Tag: 130 Tales

Numbers 81 through 90

Number 91 through 100

Numbers 100 through 110

130 Tales: 101 through 110

We’re getting there. Only a couple posts left.

These entries all seem to be moments in time, vignettes: descriptions of scenes not still but full of life, of movement. I imagine everything happening in slow motion, “bullet-time” without the bullets. The limitations of length I think enhance these tales; they remind me of those moments when time seems to all but disappear – those moments that don’t last for more than a second or so where our minds move so quickly the memory becomes cemented, becomes the foundation of the story.

The memory becomes the story.

130 Tales

# 101 through 110

101. Her hand ran the pad across her face. He wanted to tell her she didn’t need it but he was scared to break the gap of anonymity.

102. It surged up his arms and legs, all the way up through his heart and throat. It came out like a train’s bellow, echoing all above.

103. He kept a firm hand on the back of his pants, not to keep them up (that’s what he wanted people to think) but to distract them.

104. Her face always grabbed the eyes of those she didn’t want, as if walking through a burr patch in a field of dandelions.

105. His question rang too loud, cutting through black winter coats and a slushed subway platform. To a tired mob an old man lay lost.

106. He could feel it, dampness beneath the zipper of his hoodie, the itchy sting in each fold but he couldn’t stop running this early.

107. Laughter by the entrance – he swore he saw three girls whispering near the gravestones, cautious about going in. Where are they?

108. He couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes – he kept thinking about what his must have looked like: half full brown cartoon waves of beer.

109. She didn’t know what it meant when it fell, but as it lay there, inches from her face, she became lost amidst its icy veins.

110. An alarm sounds. The grey sedan sheds its feathers. The beating of wings turns a witness’ head.

Past Decades:

Numbers 81 through 90

Number 91 through 100

130 Tales: 91 through 100

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:

130 Tales

# 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.

Past Decades:

Numbers 81 through 90

130 Tales: 81 through 90

I find it difficult to maintain a positive, creative mood for an extended period of time. Issues of worth are always seeping in; exhaustion is always creeping around the corner of my mind, readying to build it’s walls all around my creativity; that monster Reality is always whispering into my ear that you should set your sights somewhere more realistic, somewhere that is full of job-security and social acceptance and banal conversation. These demons always appear, given time, but I can usually count on them showing up just after I’ve passed that midway hump in whatever project I’m working on. And when they do, cerebrally, it becomes very difficult to continue. What’s the point, is the common refrain at this time; it’s repeated so often it almost becomes a daily maxim.

That’s why it is so refreshing to find commonality in those you admire, those you respect, those that have surpassed the level of creativity you didn’t even know existed. Bill Watterson, of Calvin and Hobbes fame, confirmed this for me recently. Check out the strip here. It is beautiful.

I’m surprised and pleased with the tales in this decade. Probably the strongest decade-as-a-whole so far. Makes me excited for what’s to come.

130 Tales

# 81 through 90

81. Her smile becomes permanent, her eyes wide as the actors live their lives for her. She’s fallen in love while they are shopping.

82. His brow wrinkled. His palms glistened as he wrung his hat between them. He never thought he’d be ashamed to come back here.

83. His fingers were red and he smelled of ice. With every breath his eyes lit and his chest wheezed. We drank tea as I told my tale.

84. He put his hand above his eyes to ward off the sun’s attacks. A trail of dust in the distance. No one comes this way, he thought.

85. It’s always surprising to Leonard how easily the earth gives to the force of a hoe, as if it were consciously making life easier.

86. He forgot how much he loved the squeak of his shoes on the court. Finally healed, Neil was prepared to hear it all night long.

87. Her cuffs jumped gently atop her calico gloves. Fingers protected, they attacked the chord then hopped back in caution.

88. She caught the image in her phone. But now she’s seeing everyone’s eyes on her and thinks she needs to get off the streets.

89. It’s like everyone felt for him. When the shelves of oranges fell it was automatic. Now everyone who walks by is picking one up.

90. It was like a rite of passage; like Hamlet being sent overseas, she’s returned home to demand respect and to tell what happened.

Past Decades: