning and Responsibility

What does meaning mean?

In response I’m spending more time on each piece. Last Thursday’s post went through five drafts. It’s not the time and effort spent on multiple drafts that bothers me. It’s that fact that the more drafts I do, the drafts I want to do. The more things I find to “correct”, the more I assume there are other things that need correcting. (Like that comma back there that I initially left out.)

So I go from two drafts to five, and it was only a deadline that prevented further revisions. I had to convince myself that it was good enough. Not an easy accomplishment for a flawed perfectionist.

Then we have meaning, which is what I started to write about. On this I have oddly little stress. People will read my stuff and come to their own conclusions. What it means to me might not be what it means to them. They might not even care enough to assign meaning.

I guess the question is; What does a writer expect from their audience? Do we want praise, comments, criticism? Or is it enough to know that people are reading what we wrote? For larger pieces I have a wonderfully honest first reader, but I don’t want to wear out my welcome by having her look at every little piece of text that leaks out of my brain.

 

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Leo’s Poem – 100 words

There is a poem that begins with the phrase, “The cool air on my skin is the sadness of a touch unrealized.” Unfortunately that is the only line worth repeating. The first line came to Leo, the poem’s author, intact one cool summer morning. He drove himself insane trying to find more words the equal of the opening line, but failed. For years he failed, finally giving up and publishing the poem. The critics tore him apart. He lives in his parents basement now and watches the feet of passers-by through the tiny slit of a window. Waiting for death

 

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Patterns – 100 words

The patterns of music elude me. I listen hard but fail to perceive or understand how music works. I know I’m drunk but my brain has never been this useless. People are dancing at right angles to each other. Up and down have lost their meaning and purpose.

I do an inventory of previous drug experiences and find nothing that matches this. Then I realize that my brain is functioning. I can think and reason. It’s my senses that have broken down.

I try to alert my friends. I can’t move. Someone shouts in my face. It all goes dark.

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Acme World News (Flash Fiction)

Six bells. Mid watch. 3 A.M.

The ship is early.  The bus is late. The captain and the man in the suit argue. Nothing better to do. Eventually the suit goes and sits on the hood of his Cadillac. The captain takes a swig of his “coffee.”

The bus arrives. The suit gets on and does his speech. The crew sets up the ramp to the huge door in the ship’s side.

The bus talk ends and the passengers, maps in hand, file out and up the ramp. Minutes later an army of green trucks drive out of the ship, down the ramp and through the pier gate. The suit returns to his car and naps.

No two trucks are the same. Some are brand new. Most aren’t. Some look like zombies should be driving them, or at least running over them. One is a beautifully restored 1950’s Divco milk truck. Each has a license plate from a different state. Except Wyoming, there are three Wyomings. All of them have the words “Acme World News” painted in yellow on the sides.

Two bells. Morning watch. 5 A.M.

The first trucks return. It takes almost an hour for all of them to complete their routes. They drive up the ramp into the ship, then the drivers return to the bus to collect their envelopes from the suit.

Four bells. Morning watch. 6 A.M.

The trucks are all back. The bus is gone. The ship is pulling out. Soon, people heading out to work all over the county will find a newspaper on their doorsteps. A foul paper full of lies and scandal. Most will throw it in the recycling bin without a glance. Others will read it and rage against the filth. An undiscerning few will read it and believe it. They will let the hate possess them. They will share it with their friends. “They couldn’t print it if it wasn’t true.”

The suit pulls up in his Cadillac and hands me my envelope. He drives away fast, escaping the unclean scene. I pull the gate shut and lock it. Feeling like a whore pulling up her panties.

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Sister Mary de Sales – 100 words

Laura’s offences in the sister’s eyes were many. The last and most violent rebuke came when Laura informed her that she preferred Rex Stout over Agatha Christie. Though Laura’s opinion that Ms. Christie lied to her audience through omission may have been the clincher.

When Sister Mary died Laura placed a copy of HOWL in her coffin. Hiding it under the flowing sleeve of her death habit.

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Writing Habit

I am a creature of habit.

Recent bad weather, then some blood sugar problems, kept me off the bike for a few weeks. Then a month later I realized that there was no reason to not ride the bike. I’m now trying to get back in the saddle regularly.

The same happened with my writing. While I’m always working on stories in my head, I haven’t been typing as much as I’d like. I started in January, committing to writing one 100 word story a week. That went well. In March I added a weekly blog post about what’s going on in my life.

Now here in April I’ve started writing a weekly essay about writing. The cool thing is that writing three days a week quickly morphed into writing six days a week. I’m now a month ahead on 100 word stories, and have piles of starts for the other days.

One problem I’ve discovered is how I don’t believe my writing is important. They are after all just tiny little scenes and stories that crank out without much effort. The word effort is the key. Growing up with the Irish Catholic/Puritan work ethic, if something isn’t a struggle it has no value.

Writing is what I do for fun. I delight in these pieces I produce. It’s like a game. So how can the product of a game have worth?

People read my stories, the web logs say so. I’m honestly not looking for external validation. First I need internal validation. Maybe my lack of self esteem won’t allow it. Maybe I need a personal celebration of specialness.

Oh yeah, habits. Remember what works for me might not work for you. Be one with your writing. That sounds good and zen.

Photo by Lucy Maude Ellis

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