When it comes to exercise, I’m a Mark Twain kind of guy. At his 70th birthday party, feted by 170 people in the Red Room at Delmonico’s in New York City, Twain said, “I have never taken any exercise, except sleeping and resting, and I never intend to take any. Exercise is loathsome. And it cannot be any benefit when you are tired; I was always tired” (The New York Times, Dec. 6, 1905). [Read more…] about Loathsome, tiresome exercise
In fourth grade, before the Christmas pageant, a desperate teacher ordered him to lip-sync “The Little Drummer Boy.” Decades later, a grown man, it still made him sad.
“You can’t dance,” a woman told him over the booming bass at a grad school party. “It makes me wonder what else you can’t do.” A nasty sly smile. A mean drunk, he thought. He wanted her anyway.
He wanted to sing “Drummer Boy.” He wanted to dance. He wanted the music to lift him up and waft him away, but it never did.
I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge: “Music” at Thin Spiral Notebook.
“They’re pretty,” his wife said, without looking up from her book.
“Go take them down, then.”
“All right, I will.”
He set aside his laptop, leaned forward in his chair, and then stopped. It seemed too easy. He studied his wife for a moment, sensing a trap.
“Really? That would be OK with you?”
“Sure. Go ahead. What’s to stop you?”
“Your mom! This could be her way of haunting me.”
His wife laughed. “She has other ways to do that.”
“Oh? Such as?”
“Take down her chimes, and you’ll see.”
I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #407 at Velvet Verbosity.
She encased herself in her royal-blue robe and waited. The sad-faced jailer appeared. He set the breakfast tray on her table, and then dragged out the ornate chair.
“Tea again? I prefer milk.”
“Yes, but tea is what we have.”
“And sugar instead of honey.”
“Again, we make do, my lady.”
He bowed deeply to her.
“I will escape today, jailer.”
“There is always hope.”
“Yes,” she said. “There always is.”
She drank the honeyed tea.
I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #406 at Velvet Verbosity.
Nobody called it “Black Friday” then. It was just the day after Thanksgiving. I don’t know when it became the high holy day of American consumerism. [Read more…] about The Day After Thanksgiving, 1977
The old man was no kind of wing shot, but he could work a duck call as sweet as anybody. That and the Labs he trained made him a good man to have with you on a hunt. Not so good other times. Jesus, no!
Sam felt the usual jumble of emotions. He opened a box of shells, and eased one out, pinching the brass between thumb and forefinger.
I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #405 at Velvet Verbosity.