photo by Ben Rosett
Throughout the ceremony, the groom ignores
the angry rustling coming from the oak still carrying his swing
because if he doesn’t look, he can keep pretending the dryad to whom he once gave his heart doesn’t exist.
photo by Maher El Aridi
Glamping – sounds fun on paper,
but neither calling it a yurt nor adding a fridge can mask
that you’re sleeping in a
tent crawling with bugs.
photo by Dan Carlson
I hate to admit that I used to admire
dazzling deeds, your daring attire.
You’re all show without substance, though – a cold, ruthless liar.
We can’t see where I’m going, they complained.
It’s better that way, I wanted to reply
but instead, I said they had nothing
photo by Samuel Sosina
‘How are you?’
terrorised by your to-do list
sick of doing all the hard work your obscenely overpaid boss then takes credit for
hungry but on the latest diet
dating the wrong man but it’s better than being lonely
not reading enough books, not going to enough live gigs
and look at the time, lunch break’s as good as over – in a hurry again
‘Fine.’ You force a smile. ‘Just fine. Yourself?’
A pause, a slow intake of breath and you wonder what kinds of truths she dismisses as unsayable before she, too, settles for the lie.
photo by Ken Wu
‘Yikes, grandpa. Chat up someone closer to your age.’
‘I’m not chatting you up. That would be illegal.’
‘Yeah? I might be eighteen.’
‘I’ve been watching you for a couple of days.’
‘Watching me? It’s getting worse by the sentence.’
‘I am your grandfather. Paternal grandfather.’
‘No, you’re not. I mean, you look old enough, but you hardly give off the responsible adult vibe. Also, my father’s father is dead.’
‘Is that what Jamie told you? How did I die?’
‘Dunno… Crap, you look just like him, though. If Dad were old and a hippie, I mean.’
7 of 31 for Story A Day.
photo by Taylor Davidson
He comes home way past dinner time again and acts as if it’s okay he ignored my calls all night.
‘Soup might still be warm if you’re lucky.’
I don’t know why I’m even talking to him.
‘Sorry, honey. Work meeting ran over.’
To the pub? Does he really believe I can’t smell the booze on his breath?
‘Better late, right?’
There’s nothing different about tonight, with one exception.
‘Yes, better late.’
I’ve dutifully swallowed his lies for weeks, but I can’t leave standing up for myself until late turns into never. Tonight, I take my bags and start over.
(Story 2 of 31 for
Story A Day, inspired by this week’s Moral Mondays prompt: better late than never)
photo by Lyndsey Burk
I do remember; every crappy little thing and how they’ve gained critical mass to come to define me. Everybody thinks I’m the jerk who created this situation. They’re not wrong.
The accident was an accident. I didn’t look for that kind of cop-out. But I’m good at grasping an opportunity when one presents itself.
The therapist shows me a picture of my wife.
‘She looks nice. Do I know her?’
‘Doesn’t she trigger anything?’
Late-night shouting matches, the ultimatum I thought was a scare tactic, her filing for divorce.
I do remember everything.
make everybody believe otherwise.
photo by Krista Mangulsone
The video is so pixelated it’s impossible to tell if this is us or not. I know it isn’t. Fake me’s voice might fool everyone else, it’s not fooling me.
I loathe the sound of my own voice. I hate film premieres when I’m forced to sit through my latest blockbuster and pretend I enjoy it.
Whoever’s behind the tape, they know about the affair. Still, these are actors playing other actors in a sterile hotel room. They’re not us. Her voice doesn’t grate on me like my own does.
I smile at the journo.
‘It’s a fake.’
This is one of these stories I suspect may be too long to fit into 100 words. What do you think?