in 1000 Stories

no globe – 61/1000

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She loved exploring her grandmother’s attic. It held a thousand treasures from the past, collected by family and brought here to live with the dust bunnies.

Once, she went up with her mother and found something she’d never seen before.

“Mom, is this a globe?”

“It is, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

Mom spun the globe in its cool stand, and she looked sad.

“The world changed before your grandma ever got to use it in school.”

“That place where they used to teach things?”

“Yeah.”

Everyone was sad grandma wasn’t allowed to teach anything anymore.… Read the rest

in 1000 Stories

on the topic of isolation – 60/1000

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She hated it when he wasn’t there for her.

She loved it when she could be enveloped in her lovers arms, when she could be pressed against him chest to chest, when she could rest her head on his shoulder, when she knew his arms would be there to roll into when she woke up.

The mornings when she wakes up alone, she wakes up weeping.

She knows these cuddles won’t be for long, and she might hot have them very long, either.

But when she gets them, his embraces are like water: she thinks she will die without them.… Read the rest

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i like shiny things – 59/1000

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He held out a shiny silver ring to her with trembling hands.

“I know I don’t have much to give you. I can’t even give you a real ring. But I swear I will give you my undying love and devotion. I promise I will love you and care for you for the rest of our lives.”

It wasn’t actually a ring. It was just a piece of tinfoil twisted and pinched into ring form.

She looked into his eyes and knew she believed him, he would love her forever.

She held out her hand, and the ring slipped on.… Read the rest

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mirror, mirror – 58/1000

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This wrinkle on my forehead is new.

I’ve been watching it grow for a few years now, and first it only showed when I smiled, but now it’s still there when I’m not, so, that’s new.

I have these little hard hairs growing out of my chin.

Whiskers I have to pluck every other week or so, even though I’m probably the only one who knows they’re even there.

And what’s with this red, dry skin on my face, and the way it aaaaaalmost seems like my hairline is moving back?

This getting older thing has its drawbacks, you know.… Read the rest

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meet cute – 57/1000

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‘Almost, I can almost reach it,” she thought, going for a big can on the highest shelf.

She wasn’t surprised when she tipped forward. First her breasts hit the mixed vegetables, then her arms brought down the green beans.

And then she was in someone’s safe arms.

“Are you okay?” asked the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

“Fine, just a klutz,” she said.

“A short klutz,” he joked.

And that was how they met: a meet cute at a grocery store, when her clumsiness landed her in her dream man’s arms.

Their first kiss is near the crushed tomatoes.… Read the rest

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peace, history – 56/1000

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“Do you want to keep this?” I asked, holding the box of Christmas ornaments.

“No, no room.”

I decided to keep it.

“What about these family photos?”

“No, it’s not like I’m ever going to look at them again. I probably forgot half the people in there!”

I keep that box, too.

I’m the only one who wants to hold on to our family, keep some mementos from our lives, our history.

I weep as my parents fill the dumpster with my past.

Now we have no family home.

We just have the memories so sharp they cut like glass.… Read the rest

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a spot of revenge – 55/1000

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“The first time I saw it I was brushing my hair after a shower. I turned just so and saw in the mirror the dark spot on my shoulder.

“My husband said it looked like a bruise, but it just kept getting worse.

“The bruise turned into a boil, and then that was lanced, so I had an open wound. Then they had to care for it daily, and I lived for months in this constant agony until my flesh just started rotting away.”

“My God, do you know what did it?”

“Yeah. I shouldn’t have cheated on my husband.”… Read the rest

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“Everyone wants to give a writer the perfect notebook. Over the years I’ve acquired stacks: one is leather, a rope of Rapunzel’s hair braids its spine. Another is tree-friendly, its paper reincarnated from diaries of poets now graying in cubicles. One is small and black as a funeral dress, its pages lined like the hands of a widow. There’s even a furry blue one that looks like a shag rug or a monster that would hide beneath it—and I wonder why? For every blown-out candle, every Mazel Tov, every turn of the tassel, we are handed what a writer dreads

… Read the rest