The camp was deserted. We picked a random spot to pitch the tent. I head towards the car to get the last pole set and am surprised that so many people have arrived. An acquaintance asks for help moving; a strange assortment of damaged sports equipment and battered musical instruments. I ask her to teach me guitar tuning. She asks where the next event is. I tell her that it’s over. She asks who won, but I don’t know. We scan the newspaper as we’re waiting for the pedestrian signal to change. Bicycles rush by on the rubble filled street.
Writing exactly one hundred words, is harder than you might think. There has been considerable editing which I’ve tried to keep to a minimum. I want the essence of what I write to be fluid; like a stream of thought. As you edit the one hundred words it becomes more precious and less resemblant of a whisper plucked from the air. I suppose one could argue that more editing could accomplished that goal to more satisfaction. I could even agree, but then the 100 words might take weeks to write. Perfection married to time, often ends in divorce.
“He looked out the window. She was there on the street, her blonde hair streaming in the sunlight. She was kissing him. It took him too long to look away; the moment of disconnection too removed to find it readily. He picked things up and put them down again, in the hope of engaging his thoughts elsewhere. It didn’t work. His eyes kept returning the street scene. Was it all in his head? Was it a memory? He didn’t remember, he could only see it. A faerie thought; elusive as the light dancing over the golden streaks in her hair.”