What is the best thing that you have ever written that was less than 100 words?


Kurt

The directions on how to get to my wonderful, girlfriend's house.

The 20-25 word email that led me to my husband.

The wording of my retirement letter to my politically appointed boss after 32 years of public service. Just two words.

I wrote this one day at my desk. I am a machinist where I spend most of my time making instrumentation for physics experiments. I am also a Pagan. That is the groundwork for this little ditty. I must have been tired, and I haven't counted the words, but here it is:


The heavier elements spinning in orbits ever decreasing,
caught in the eddies of the unimaginable cataclysmic bang.

The beginning of the universe,
the beginning of time.

Iron, Copper, Zinc, Manganese, these are the Demons,
the metals.... In short....steel.

Wrought from the internal fires of Earth,
Sorted, compressed, and spewed forth from the underworld
to mankind... steel.

Gathered, collected and honored steel.
Shaped and treasured... better clubs, better knives, better guns.

Huge beams and plates glow under presses with incredible heat,
surrendering to unyielding forces,
tortured into shapes best suited to me.

I shape them again in my machines,
with my knives, electricity and soul.
I will make them my own intimate pieces and join them in machinery
to pry secrets from the universe.
To force the Gods to tell man "how they did it".

The Gods of the underworld smile as they offer more steel.
While I take the gates of Hell and re-shape them into locks for Heaven's gate.

Interesting -- I am an alchemist.

I can't tell my under 100 word stories on a public forum, but I actually have a collection of these that may or may not be published soon, we'll see. The title of one of them is the current caption under my avitar.

QM2

And is your Avatar also an illustration from one of them ?

No, but thank you for noticing -- isn't it a nice picture? It is by the Russian early 20th century illustrator Ivan Bilibin. He was part of the Mir Iskustva movement and wanted to revive an interest in folklore.

Here are some other images of his (sorry Kurt, don't mean to hijack the thread!)

Thanks that is an avenue worth exploring

Wow! Thanks for that piece of info - I've never heard of him, but his work kind of reminds me of Aubrey Beardsley. Love it.

I doubt I could put anything substantial into 100 words, sadly. Brevity is for the weak

It may be of interest to know; my little ditty above is 167 words, 821 characters without spaces or 987 characters with spaces.

From college days - an old favorite of mine -


Moss Agate
(for Mary)


This dusk of snow
Frames pines
Trimmed white;

Ice cobweb-cold
As the pigeons
Comb the pebbles;

This moss agate.
Delicate as obsidian,
A cool clear glass

Window
Formed by pressure
And persistency.

Inside this winter
Curves our warmth;
Then flowers unfreeze,

As hues release,
Trace lines in outline,
Verdure of spring;

But we’ll remain
Hidden in certain
Pressure and fire –

In volcanic glass
Indefinite, violet –
Flowing like clear water.

The man said LESS than a 100 words
you're disqualified : )

QM2

I know, and I'm ashamed, but I didn't know what 100 words really looked like, so I checked and thought I'd post that to kind of let people know. I tried. Really.....

Intro to my Torts exam, first year of law school. (Question was about a kid playing in a utility area behind a restaurant; cuts self on rusty faucet - parents sue, restaurant defends.)

While there is a general invitation there is no implication of salutation at the faucet’s location, an off-limits designation should cause hesitation notwithstanding the temptation. Also, the parents have an obligation in this situation; if they made observation of the child’s deviation and gave confirmation, it leads to devastation of their accusation by creation of a compared-negligence situation and limits recuperation (Li). Another illustration of destabilization of their allegation is McDonalds’ lack of information, or reason to know of the trespass or dangerous condition.

That beats my "What I did for Summer Vacation" without hesitation.

unleashing the demons while preventing their entry through the gate of Heaven. Nice contrast there!

Mine should be a poem for my mom on her b-day...when i was in highschool. it should've been below 100, if i remember correctly.

It seems that i fail to express myself as precisely as before as time passes....that's sad. :S

Good one. Reminds me of Kipling's Hymn of the Breaking Strain

Probably some poems I wrote and some short stories I wrote for a class I had awhile back. The last story I wrote that could be considered short was 82 pages and now I'm working on a novel that's more than 200.

Rough draft of my engagement proposal to my (now) wife.

A letter never sent... Maybe someday though.

An invoice that brought in loads of money

All my stories are long.


Made longer by my unfamiliarity with brevity.

Here's something I wrote for my latest book:

Minchi’s did a steady trade with men from the refinery. They came in their coveralls. Luz watched them walk up the street from the main gate, usually in pairs, sometimes in larger groups. Noise rose from the bar through the floor to her room. She heard bottles smashing in the trash can, music from the jukebox, billiard balls cracking, and the constant laughter of the perpetually intoxicated.

Another set of noises passed through the walls. These were the sounds of people having sex. Her room was one of four on that side of the staircase. It shared walls with two other rooms, one occupied by Laura, the other by Carmen. Once in a while Luz peeked out her door to see the men these girls brought upstairs. She wanted to see if the faces matched the voices. Sometimes they did, sometimes not. The event was the same every time. First came the sound of the metal door banging downstairs. Then there was the clicking of high heels on the stairs. The second door clanged with a higher pitch than the first. Keys jangled in the room’s lock. Most times there was a squeal or a giggle as the impatient man put his hands or mouth on the girl. The door swung open, then slapped shut. Keys dropped onto the bureau. Shoes clopped onto the floor. A toilet flushed. More giggles turned to moans, grunts, exclamations. “¡Sí, papi, sí!” Usually there was a minute or two of silence before the process was reversed. The toilet flushed and water ran in the sink. Heels tapped across the room where keys were snatched off the bureau. The door opened, slammed shut, and was locked. Clangs and heel clicks alternated until the girl and her client were downstairs. The ritual repeated itself through the night. All Luz could think about was that her turn was coming to experience this first hand.

What a dark and depressing story.... but probably based on reality in many parts of the world.

The brief, brusque and biting letter I wrote to the Australian High Commissioner in Port Moresby many years ago.

We had been applying for a visa for my wife to migrate from PNG to Australia. Some underlings had been obstructive. In particular, they wouldn't accept a local medical inspection to show she didn't have TB. They would only accept one from a doctor from Australia, but they couldn't give her a visa to get that medical inspection without the clearance from that medical inspection. These guys had been reading "Catch 22" and taking it to heart...

Anyway, I finally lost my cool and write the above letter. I posted it in Sydney on a Monday afternoon in one of the, then new, International Post Express envelopes. These were large and had very impressive bright red stripes on them.
It arrived on the High Commissioner's desk in Port Moresby by 9 am the next morning and my wife had her visa by 10:30.

I wish I had kept a copy...

Was sorting through a series of short stories I keep in a collection called "A Rusting Sea," all of which are about old Captains and the like. Here's a little piece from Captain Quincy's Near Death Experience.


From his center drawer he took out an old fountain pen given him by a tall Swede as payment for passage between Oslo and Bremerhaven. Quincy felt nostalgic holding the thing in his hand. He rummaged around another drawer and found the ink well. It took him a few tries but he managed to draw the ink into the pen. He passed the nib over a spare page and sure enough a fine black line followed along smooth as a frozen stream.

What was the name of that Swede? Quincy craned his neck to search the lines of his book. Just as his finger ran down the list of names than his cat leapt onto the desk. His rear paw bumped the ink well sending it careening toward the edge of the desk. The glass cube teetered on the edge but held fast.


Not my greatest scene by relevant to the board.

I wouldn't call myself a writer by any stretch of someone else's imagination, but I do find snippets like these very insipirational .. it also coincides with a story line I have running through my head at the moment

Thanks

Have Fun,

You're welcome. By the way, haven't been to Wales since 1994. Drove down from the North into Swansea and Cardiff and then over to London. Found the countryside handsome and the people interesting. That fog in the valleys is the stuff of real myth and legend.

44

Well at least you trod in some footsteps of poets

I haven't been to the States since 1969 when I hitched on my own from Santa Cruz California to Mexico to New Orleans up to Buffalo then to Montreal & Back to New York

The Country was interesting, varied & bigger than Wales : The people were kind & handsome (so was I then:) )

My signature

My signature.

But this isn't bad either...

I'm a puppy and you're the goldfish bowl.

This is one of my favorite poems that I wrote for my muse, K at C.C.C.N.

You have an inverted fro.
It squeaks clean.
A checkered past bleeps turns turn drive.
A patch, a berry and two pea clothes.
No one's better at this I know.

Gush Girl Go
by
Bradley Joseph Clouse

If I don't win K over with this one, I never will.

A dishpan glow,
lipstick on my dress.
Hurry, it's raining.

Pearls in my eye
by
Bradley Joseph Clouse

This is about an old friend of mine in Austin, TX.

Shannon the swallow clears her throat.
Good to see you, have a seat.
She's a broad hot slot ding.
Pink trimble
and a thump.
Pizza pie goes down dry.
Coke & bubbles.

We Cry
by
Bradley Joseph Clouse

Forget the t's, cross the i's.

A Short Story
by
Bradley Joseph Clouse


A Slighty Shorter Story
by
Bradley Joseph Clouse


A slighty longer story might be damn near impossible.

But I Think I Did It
by
Bradley Joseph Clouse

Is This A Poem?
by
Bradley Joseph Clouse

Now, I e-mailed her at cccn.meds@gmail.com declaring my love for her. She replied that she's with someone else. Could someone here please write her and tell her to at least consider me before she decides to marry someone else.

I wrote all these poems for her. Gretchen Brown is an old dear friend of mine, that killed herself when we were 20 years old. She meant a lot to me. Krystal reminds me of her.

Krystal and I crossed paths 5 years ago and I met her again at her job about 2 years ago. I just realized that they were the same person.

Brad


This one was written for Krystal in mind. Definitely.

You are my winking brown eye.
You are the rainbow dew in the cross of my eye.
You have hacky-sack boobs and green & pink socks.
You know we met in jail.
You were behind glass
and I walked up to you.
We touched glass and said
I love you.
Now it's almost 5 years later.
But never too late.
You make me sprinkle.
You make me pee in the street.
You are my custard Pie.
I am el Portal.
You are my gaslight.
And green light.
You are Gretchen Brown
and I am your string.
You are my balloon and I'm your knot.

Marry me,
That's Heavy
by
Bradley Joseph Clouse
copyright 2008

My mind is a prison and you hold the key
I know if I ask you wont set me free
But will watch me with pleasure as I slowly go mad
And wont think it strange or evil or sad.....

I wrote that when I was 14 for an English class

One day, in junior high, I happened to have a dip pen with me. My friend and I were passing notes. He wrote something (I forgot), to which I responded, in my best impression of Copperplate at the time:

"Ｆｕｃｋ　ｙｏｕ．"

He said that's the most beautiful thing he's ever read.