One Hundred and One Words

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As the title suggests, this is just 101 words. 
Words, words everywhere. pages and pages, reams and reams. The printer click-clacking away churning out words, more and more words. Horrible, spiteful words. All of those words are created by me. I hate every single one of them. Why do I do it? Why do I fill these pages, these screens, empty the ink cartridges with words that I instantly loathe?

I’ve always hated them, I read my old words and cringe with embarrassment, no, shame. How can anyone read this crap? Not only read them, but hang on them, quote them, study them, then when they’ve consumed them, demand more.

New Shoes

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 The new shoes felt weird, like Joseph was wearing someone else’s legs. His feet felt clumpy, shooting out in all different directions, uncontrolled by Joseph’s brain. They made his feet look big too. He was already a size eleven, but these new shoes seemed to stick out in front of him like a pier into the sea. The autumn breeze was whipping up the leaves like waves crashing into his foot piers. The massive, unwieldy shoes were making him self-conscious. Were people pointing at his shoes behind his back and sniggering behind hands? Would a police escort soon arrive to escort the extra-long load and keep other pedestrians safe?  He couldn’t wait to get home, get them off and throw them away, or give them to a homeless person so someone else could have the ignominy of having planks for shoes. 

No, no this couldn’t be happening. That was the last thing he needed. Walking towards him was Gemma, the lovely, beautiful, amazing Gemma. Gemma, who Joseph had been dancing with by the light of the moon the night before. Well, not exactly by the light of the moon, more like by the lights of the disco, but still, it was romantic and lovely and it gave Joseph hope in his heart that she might actually be interested in him.
He looked around looking for an escape; Could he possibly get away without her noticing him? There was no way she’d pursue what little interest she had in him when she saw his massive, awkward clown shoes.  She was checking her phone, she hadn’t seen him, yet, the escape was on. He assessed his options.
Maybe he could dodge across the road and nip into Boots and she wouldn’t notice him, but the traffic was crazy at this time of day. Or perhaps he could duck into a doorway and pretend to do his lace up, keeping his head down until she passed.  But what if she saw him? What message would that send her? The wrong one. It was Hobson’s choice, damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
It was too late now anyway. She’d looked up and seen him. A smile spread across her face like melting cheese spreading across toast. He smiled back hoping his face wasn’t giving away his self-loathing. Please don’t look down, he willed her. please don’t look down.
“Hi Joseph, wow you’re a dark horse, who knew you had moves like that?” she said.
He smiled, thanking god that the salsa lessons he’d done as a kid had finally come in useful.
“You were pretty good yourself,” he said, avoiding eye-contact and still hoping the lovely Gemma wouldn’t look down.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got time for a coffee,” she said.
Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo, that wasn’t right. This had to be a fleeting meeting. Just a quick hello / goodbye so Joseph could get away without his feet being spotted. Maybe he could say he was busy and arrange coffee for another day, but try as he might he couldn’t think of a plausible excuse.
“Yes,” he said wondering how he could keep his feet hidden.
Then disaster struck. Gemma looked down.
“New shoes?” she said a smile on her face.
“Yes,” Joseph mumbled.
“Bloody hell Joe, you could land a plane on them.”
That was it, that was it, that was it. She’d seen his oversize shoes and now no doubt she was thinking of an excuse to get out of the coffee and praying to god that she’d never set eyes on this freak again. Joseph knew the relationship was over before it had even begun.
“C’mon,” she said taking Joseph by the arm. “I know a lovely little place just around the corner and I think it is just about big enough for your shoes too.”

Pagan Country

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My dad has never liked motorways; they didn't have them when he was young, he’d mutter. Nothing to see, he’d to say, same old same old, he’d explain. He always, when possible, took the scenic route as he used to call it. The B roads and C roads and D roads that crisscrossed Britain ignored by the sensible masses. What's another half an hour on the journey? he’d say as we trundled along behind a hay lorry for three miles through Wiltshire and Gloucestershire.
I hated those roads full of standing stones and ley lines. This was witch country with spells and hexes waiting to be cast. The curves and bends revealing strange shadows and shapes that lurked in the hedgerows as the sun set and twilight faded into night. The countryside rolled away into the darkness and night brought a chill, a goose pimple cold. Owls' hoots and lambs’ bleats, dark clouds and nighttime sky blues added to the mystery. Sometimes the moon would increase my fears, casting its creepy glow on the haunted landscape, but the nights I really feared were the moonless ones; when darkness enveloped the road and the only light was the weak headlights of our old Lada.  Every night was Halloween on those roads. Behind each bush pagan rituals summoned evil spirits, from their purgatory; the beasties and ghouls of my nightmares. I never said anything, never told of my fears, just shivered my way through those byways waiting for the M4 to take me back to sanity. 

Ninety Nine Not Out

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Three stories for you today each one is 99 words long. You can count them if you like, or you can just trust me. 

Economy 7

It started as a dream, a weird dream, one of those dreams that are about nothing, but about everything at the same time. The only memory I have now is that I knew something was shaking and something was wrong. Then I was awake. Wide awake. There was something wrong. The tremors that I’d been dreaming of were real, so real. The whole flat was vibrating like a dancer in a hip-hop video. An earthquake? In Cardiff? On a Tuesday? It took about thirty seconds to realise that was no plate tectonic action, that was my neighbour’s spin cycle.

Biscuits

The biscuits were broken.

Broken, bloody biscuits again.

Broken, bloody, bastard biscuits.

What can’t I ever have whole biscuits?

Why are the bastard biscuits always bloody broken?

Broken!

            bloody!

                        bastard!

                                    biscuits!

What use is a broken bloody biscuit? It’s good for nothing. Biscuits are meant to bring joy, happiness, a break from the mundane. But all these bastard, bloody biscuits bring are frustration.

Broken!

            bloody!

                        bastard!

                                    biscuits!

Good for nothing!

You can’t dunk them! You don’t get the satisfaction of a bloody big bite.

All I wanted was a bloody biscuit, all I got were pieces and crumbs.

Dead Fish 

“This sushi smells like fish,” Daniel said.

Gemma looked at him. Either his deadpan was so dead it was pushing up daisies or he wasn’t joking.

“Funny that,” Gemma said.

“What’s it made out of then?”

He wasn’t joking.

“Well that bit is seaweed,” she pointed her chopstick at the wrap.

“Ah that’ll be it then,” he said. “I thought I could smell fish.”

“Wait!” Gemma continued unperturbed. “That’s rice, and that bit in the middle, that’s tuna.”

This was the blind date from hell. No matter how long the wave was, they’d never be on the same length.

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