Write A Really Short Story In 100 Words Or Less

A few people have said in the 50-word story thread that they would like more space, but it doesn't seem to have occurred to anyone to start another thread for that purpose. So, in my superhero identity of Captain Obvious, here I come to the rescue.

Since I'm starting the thread, I guess I need to do it properly with a piece. I don't really write myself, since I think I'm much better at ideas than execution, so I'm curious what you all will think.

I thought of the opening lines quite a while ago and filed them away, and then recently they came back along with some context. This is much darker than I think I would normally go, but when something gets into your head, you have to run with it, right?

I've always liked the art of saying a lot with a little, letting the reader fill in blanks that the writer doesn't need to fill in himself. This piece became basically a telling of the calm between two storms, with the object being to give the storms more power through implication than they'd have if seen directly. Please let me know if I've succeeded at all, or how I could do better.

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Some things people shouldn't know. I know what skin tearing sounds like. I know what brain smells like.

Now I'm supposed to talk about it, and also socialize as much as possible. But when you do talk about it, people stop inviting you to parties. Eventually, they stop picking up when you call.

So how do I break down my walls when people on the outside are trying to keep them up? Answer: Remove the people first.

Luckily, though walls are hard, people are soft. I know; I've seen them squish.

One hundred words seems more like it. I was thinking of these short pieces as scripts for part of a graphic novel.

The part about not being invited to parties was pretty good, but when it switched to removing the people it made their squishiness more eerie.

"Sylvia, let's get married. I can't afford a ring and I don't have a job, but we're in love."

"Only if you take my last name, Hank."

"What? I thought you'd want to get rid of that."

"There aren't many Payninbuts in the world, and there are way too many Smiths."

"But..."

"It's pronounced pah-nah-BU."

"Sure it is."

"It's French."

"Don't blame the French."

They fought, but ultimately Hank caved in to her superior rationality. He loved her. She had a job. She had enough assets that she didn't need a job and she gave him a diamand engagement ring.

Uh-oh.

Yours fooly’s previous really short story (in the 50 Words or Fewer thread) stemmed from what was believed to be Hank’s surname, not Sylvia’s maiden name. But keeping that original premise, the two halves have been combined.

Sylvia’s husband, Hank Payinbut, came from a long line of Payinbuts. His father Solly was a gambler notorious for welshing on his bets. His grandfather Horace was a horse’s Payinbut. Little is known about Great-Grandpa Calvin, other than the fact that he wasn’t in any way great.

Sylvia hated Hank but stayed with him for the sake of the little Payninbuts. She hid her disgust for Hank with code names like “Stalin” or “Il Duce.” Behind Hank’s back, she referred to him as “Attila,” but to his face she called him “Hun.”

Commandment

Build an empire using bottles, bury it underground and then cry.
Stop! The rain will come. It will push it out and you will run.
Come back to create some shards. They are useless. But hold on! Paint them with your own blood. Now they are big and beautiful.
Go wrong inside your dreams that are brought into the world by diseases. Come back to life and walk through mud.
Wash your mind and body in silver and do not forget that your soul is running towards death and then smile. Throw against you everything which is massive.
Stop thinking at cures! Look inside! Awake the time using monsters and clouds! Do not curse the colorless space, because you will never know.

I see now I messed up the history, AuntShecky, by thinking it was Hank who had a maiden name. It must have been Sylvia. I suppose I could always invoke some alternate universe theory to weasel out of it. I'll keep in mind what "Hun" could mean the next time I hear it, unless the person saying it is Chinese or Mongolian.

That was an unusual story, S. E. Lizard.

Dr. Payninbut, author of "Female Oppression in Finnegan's Wake", opened Dr. Roketscienski's door, mini-skirted and high-healed, "Let's get a drink."

"Sarah...."

"It's Sylvia."

She shifted her legs for accidental viewing as she sat down. Bob couldn't be as hard to get as his wife believed.

When she saw Bob rush toward her, she got her lips ready, but he lifted her off the bench and pushed her out the door, "Maybe next time."

Dr. Roketsciensdki wondered if the Einsteinian time-loop portal materialized on the bench. Did his experiment fail, or does Sylvia now have the long-sought portal up her ***?

Quote:

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Originally Posted by YesNo

That was an unusual story, S. E. Lizard.

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Is this good or bad? :))

John King lit his cigarette beneath the shield of the building. It had been raining furiously the last few weeks. Rain wasn’t bad every now and then. A downpour like this, however, could turn any sane man inside out, make him do things he would never do under normal conditions.

He took a drag from the cigarette as he watched people leave the convenience store with miserable looks on their faces. Shifting his hand inside his coat pocket, he peered inside.

The clerk was all alone.

John entered the store, walked up to the man, and pulled out the gun.

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Originally Posted by S.E. Lizard

Is this good or bad? :))

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After reading a few pages of Joyce's Finnegan's Wake, with that supposedly being "good" writing, I don't know whether I can make a value judgement on any piece of writing.

That being said, I liked the imagination of your piece. I could not have written it. It reads more like a poem than a story which makes the quality even harder for me to judge. I didn't understand it, but I suspect with more pieces of the story added in future posts, I'll get the idea.

"Sylvia stopped by the office."

"Why?" Martha asked.

"She sat on the bench..."

That ***** is trying to seduce my man, Martha thought.

"...just when the Godel process completed! She now could have the time-loop portal up her rear."

Martha thought that would serve her right, "Don't worry, baby."

Clearly Sylvia didn't know how to tease Bob. Putting her head close to Bob's ear, she whispered, "Bob! The aliens have landed! Quick! You've got to pound your way into their spaceship and save the universe!"

Within an hour, Bob saved the universe. Even Sylvia's high-strung hubby couldn't do better.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by S.E. Lizard

Is this good or bad? :))

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It wasn't bad, just a bit too poetic for my tastes.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by YesNo

That being said, I liked the imagination of your piece. I could not have written it. It reads more like a poem than a story which makes the quality even harder for me to judge. I didn't understand it, but I suspect with more pieces of the story added in future posts, I'll get the idea.

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Yes, actually is not a standard story... it is just a very short story of a decree written in a round-about way... Regarding the understanding of these words, I don't know, all I wanted to say is that we, people do not know so much things as we think we know... Everything around is unstable, so all our definitions are just some casual perceptions. And "do not curse the colorless space," is like: never blame the Universe for our disequilibrium. Also, the space is colorless in my so-called story, because we, the people (again) don't know anything about the outer space, even if we have here a huge scientific media and studies and everything, still is hard to believe their (scientists) assumptions. "The universe is a pretty big place. It's bigger than anything anyone has ever dreamed of before. So if it's just us... seems like an awful waste of space. "

Quote:

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Originally Posted by S.E. Lizard

all I wanted to say is that we, people do not know so much things as we think we know...

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I was thinking the same thing today. Much of what we think we know is just an approximation to reality.

"In your work on female oppression, Dr. Payninbut, you controversially stated, "Joyce's patriarchal approach to female individuation through cultural determinism complemented his narcissistic, and utterly childish, Sartrian angst.' Do you have any evidence whatsoever to justify that claim?"

The Roketscienskis, seated in the back of the auditorium, woke up and looked at each other, "He's a dead man."

Sylvia Payninbut projected the appropriate text from Finnegan's Wake, "Joyce wrote, and I quote, 'She, exhibit next, his Anastashie. She has prayings in lowdelph. Zeehere green-egg blooms.'".

Her challenger avoided Sylvia's machine-gun stare.

"Surely even you could read that far."