Tag: twitter project

Numbers 41 through 50

Number 51 through 60

Numbers 61 through 70

Numbers 71 through 80

Numbers 81 through 90

Number 91 through 100

Numbers 100 through 110

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 41 through 50

Number 51 through 60

Numbers 61 through 70

Numbers 71 through 80

Numbers 81 through 90

130 Tales: 71 through 80

The healing continues. Of both body and mind and the various social areas of my life. A shock like a lightning bolt sent through my entire existence rattled me quite badly and only now is the buzzing diminishing. We struggle against many things in our daily lives while making commitments to remaining constant. The worlds we create, the worlds we float between, from when we wake up, to when we go to work, to when we work and play and find time alone all overlap, like the most complex Venn diagram, and it’s difficult to realize that if one part of it falters, the effects are felt in each area. And on the opposite, if one is happy, if one is healthy, if one is inspired the effects emanate, just like that lightning bolt, from one area to the next. We trick ourselves into thinking we can truly separate areas of our lives from each other.

Re-doing this project makes me aware of this, as I cut and paste and repost these entries without editing and try to remember everything that was happening to me all those years ago when I was writing each entry. I think it’s allowing me to see my current situation / context of living a bit clearer.

Number 73 is one of my favourite entries in this entire project.

…

130 Tales

# 71 – 80

71. She finds it hard to keep her face straight. It’s as if the muscles grew too large overnight, like gravity doubled its hold.

72. The door swings open, although you wouldn’t notice it. A mystery enters the room, nameless until a hand lights the lamp.

73. He doesn’t know where the day went. All he knows is that it’s night again and he said he wouldn’t do this anymore.

74. She laces her boot on the bench while her friend, hands busy zipping up her winter coat, scans the road, cautious of strange eyes.

75. He was a silhouette against a lit room. Staring at the city with borrowed eyes he took time to personally address his audience.

76. He could see all the stories spilling out of its ripped leather. And as he knelt before the briefcase the world melted away.

77. She could see him. She noticed him but he couldn’t notice her. Where was she?

78. The split wooden staircase climbs the hillside like a crab. They lead to a house holding onto the earth for its life.

79. It was like opening a time capsule, that one you prepared when we were children. I didn’t expect it to be that bright.

80. A haze descends on the city, coating its people’s screams with a deaf cage and an unfriendly cold.

Past Decades:

Numbers 41 through 50

Number 51 through 60

Numbers 61 through 70

130 Tales: 41 through 50

This decade surprised me with its consistency; most of these entries remind of paintings. They are not necessarily active in terms of action. Instead, they are active in description, mostly painting a person, a glimpse of wonderment. the beginning of character. At the end of the tales I find myself wanting to follow them, as if each of these characters were on a streetcar, or subway train, and each entry is an offer to follow them, to see where they are going, to see what awaits them at the next stop.

The one that stays with me the most in this decade is Number 49. I’m reminded of a long exposure shot of cars driving through an intersection and then rewarded by a bit of sweetness at the end. I also love the simplicity of Ethel in Number 41. I have a very clear picture of Ethel in my mind, even though I didn’t write any physical description of her. I hope she’s as vibrant to you as she is to me.

—

130 Tales

# 41 – 50

41. Ethel walked by the window with the glass chandelier every day. Mostly she’d act uninterested, but not today. Today she’ll stare.

42. Pen touches paper; its voice remains mute. He feels confined; his thoughts unable to find life outside his immediate surroundings.

43. I can hear a beast within the cave. Standing near the entrance the wind pushes me softly. My ears straining. It is the only sound.

44. What’s his secret? He has a genuine smile. Blue eyes as white and bright as a child’s with a body as old and bent as the truth.

45. Horrified of air and what it carries they prefer to swim through channels of mind. They prefer to breathe life, why anything less?

46. Deep creases dress his cheeks. At a quick glance they could be mistaken for scars, a disfigured face, but he enjoys their safety.

47. The ghost of a woman, dressed in blue, stands in the middle of the street as I stare out the glass. But her proportions are wrong.

48. He stares at the names of destinations: each one new, foreign. For each name he creates a world. For each world he plans a trip.

49. He doesn’t even see them anymore. They are nothing but blurs, streaks curling all around him. How can he – when she’s there?

50. Amidst the swirling lights and laughing people sits a figure stained red and white, blue and green. His hand paints the air.

Past Decades: