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In 100, by Dom on December 19, 2018 at 12:05 pm

Thread connects us.

At first, our eyes meet and linger, and the first tendrils reach out.

As words flow and we relax, the tendrils extend, exploring the space between us.

As we find common ground, a dance begins in midair, our threads weaving, flirting, cautious yet curious.

Here, doubts creep in, pulling our minds from the present, and draining the courage from our wispy emissaries.

But then we share a laugh, and they connect. Our shoulders relax, and our eyes soften. Warmth floods our bodies.

This connection is not easily made – we revel in the unique joy of newfound friendship.

Before the new girlfriend

In 100 on December 19, 2018 at 12:21 am

I asked him what he was searching for. In the shimmering heat, his face was wet as with the slime of a fish.

“You can’t breathe in this goddamn city,” he said.

“The humidity?”

“I want out,” he said, and then his face began to pucker. He first turned pink, a deep watermelon, and then his eyes started to water.

“It’s because of the summers she left me,” he said. “She hates them. Couldn’t stand them.”

“Why didn’t you move?”

“You come from the cold north, and you know. You think you’ll love it forever.”

He paused. He cried, “Fuck!”


In 100, by Dom on December 15, 2018 at 9:48 am

I know why you’re here, Fear.

To protect me from lions and disease and spears

To keep me alive in a world years gone by

I know why you assume the worst

Better safe than sorry

But I’m tired.

Tired of the reminders of the fragility around me

Tired of constant cross-examination of every idea

Tired of regret

There are no spears here, no enemies hiding in the brush

This world calls out for joy. For appreciation, love, passion, excitement, happiness. We all deserve these luxuries.

I know why you’re here, Fear. But right now, I don’t need you.

Inner Monologue

In 100, by Dom on December 9, 2018 at 2:19 pm


Let the scene before you dissolve into a canvas of color and light. Hear each sound as it comes, crisply. How do your clothes feel against your skin? This moment is art, manifesting in each detail of reality.

Imagine yourself of 10 years in the future inhabiting this instant, in this version of your body. What would you notice? What brings you joy in the scene around you? Cultivate nostalgia for the present.

All will change, so honor this instant by noticing and appreciating, letting the beginnings of a smile curl the corners of your mouth.

Rest and exist.


In 100, by Wyatt on December 6, 2018 at 2:59 pm

Goose pecked the frozen gravel. “Tasty,” she said.

Squirrel nodded. Yesterday he left tiny footprints in wet concrete and there was still grit between his toes.

“We’ll stop in Carolina, if we’re lazy. Cuba if we’re audacious,” offered Goose.

Squirrel nodded. He’d stayed in this park by the river for his whole life. Those names were just abstract concepts for ‘places beyond’. They might as well describe the other river bank.

“Doing okay, old friend?” Goose asked.

Squirrel nodded. He‘d stashed acorns aplenty.

“See you in Spring,” Goose said, honking at her entourage and taking to the sky.

Squirrel nodded.

Thursday Morning

In 100, by Dom on December 6, 2018 at 12:32 pm

I awake, lost in thought.

In the kitchen, my mind races and worries, making plans.

I absentmindedly ask my housemate about his day.

“I’m going to have a picnic.”

The word stops my mind in its tracks. It tastes of sunshine and pine trees, of smiles and slowness.

“That’s cool! What else you got going on today?”

“Oh, was going to meet with some friends and drink tea later.”

The simplicity and beauty pierces my frazzled and distracted mind. Bluebird days like this are meant for wicker baskets, laying in warm green grass, feeling your body fall into the Earth.

Pity Party

In 100, by Sam on December 6, 2018 at 3:17 am

She wants a face like a dime, the surface hard, the size of it round, compact, pocket-friendly. Instead, Horseface’s face looks like her name. What is it like, being Horseface? A long, mournful nose, lashes quivering in light. Cheeks muscular, emotion-wrought. When Jenna gets on top of her, her throat dissolves in sound, Jenna hissing at her to shut up, not to tell a soul. Horseface thinks of the time she saw her father with the pistol, pressed against the mare’s side.

“She’s in such pain,” he said, his finger on the trigger. “I want to stop it.”

by phaedrus et al

In 100, by Montana on December 6, 2018 at 1:05 am

a body,
a soul temporarily shedding its wings
the eyes, the gateway
an incarnation of a soul

an object,
the archetype of a form
a shadow projected on a cave wall
a second story we run over the screen

a form,
a blueprint of perfection
an ideal, eternal in its essence
perhaps transcendent of time entirely

an initiated,
looks beyond the rhetoric of an object
seeks truth in the myth of a form
sees divine madness, dionysus

i’m quite curious,
yet will i glimpse the unseen cat?
unopened, the future is fluid
here i stay and see where spirit lays


Plants are pets too

In 100, by Montana on December 6, 2018 at 1:01 am

Athena the ming aralia is enjoying her new foggy home– the sun does shine in the shade.

Atticus the fiddle-leaf fig is growing up fast. He needs a stake to hold himself upright, else he hobbles over like an elderly man without his trusty cane. All day he dreams of a life free from plastic things.

Dumbledore the dracanea filters out bad air, breathing life into spaces. Left with friends to plant sit, he appeared quite downtrodden when last checked on. Me thinks people are pouring beer in his home. Operation Rescue Dumbledore to ensue before he becomes entirely hairless.


In 100, by Dom on December 4, 2018 at 2:11 pm
Watching water roil and tear
At this miraculous outcropping rising from nothing
Not nothing
An infinity of life, incessant, dynamic
She holds us
This land
Firmly but gently rocking against the shore
An ancient conversation
From mother, protector
To proud renegade
We are the west
The outermost bastion of our brothers
Standing chest out against the endless volleys from the north
We frolic, dive, and glide – turning the assault to joy
Is different here.
It’s richer, it changes, yet the rhythm stays the same
Sky changes too
Blue to rose
Soft theater of light for
Dancing waves


In 100, by Dom on December 4, 2018 at 2:08 pm
I drive past snow-capped peaks. How much longer will they retain their brilliant crowns?
I fill my tank – complicit in our collective crime. As I travel, I’m part of the problem I want to help solve.
I book tickets home for Christmas. I want to see my family, but is it worth the pollution? In saying yes, I support the system that destroys reefs, melts glaciers, and intensifies storms.
What can I do? What should I do? What will I do? The answers are all different.
I hit play on my audiobook, and my mind leaves this troubled world.


In 100, by Sam on December 4, 2018 at 8:18 am

Some things you never know, like the life you could have been living if you’d dated the other man, or what it’s like being born a tree. This is what you think of at the spot where the guardrail‘s rust meets the air, turns to you its weary face. Both of you are into the secret. Though both of you change your appearances with time, neither of you is alive. Tonight, you do not jump, and your husband will call you many times. You won’t answer, the way the dead don’t. You already know: the dead don’t feel black eyes.


In 100, by Wyatt on December 3, 2018 at 9:07 pm

“If you can’t write about everything, write about something smaller.”

“Smaller than the universe? What about Earth.”




“Massachusetts?” Pause. “Cambridge? This house?” Pause. “My bathroom? It’s white…”


“This towel.”


“This square centimeter of towel.”

“Start there.”

“It’s grey like warm slate. There are wispy cotton strands arranged in neat rows, but many have been pushed askew. Some strands end in fine points, stretched from years of use. Others are rounded. It feels like dry moss. It isn’t moving. It’s surrounded by fabric that looks just like it.”

“There’s a lot to say about a towel.”

100 on 100

In 100, by Michael on December 3, 2018 at 3:37 pm

The most interesting aspect was comparing this go-round to times I’ve done this in the past. I found myself getting hung up on trying to post stuff as good as my old favorites, which is not the point of the exercise. Maybe I’m taking myself too seriously compared to the past? If nothing else, this was a helpful exercise in seeing that. I also like how 100 words sharpens my focus onto the million little vignettes & characters & dialogue I pass by in a day. I plan to continue writing intermittently, and would definitely do this again every November.

Another oversimplification

In 100, by Montana on December 2, 2018 at 10:58 pm

Sometimes I dream of following the meter maid around with a roll of quarters.

Sorry, you cannot rain on 6ZHL881’s parade today. Clink-clink. Thirty more minutes, see? 6ZHL881 is simply saluting the last beams of sunlight on sand. In this light-catching moment of utter sublime, nothing else matters.

Nope, no ticket for 8HLI675 either. Clink-clink. Life is far too fleeting to leave precious time on the table. Let them order their third espresso, linger in dialogues of dreams, squeeze every last heart-quenching drop out of life that there’s no time to worry about silly details like the meter running out.

100 words, 2 days late, 30th submission

In 100, by Nora on December 2, 2018 at 9:25 pm

I’m 2 days late to my last 100 words, the 30th submission because that’s the number of days in november, and I realized that numbers don’t count in the word count (numbers as a word does, because it’s a word, but not, say, 30). I had been counting on someone to send me some words, like 100 count roughly, because he said he would send 100 and then I wouldn’t have to count it myself (of course, the computer counts it for me, there’s an algorithm) and now it’s almost midnight and it’s two days later but I think it still counts. counting on that.


In 100 on December 2, 2018 at 8:33 pm
Waieo sees possibilities.
What if?
She builds worlds. Spaces for herself, for others, both. She finds inspiration in the textures and colors that surround her. When the path ahead of her ends, she sends her faithful fairy forth into the skies, and Waieo gazes through another’s eyes at sprawling landscapes and magical jungles.
She is a creator, even when she does not want to be. Words, images, movies, worlds – she has many avenues to share her soul.
Where will Waieo go next? What will the future look like? The questions are intertwined; she wants to shape what we’ll see.

Tide Pool

In 100, by Wyatt on December 2, 2018 at 3:15 pm

Fish teased Crab. Crab ran away. Crab’s Father couldn’t find Crab.

Father cut off Fish’s tail.

Fish couldn’t swim. Fish cried.

Shrimp heard Fish. Shrimp‘s siblings carried Fish. They found Father.

Fish apologized. Father apologized. Shrimp stitched Fish’s tail back on. Together they looked for Crab.

Crab had met Anemone. Anemone said “I love you, Crab.”

Father found Crab. “Come home,” he said.

“No,” said Crab. “Anemone loves me.”

Anemone met Eel. Now Anemone loved Eel. Crab cried.

Fish said to Crab, “I loved you all along.”

Crab kissed Fish.

Father thanked Shrimp.

Anemone dumped Eel.

Octopus ate them all.

Snow on Trees

In 100, by Chris on December 1, 2018 at 2:55 am

A little tap
all it takes
to shake a
skirt of snow
from burdened

No trees down,
no animals doing
anything odd
(except a raven
on an overpass
over a traffic
jam—but ravens
always act odd),
no neighbors
after the shaking

Snow on slippers,
dawn not silent,
I’m not cold as
have me shaking,
each aftershock.

So I go on skis
to see and find
streets loaded
but no stories,
only sirens say
has happened,
is happening.

And these trees
bent beneath
the biggest mystery,
how the snow
hung on


In 100, by Wyatt on December 1, 2018 at 2:09 am

Halea knew how to surf. But she knew the limits of her skill. And today the beach was frothing.

“You’re too weak for this swell,” said Doubt. “The sets are too frequent. You’ll never paddle out.”

Doubt raised his voice. “These waves probably won’t kill you, but they might. Why do you want to do this?”

The ocean’s power was unmatchable but she had a secret of her own. She couldn’t hear Doubt.

When the horizon rose up in dark ripples, when the vertical face loomed, when others questioned whether to let this one go, she simply went for it.

Play On

In 100, by Briene on December 1, 2018 at 12:13 am

Slipping a dollar into his open case, we exchange a nod and a smile as I approach the yellow line, suddenly grateful the train won’t arrive for another ten minutes. Holding my breath as he shakes saliva from the instrument’s hardware, I wait for the soundtrack to begin again. And as the trumpet note echoes off the tiled walls, I slip into the movie that is my life. Where my posture has more intention, where hurried footsteps and drunken chatter are the perfect background track, where the man across the tracks, leaning on a fish mural, becomes a romantic possibility.