WRITE: 80 Word Stories
Title: 80 Word Stories
Role: Author
Challenge:
Write a story in exactly 80 words, not 79 or 81 but exactly 80. Titles don’t count against the word count but have to be reasonable. This was a challenge I started doing on an airplane when I wrote the story that inspired “The 2nd Best Story I Ever Wrote” below. That story really was the best story I ever wrote, and I lost it somewhere between the plane and baggage claim. I was devastated, but am working towards recovery.*
What I learned: I continue to use this challenge as a reminder to efficiently use all the words in my stories. Why is each word chosen, and what impact will it have? It also motivates me to use those short moments between things to do something creative.
Pickles
“That is the biggest fucking jar of pickles I've ever seen."
"I like pickles."
"I know you do, but seriously…where are you going to find room in the fridge?"
"I'm navigating the milk shelf right now.” I pull the oversized jar towards me.
Smash.
"Oh shit! Was that the light?"
"Yes," I croak. There is a stinging in my neck. My fingers find the sharp edge of a shard of glass. I pull and blood spurts onto the condiments.
Abby Beam
“I’m Abby Beam, Mutha-Fuckahhh!”
The playground a cacophony of laughter, yips, yelps, jeers and taunts come to an immediate halt. Everyone stares. Eight year old Abigail Beam. A tear in her overalls, dirt on her knees. Grass in her hair. Her fists clench and unclenching.
“You just swore!” says the boy responsible for the tear, the dirt and the grass. Abby reaches a fist back and missiles it, through the air, into his nose.
“I’m Abby Beam,” she whispers.
Roses
His aviator sunglasses are cool. His pearl-buttoned collar shirt with roses embroidered on the shoulder are cool. His gelled hair is very cool. Perfectly out of place. His willingness to breach the code of conduct in this basement dive bar is not cool. Not cool at all. Just keep texting. Keep “Checking-in.” Keep tagging, swiping, liking, finger-banging till some tells you they’ll swipe you back.
Or change course. Disengage. Disengage, Roses!
The sun beats down upon you.
The 2nd Best Story I Ever Wrote.
The best story I ever wrote was on an airplane, about a girl, her book and her thoughts. I wrote it on a napkin, a meandering tale of wonder and intrigue.
She had red hair. A black skirt. The seat she sat in was blue. My pen was black, My napkin almost full.
It was a tale of adventure, discovery and romance. It was a rollicking affair. We landed. I forgot napkin on the seat, and ran for the gate.
Elizabeth Gambles
Elizabeth gambles sometimes. With her fun money. She gets on a bus. She watches the farmland roll by until it stops in-front of a magical fortress of open arms, pinging sounds and blinking lights. Oh, the lights.
Oh, the lights.
She puts her money in the slot. Bell’s ring, lights flash, her heart starts to pound. Coins with the face of Caesar tumble out the slot, plinking & pinging. Elizabeth’s heart pounds and pound and pounds and stops. Elizabeth wins.
Tapas
The light blinks red. Then red again. Again. Again. Again. A man up ahead orders a tapas, and I cringe. A stranger succumbing to marked up airline food, tapas no less, makes my heart ache. What choices led you to these tapas I wonder?
His head is balding. His sweater blue. One tip of a collar is untucked, one flattened agains the wool. I’m guessing Arrow-branded oxford. I hope your dinner fulfills you sir till you reach your destination.
There Was An Axe
There was an axe. That much I remember.
It was hocked halfway through a maple. Stuck. Staying there. I had no say in it. It was fall, no spring. The air cooler than expected, but chopping of the tree had kept me warm until now.
Now I shivered.
“You are cold,” said a Voice.
“Yes.” I said.
“I can make you warm again.” The Voice said.
“Please,” I replied.
“Close your eyes,” It said. I felt so warm after that.
Jesus Soap
The Jesus soap sits on the back of the toilet. He, as in “He,” with a capitol ‘H’ looks up at me. Judging me for the things done on the other side of the wall.
“Jesus,” I say. “Stop looking at me.”
I’m not ashamed. I’m only a man. She is the cheater, not me.
“Who are you talking too?” she says.
“Jesus,” I say.
“The gardner doesn’t come today. That’s Saturday,” she says.
The Jesus soap rolls his eyes.
Triplex
I was staying at Rob’s old place, a triplex, when I saw the security team. They were hauling duffel bags out of the back of blacked-out bread truck. They were precise. Professional. Lots of action while I watch from the window.
Dog is on my lap. A knock on the door. I make myself small, scrunch on the lounge. Dog growls.
The gun disappears. I make my move. “Run!” My voice is hoarse but Dog understands. Out the back.
Wizard
“You look like a mutha-fucken wizard.”
Derek extends a hand towards me. It is rough and callused, covered in dirt. A man’s hand. Even after two days in the desert my hands are soft from a continual regimen of aloe vera lotion I keep in my leather satchel. Also, I carry a satchel.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean you look like a mutha-fucken wizard.” Derek spit. A dust cloud mushrooms.
Derek was funny that way.
*Just for fun that description was 80 words. Go ahead. Count them. I’ll wait.
