do a month's worth of writing on 100words.com

I had to edge into May to finish April’s batch, but I made it. 3,000 words, some of them lucid. Yay.

I got bored after two days.

bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas bananas
bananas bananas bananas bananas persimmons

He told her, “You are going to have to compromise here. The world doesn’t revolve around you, Stella.” She silently lit a cigarette. “I mean it, girl. We all care about you, or we wouldn’t be wasting our time on this. Help us out, would you?” Stella shook her head, and her black ringlets passed before her eyes like curtains. “If you go through with this, you’re on your own.”

Stella crushed the cigarette against the brick wall and turned to face him fully. “I’m already on my own.” She brushed past him, and her shadow swept along the brick.

I am not actually going to do this on 100words.com. I am going to do it here. Starting now. Until the end of May. Because this is my goal and I can do it however I want. Neener neener.

3
I hate this guy down the street, the one who lives in the $600, 000 condo called Tribeca and walks a blank-faced boxer. The Tribeca used to have two Cs in the name before the development company fixed it. Most buildings have a gated area in the front where the garbage cans live. Not the Tribeca. The garbage cans are lined up neatly inside the drive-in garage—the thing that most buildings on our street don’t have. And the guy? He dumps his dog’s poop bag in our garbage can, or somebody else’s on the block. No guilt. Ever.

I don’t believe that dogs live only in the moment, or that they have no memory. Faith has a sense of history, and she holds grudges. A month will pass since we’ve walked down a particular street, and her hackles will rise as we pass a certain second story window that long ago held two crazed Boston terriers who would fling themselves against the glass in Faith hatred. And yet: Faith’s dragged me down the street in pursuit of Frank, the large black guy who served as her shelter’s assistant manager, and lovingly roughhoused with her. But it’s never Frank.

2.
My father hated dogs. I feared them, and, being a daddy’s girl, I came to hate them, too. My father, who told me there was no such thing as a dirty word, and could spew beautiful, rage-filled invective for ten minutes straight, cowered when the dachshund down the block barked at him. Twenty-six years passed. My father got brain cancer. As my father lay dying, my sisters broached the subject with my mother: did she want a dog? She did. We said nothing, did nothing, until my we buried my father in his bespoke suit and fedora. Mom adopted Odie.

1.
Today I saw Randy, the homeless guy. It was Easter Sunday, and I was walking my dog Faith. Randy’s dog Foxy died a few weeks ago, run over by a white van, twice, right by a lovely park with a dog run, a jungle gym, a very old rock, and a view of the Empire State Building.

Earlier this week, somebody dumped Randy’s cart, which he usually kept tucked in an alley behind a church. Randy lost a lot of things, including the snow boots my husband and I gave Foxy.

“God bless you!” Randy said, as my dog barked.

Since I started late, I’m still trying to catch up.

The site is here.

http://www.100words.com/