Play with Word Count: 100 words

Day Twelve: WordPress Writing 101, September 23, 2015

Since I tend to write long, here I am trying a ‘flash fiction’ (err, sort of !) of 50 words, with the prompt ‘Lost and Found’. Also fiction is something I balk at. So here’s to confronting two fears together !

Lost and Found:

Missing. Again. Just when she needed it. She kept misplacing it, wasted time searching for it and then got late. Always. ‘Why not do without it ?’, asked her friends. ‘Get something you can’t possibly lose’. ‘Oh, that I cannot’, she smiled to herself and pulled at her hair. Specs found ! 

Lakshmi S. Menon


Writing 101: Day FIVE: Be Brief

 Writing 101: Day FIVEBe BRIEF

Today’s Prompt: You stumble upon a random letter on the path. You read it. It affects you deeply, and you wish it could be returned to the person to which it’s addressed. Write a story about this encounter.

Today’s twist: Approach this post in as few words as possible.

None of us will ever know the whole story in other words. We can only collect a bag full of shards that each seem perfect.

— From 100 Word Story‘s About page

Brevity is the goal of this task, although “brief” can mean five words or five-hundred words. You might write a fifty-word story, as writer Vincent Mars publishes on his blog, Boy in the Hat. Or you might tell your tale in precisely one-hundred words, like the folks at 100 Word Story — an approach that forces you to question every word.

For writers who tend to write more, a longer word count may be considered concise, too. At Brevity, writers publish nonfiction of seven-hundred-fifty words or less: there is space to develop a piece, yet a focus on succinctness.

The Note

The shop was closed. I sighed in exasperation and was about to stomp off in a huff, when I saw the little note tucked into the window sill. Curious (I know, it was none of my business), I opened it and read:

I waited and you didn’t come. Nothing’s changed. You are still the same. All talk and no . . . . If you want to see me before I leave, be at the station by 8.    Lily”

A scrawl no doubt, but the letters were legible. My sleuthing instincts and detective-thriller-loving brain conjured up endless possibilities. I looked around, the next shop door was ajar. There was a girl at the counter idly watching a mini TV. She told me what I needed to hear. I ran out like a mad woman and hailed the first cab that came by lazily. It was 7.45 a.m.

Luckily there was only one train expected at our small station at 8.00. I scanned the platform, looking for a girl, a woman, anyone who could be ‘Lily’. Nothing, nobody. The train was being announced. A young man got up nearby, heaving a heavy bag onto his shoulders. He seemed strained and anxious. He dropped his wallet and a photograph peeped out. While picking it up for him, suddenly it all clicked into place.

‘Are you Lleweyn?’, I asked him. ‘Yes’, he said, surprised, ‘how did you . . . .’ I cut him short. ‘She’s in the hospital and unconscious. Yesterday morning as she stepped out of her shop, a hit-and-run maniac pushed her off the kerb . . . .St. johns’, second floor’, I yelled after him. He disappeared as the 8 o’clock Intercity pulled into the station. I looked at the photograph I was left holding. Lleweyn and Marisa, the antique shop girl, were smiling into the camera and on top there was this legend: ‘Llly and Mark, Lleweyn loves Marisa’ !