100 Words – Trophy

The huge trophy appeared to be of polished silver, when viewed from 30 feet. The closer you got, the more plastic it became. With every step the glean turned green. The name carved into the base became shaky and amateurish.

But it was my trophy. I earned it. A season of hard work. I took the third step on the podium full of pride and the cute clerk from the front desk handed it to me.

I put it with pride in my living room on a pile of books, which was the closest thing I had to a mantle.

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100 Words – Transfer Station

The woman with the clipboard met me at the transfer station gate. My little pickup truck was out of place among the giant garbage trucks. My paranoia screamed. I kept checking the mirrors for angry relatives. None appeared.

My load was just one tarnished old statute of civil war era family embarrassment. I was nominated to remove it and drive it three towns away because I’m the only one with a truck, and I wasn’t a racist asshole. Lucky me. I may sell the truck.

The woman shrugged her shoulders. I paid the dump fee and she waved me in.

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100 Words – Bob The Verbose

Bob the Verbose, patron philosopher of cheap whiskey, stood on the street corner shouting his scriptures of nonsense at the sinfully sober crowd. Nobody really cared about his message, but the constant mentions of strong drink kept his audience, in equal parts, ready to join in and ready to condemn.

Building to crescendo, Bob halted for a mighty pregnant pause, which the inattentive crowd mistook for the end of the speech and wandered off. All attempts at recovering his hold over the audience failed in ever feebler pleas.

Bob packed up. Barely enough in the tip jar for a pint.

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