It was bound to happen. Within such a confined structure, when most of these tales were written on my phone (before I had a smartphone mind you, so the tales were actually texts I’d send to 21212, the phone number for your twitter account if you have no access to the app) during transit, it was inevitable that out of the 130 I’d create, I would draw on the same inspiration and basically repeat one of them… at some point. And point is actually Number 100. Funny. Such an iconic number, the first to break into three digits, the real marker letting you know that you have really come somewhere… and it’s a repeat.
This is what Number 100 was originally:
She offered him her card, although they’d never met. When he asked, she said, “Call and all your questions will be answered.
Almost an exact repeat of Number 13:
Leaving, I feel a tap on my shoulder. A card pressed in my hands. “Call me later and I’ll explain everything.” What? “Just call.”
I’m happy there was so much space between the original and the repeat (87 original tales until rehashing an old idea is pretty impressive, especially because I wasn’t looking over the archive, aside from just to cut and paste them into a file, while I was still producing the new tales). I can’t, however, let this repetition continue to exist in this project. It feels wrong. Like a little cheat. An unintentional cheat to get to the end. Each tale has to be unique.
So I’ll write a new one.
Number 100 has been changed. I’m excited to mix 2013 Andrew in with the Andrew of 2009 / 2010. And just a bit nervous. Will anyone be able to tell a difference? Probably not. Or, maybe, because I just spent a whole lot of time talking about how Number 100 is new.
Oh well. Here we go:
# 91 through 100
91. The man in brown came every Thursday. He’d open his laptop, order a coffee, then close his eyes. Let his coffee go cold, he would.
92. The snow on her pants didn’t bother her anymore. She’d come to see it as a trophy, a badge of honour she’d wear proudly.
93. She knew it would cause a fuss. That’s why she kept putting it down then picking it up. Now it sits atop her head, ready to fight.
94. She’d never trust her smile with anyone else so she’d pull the scarf above her nose. A mask for his memory.
95. He heard the story about the white stone as a child and thought he’d never forget it. “A lifetime is enough to change any mind.”
96. It hit his eyes first then quickly swam to his mind. His muscles stayed sombre but he felt he could finish the novel in an hour.
97. He thought, This is the only profession where it’s acceptable to be covered in blood and stand out in the streets to have a smoke.
98. Below the third rail lay the charred remnants of a wing. Its bone, stripped, juts towards the rail’s shadow in an innocuous Z.
99. His fingers grabbed the ceiling like a tree frog’s: splayed and flat. He’s tall and wiry, jerking about with the eyes of a gecko.
100. He just couldn’t put it down. It was like that controller was his pair of glasses: a lens to distinguish fantasy and reality.