100 Words

Some short short-stories, numbering exactly 100 words.

One. Two. Three. Whenever I get stressed I count to a hundred. I tried starting at one and doubling each number. You know: two, four, eight. But I’m no good with maths. So that made me more stressed.

Twenty-four. Twenty- five. I know, rationally, it’s only food my flatmate ate. But that doesn’t stop the rage.

Seventy. Seventy-one. I’ve tried ‘You are a blue triangle pushing all of the anger in a red circle outside of yourself.’ But that makes me think of geometry. Maths. More stress.

So I just count. And remember. It was only ham. Ninety-nine. One hundred.

I pray for rain. Standing here. Not many cyclists do. It’s just the wetter it gets the more I earn. The more it rains; the more couriers stay home. There are already too many. And more every year. Two years ago I got £3 per package. Now I get £2.50. So I stand under the warm-air vent of some firm in the city keeping warm. And I pray for rain. Torrential rain. That’ll get in my satchel and shoes. That’ll make me never want to touch my bike again. And then tomorrow I’ll ride out and pray for it again.

It was four against one. But the guy on his own wouldn’t back down. Their faces were red. Spit flecks from their lips, as they pointed angry fingers at each other and shouted.

Feeling the bile rise from his gut the lone man stormed off. One of the four smiled, as if that proved their point. As if they’d won. But the lone man returned with his gun. And pointing his rifle at each of the four in turn, they all went quiet. One after another.

“Yeah, alright. Tito probably was the strongest in the Jackson 5.”

That settled it.

The snow had given the city a picturesque look and people everywhere were rushing out to play in it. A father strode excitedly towards the park, his daughter trailing in his wake.

“Why couldn’t we stay home, daddy?”

“This is for you.”

“I want to watch cartoons.”

“This’ll be one of your happiest memories.”

She slips a mitten’d hand out of his grasp.

“But I’m cold. I want to go home.”

“No. We’re bonding. This is our time to bond. So, now, we’re bonding.”

The little girl starts to cry.

“Oh, now you’re crying. Very grown up”

“I’m only 8.”

One must always leave every social engagement with two invitations, because one will invariably clash with some other prearranged function. However, all soirées may be enjoyable by following some very simple rules. Oxford should always be referred to as Oxford, Cambridge as ‘The Other Place’. Always shake with right, but pinch with the left. Never call servants by their first name. It only encourages them. Eye contact is considered a bare minimum, especially for those smoking opium. And never wager money on midget fights, this is simply not done anymore, unless the sum at stake is greater than a hundred.

“Now the band might get big, we need to know, is there anything embarrassing that might come out once you’re in the spotlight?”

That’s how it had been put to him. His mind raced. All the horrific, debauched things. Everything he was ashamed of. Get all of it out into the open. Get out from under it.

He thought so often about how he could tell people, how to show them his other face. This was the chance.

It felt comic that this would be how it was broached.

“So is there anything?” they asked again.

“No. Don’t think so.”

My son’s just died in a horrific car accident. He hasn’t. I don’t have a son. But that’s what I say when something’s gone wrong. When I get caught, you know, stealing or whatever. Never say sorry; it’s an admission of guilt, that you’ve done something warranting an apology. I just say it and walk off. I’m an age now where I could have a son. I guess that’s why it works. When I was younger I would just have to run. I’m not so fast these days, guess I’m smarter though. I know to play on people’s sympathy instead.

What do you say when your friend asks “Did you like my band?”

Well I’m here and I’ve paid to get in. That should be enough, right? Don’t get me wrong. I want to support my pals. But I don’t want to lie to them.

You’re trapped by this dumb question. And you’ve only got like a second to answer, ‘cause they’re totally watching your face for some reaction.

“Yeah, great.”

It’s not even really an answer, but they can read into it what they like.

And if I didn’t like the music, I could’ve be talking about something else.

I’m a games-tester. Yes, I do play videogames all day, everyday. No, it’s not as fun as it sounds. Mostly you’re testing the walls work. By work I mean you can’t walk through them. So I walk into walls all day, everyday. I wanted to be a spy. Serious. Then I’d be doing something that matters. Spies. That’s kind of how I got into testing. There was a spy-themed game that I worked on. After that I found it harder and harder to get any other kind of work. Testing doesn’t really prepare you for any other line of work.

I’m a spy. I can’t talk about much of it. And you probably wouldn’t want me to. I’ve seen some deeply horrible things. The funny thing is what convinced me to apply was playing Golden Eye. In retrospect, I wish I’d just gone for the games industry instead. Ad worked as a games-tester. You just get to play video games all day. Because, I’ll be honest, I don’t think anything I’ve done really matters. Not in the grand scheme of things. Only I’m not sure what else to do. Spying doesn’t really prepare you for any other line of work.

Giles stared at the sign for some time. For sale: baby’s shoes, never worn. A myriad of possibilities flew through his mind. Maybe the baby had one set of shoes too many. That was the only positive possibility he’d thought of. The possibilities were far less optimistic. The sign reminded him of something Hemingway had said. Or maybe it wasn’t Hemingway; maybe it was some comedian. Giles was paralysed. If this sign could send his mind reeling then what would people think of his own sign: Box of lipstick (red) and child’s bike (also red). Free to a good home.