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May 19, 2005

Volume 1, Issue 7

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From the NYPL Digital Gallery, which is a great place for literary inspiration.

Note to those who participate in the story telling: We have added a word count script to the comments. We'll be highlighting reader stories that we like, so plug your word count in before you post. Stories that are not 100 words exactly won't be considered for special treatment!

UPDATE - Have replaced above lame, wrong-arsed counter mentioned above with new, cool and froodily accurate counter.

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Comments

Looking across the field, I spotted the old Walker house. That’s how I thought of it because my buddy Jimmy Walker’s family lived there when we were kids. Of course, so did four other families. It was a strange house, too big and too crowded all at once.

I loved to go there and sit in the main room in front of the big old fireplace. Fifty years on, though, Jimmy was gone and the house wasn’t looking so great either. Any smoke coming from the place and you’d want to call the fire department, not get out the marshmallows.

(word count: exactly 100)

Posted by: Geoffrey Barto at May 19, 2005 6:48 AM · Permalink

The house stood on the hill. Lonely. Abandoned. As it stood for years. The old woman lived in it until she died. No one visited her. She had no children. She had never married.

Since she had retired, her days were always the same. Breakfast. Listen to her programs on the radio. Lunch. A trip to market. Housework. Dinner. A book. Day in, day out, the same routine.

No one paid attention to her at the market. A little gray old lady. Gray hair. Grayish skin.

One day she died. Unnoticed. Her corpse sits there to this day. Lonely. Abandoned.

Posted by: Lesley at May 19, 2005 7:56 AM · Permalink

Chris checked the tiny radar as the Bentley growled up the weedy drive. Good, he'd lost them.

Got to hand it to Q division, he thought, climbing the saggy porch stairs. It could be just a tired farmhouse, and the woman who answered his knock just a farmer's widow.

"Hi," Chris said. "I have a special delivery."

"How exciting! Another!"

"Pardon?"

"Headquarters is a bit further, dear; just over the hill. I don't know why they can't give better directions."

"But I like when you nice young men stop by. Would you like some lemonade? I've just made another pitcher."

Posted by: Carthoris of Helium at May 19, 2005 7:57 AM · Permalink

“The distressed look? That’s intentional. A lot of the savvier homeowners are doing that these days – gives the place a sense of history, even when it’s only a few years old.

“How old? Lessee, it was finished in 1998. Three and a half stories above ground, three and a half below. Elevator in the center, porch on the ground floor, two fireplaces, windows everywhere…

“Yeah, a lot of people ask why the low price. That’s kind of a funny story, actually. The previous owner’s having his assets liquidated. Guess he was beheading salesmen, putting their heads on stakes or something…”

Posted by: Keiran Halcyon at May 19, 2005 9:13 AM · Permalink

The abandoned house was not abandoned.

The soul of the house had departed years ago. The last echo of laughter had faded as a last ripple from a skipping stone would at the end of a golden day. The life had melted out of the walls, leaving behind only a fragile latticework of faded dreams. The house had only the soft caress of the overgrown grass and the insistent voice of the wind for company.

The house had no soul, but it was not abandoned. What was left was much older than a soul. It hurt. And it was angry.

Posted by: Hubris at May 19, 2005 9:58 AM · Permalink

The man from the Ellicotsville Historical Society was due any minute. Claire was on pins and needles. If she could convince him that the old house had historical value, maybe that would stop the logging company from tearing it down.

She had put on her favorite navy blue dress, the same one she wore at her 51st wedding anniversary dinner. That was two months before her husband succumbed to lung cancer.

The shadows grew longer and the sun slowly sank in the west, giving the front yard a golden, ethereal hue.

"No one places value in old things anymore," Claire thought to herself.

Posted by: Shawn at May 19, 2005 10:09 AM · Permalink

The tenement looked out over the Allegheny, on top of a cliff. It sat 250 feet above the river, and it offered a 170-degree view of a shopping center that was once a massive steel mill.

The developer struggled up the weedy hill in Sonia Rykiel stilettos. She breathed heavily. “The residence tower will go here,” the whippet-like woman wheezed. Mr. Chao's and his six assistants nodded once, in unison. They signed the papers on the porch.

She turned to face the river. “This will be my legacy,” she thought, as she ran toward the edge.

Posted by: CJP at May 19, 2005 10:28 AM · Permalink

Grandma lived in a decrepit hotel that used to be off the old bypass to Colton. She had purchased it when they decided to build the new highway: it had been her dream to run a bed and breakfast, and the nearby offramp would guarantee her business. When she was asked to sell instead, she refused -- repeatedly and vocally.

The roads commission had the last laugh. They still built the highway. The offramp was built ten miles away, even though you could see the road from the porch and hear the trucks all night.

Grandma had five guests stay. Three were family.

(100 words: I don't count the "--" as a word.)

Posted by: Johnny Catbird at May 19, 2005 11:14 AM · Permalink

Back in the day, it was the most popular house for miles around. Brightly lit interiors advertized sex for sale, with a fringe of red incandescent bulbs around the roof in case the message wasn't completely clear.

They couldn't compete in the modern market, couldn't keep up with the bribes the police demanded. Closed the doors, shuttered the windows, forty years gone.

Three of the girls from back then still live there. They're pushing seventy by now. I bet one of would probably throw you a five dollar lay, just for old times's sake.

Hey, would I lie to you?

Posted by: Jeff R. at May 19, 2005 11:43 AM · Permalink

Old house, my name is Cat D-9,
I'm throbbin' with diesel and feelin' fine!

I see you sir, do you see me?
Old and sad and weak of knee?

"Weak-of-knee"? You silly dwelling,
Your anthropomorphicism is so very telling!

Mine? Well, listen, young stalwart bulldozer,
You shouldn't talk either, don't you know, sir?

Hmm, right, this conversation is antic,
But must it be also annoyingly pedantic?

That's 'pedantically', but be not annoyed;
Understand my dismay at my being destroyed?

Oh yes m'am I do, I'll someday be rust
We all terminate and turn back to dust.

I know...the town needs this land I am on,
and those that I've loved are moved on and gone.I know...the town needs this land I am on,
and those that I've loved are moved on and gone.

Posted by: Buddyl Larson at May 19, 2005 11:59 AM · Permalink

(oo...are we 'spose to add our word count? If so, "100")

Posted by: Buddy Larsen at May 19, 2005 12:04 PM · Permalink

Like his daddy and grandpa, Jake had grown up playing in the old hotel. Tag and water balloons in the big field below. Hide and seek in its many empty rooms and closets. At eight, with his Roy Rogers cowboy hat and trusty six cap shooters, he’d guarded the hotel’s porch from marauding Indians and craven desperados. He kissed his wife for the first time in the hotel’s sitting room one Halloween.

“All clear!” Jake bellowed then pushed the button.

“Sure made a lot of dust,” the foreman coughed. “Let’s go get some beers and clean up the timbers later.”

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at May 19, 2005 12:12 PM · Permalink

"Two hundred dollars to scrape and paint this whole damned thing? No way, man. No way." That's what I said, and I meant it. Sure, I need the money, but I also need my pride. I'm a fine painter, and two hundred dollars is just insulting.

And, the best part is, she intimated that I'd be mowing the lawn as part of that two hundred bucks, too!

And she'll just sit there out on the porch, drinking lemonade and watching me sweat, thinking, "I really got that guy."

Not this guy. You know, I've got my pride.

Posted by: Adam at May 19, 2005 12:29 PM · Permalink

Very odd. I count 100 words in my post but the calculator only counts 99.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at May 19, 2005 12:30 PM · Permalink

I see that, Jim...when I count your words it gives me 98, yet checking it in Word gives me 100. We'll see if we can't find a better solution.

Posted by: Sekimori at May 19, 2005 1:37 PM · Permalink

How about 98 to 102 be considered as de-facto '100'?

Posted by: Buddy Larsen at May 19, 2005 1:46 PM · Permalink

Uh, not so much. If you don't have Word, then you have a finger and eyeballs, ya?

Posted by: Sekimori at May 19, 2005 2:41 PM · Permalink

I see your point.

Posted by: Buddy Larsen at May 19, 2005 2:57 PM · Permalink

*groan*

Posted by: Sekimori at May 19, 2005 2:59 PM · Permalink

Maeve looked back at the house she'd considered home for thirty years. She hated leaving but things changed, life moved on. She sighed and got into the car.

The stories the walls could tell. Since Bush became President business had slowed to a trickle. No more wild parties with Condoleezza, Dick and George would be taking place in those rooms. They had all become "respectable".

Looking back as she rounded the bend in the road she sighed, "G'Bye best little crackhouse in Texas! All right Driver, let's get moving. They'll be expecting me in Washington can't keep the President waiting."

Posted by: Minet at May 19, 2005 3:03 PM · Permalink

Say, do we commenters get to cheat like the main posters by having Titles that don't apply to our word count?

Posted by: Jeff R. at May 19, 2005 3:18 PM · Permalink

The house had been inching its way down the hill for almost thirty years, striving ever further towards its goal. When young, it had stood at the top of the hill, inhabited by vigorous young families, whose arguments and laughter filled it with joy. One day, a seagull flew down onto its porch, and exclaimed: “look at the sea! It shines and is full of fish!” and the house looked, and fell in love. After the seagull left, the house’s love only grew stronger. Eventually, it forgot about its occupants, shifted its foundations in the earth, and began its journey.

Posted by: Steve Massey at May 19, 2005 3:37 PM · Permalink

...and began its journey.

That's a cool thought.

Posted by: Hubris at May 19, 2005 3:51 PM · Permalink

That’s where I first kept her.

When I found her, she’d fallen from a nearby tree.

I couldn’t tell if bones were broken. Yes, I know I shouldn’t have moved her.

That abandoned house was closest, so I took her there.

She woke up, yet never made a sound.

I locked her in a room, worried someone might find her.

I brought her milk and sunflower seeds. She ate eagerly.

When I brought the cage, she looked confused, but walked in with encouragement.

It wasn’t until we got to the vet that I even knew she was a female bird…

(count via Word: 100)

Posted by: LDH at May 19, 2005 4:02 PM · Permalink

The first important time I remember sitting on those stairs was when I was seven years old. I was way up top watching the grass grow and a guy walked up the hill. My dad came out of the house and they started to talk in the yard. I slid down a step at a time to get closer. It was the first time I remember my dad letting me overhear his conversations.

Can you see the fifth stair? The first two are kinda blocked in the pic. I was sitting on that stair, the side closest to you, when they told me Grandpa died. We didn’t have a phone. Grandpa lived about two miles away and my dad went rushing out when Aunt Barbara came crying and all. I sat there for hours waiting for him to come home.

The last time I walked on those stairs was 17 years ago. Dad died on the second floor, far side (you can’t see the window). I took mom’s samplers off the walls, gathered some pictures, and left the rest for The Others (including the deed). They picked it clean. And left the house to rot. Assholes.

(196 words. I’ll write about Les a little later.)

Posted by: Clyde at May 19, 2005 5:38 PM · Permalink

"But, it's so... big."
"Yeah, isn't it great?"
"And spooky."
"Well, that's kind of the point, right? We can put the fog machine in that crawlspace area, and all the windows will let us point the projector in any direction."
“Oh, honey, do you really think this will work?”
“Money in the bank. These yokels already think the place is haunted. A little phosphorescent paint, some rubber masks, and a kicking sound system hidden in the walls, and this place will be the perfect hideout.”
“As long as those meddling kids don’t catch wind of it.”
“And that damned dog.”

Posted by: David at May 19, 2005 6:24 PM · Permalink

100 words according to Word and my fingers, 96 by your counter.

Posted by: David at May 19, 2005 6:26 PM · Permalink

His early army discharge had been a surprise. On arriving home, finding Horace in bed with his wife, that was a surprise too. All nine of the kids, peacefully sleeping in their beds, as if he had never been there. They sebntenced him to life in Middleton State Hospital.
They'd released him last month when he'd turned eighty. He couldn't harm anyone anymore. Besides, no one alive remembered that day. Except him.
He stayed in a small room in the basement now, never venturing upstairs, where they still slept peacefully, like he'd never been there.

Posted by: JM at May 19, 2005 6:26 PM · Permalink

i think the counter is using fuzzy math or something. It said 100, but it seem i fall short.

Posted by: JM at May 19, 2005 6:28 PM · Permalink

plus it put someone elses name in front of my work.

Posted by: JM at May 19, 2005 6:37 PM · Permalink

woops, sorry

Posted by: JM at May 19, 2005 6:38 PM · Permalink

ANd thank you David for venturing in. but you stole my story..I gotta go write something else now...

Posted by: ted at May 19, 2005 6:54 PM · Permalink

>>Say, do we commenters get to cheat like the main posters by having Titles that don't apply to our word count?

This site is meant to be a fun exercise for all. If you're going to be a five year old about it, you are welcome to use the little red X up there in the right hand corner.

Posted by: Sekimori at May 19, 2005 7:14 PM · Permalink

Here's my pennance. Les Nessman was not the man you saw on tv. He was a friend of mine. More than a friend. Actually, he was my sister. He was born Leslie Nessmanof. We lived outside Leningrad when the Germans came. Leslie was always homely, so she dressed like a man to avoid being abused by Hitler's thugs. After the War, she continued to borrow my clothes. I thought it was a joke until we immigrated to your country. At the border, when asked her name, she said, "Les Nesmann." I cried. S/he punched me in the face.

Posted by: Clyde at May 19, 2005 7:48 PM · Permalink

Folks - is it possible to code in the +/- into the tag line at the end of the comments? It's a really cool feature. btw - I'm glad this site has gotten some exposure. It's a wonderful concept. I've given it to some English faculty at a college where I teach. I hope they find a use for it.

Posted by: Clyde at May 19, 2005 7:54 PM · Permalink

Hi,

The new cool froody word counter is counting "house's" as two words, whereas Word takes it as one. This puts my story one word over the limit. Bah!

Posted by: Steve Massey at May 19, 2005 8:39 PM · Permalink

Dammit!

Posted by: Sekimori at May 19, 2005 9:30 PM · Permalink

Comment rating capability added. Woo, I rawk!

Posted by: Sekimori at May 19, 2005 9:37 PM · Permalink

Report: Nessman House, Cincinnati, OH

Dear Historic Preservation Advisory Council:

Property vacated in May 1975, after a spider apparently entered and frightened owners to death. Three corpses, Harvey & Mildred Nessman's and the spider's, were positioned such that Coroner Noxy Fumarola's certificate pronounced them "skeered plumb dead, all three of 'em".

Property is donated by heir, WKRP's Les Nessman and wife Denise, ex-mayor of Cleveland. Contains Nessman remains (headstones etched "Told You So" and "Ahh Shut Up"). Elsewhere, presumably, spider grave, apparently unmarked.

Thank You
Jack Suppafee
(Inspection fee, gov't, $50,000 due-on-receipt)

Posted by: Buddy Larsen at May 19, 2005 10:25 PM · Permalink

Oops, dammit, forgot to add, came in at 100 on-the-nose, AND is a "Les", which I think fairly gives me one (1) "un100" credit. Where should I put my one un100 credit?

Posted by: Buddy Larsen at May 19, 2005 10:35 PM · Permalink

I am holding a black-and-white photograph that I found in a antique cigar box.
Ramshackle three-story, basement, overgrown grounds.
I've been around the business enough to know that
"well-loved" only means abandoned, rat-infested,
and ready to collapse, inside where you can't see.

I certainly didn't grow up there, if that's what you're thinking.
I'm Greenwich, old money, only child, prep school, Harvard, Harvard Law.

1900 billable hours by June 1st, and I'm making partner, I feel it.

Hell, my freakin' hot tub cost more than that shack is worth.

The photograph speaks to me, and I wish I knew why.

Posted by: Randy Shane at May 19, 2005 11:16 PM · Permalink

Steve iss right. It counts all contractions as two words. Should we?

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at May 19, 2005 11:53 PM · Permalink

July, 1979. I ran away from home with nothing but a sandwich and my camera. Half way through the Bronx, I passed this house. I froze. Something inside called to me.

At the top of the stairs I saw a small boy. He sat on the top step, rocking back and forth. He never said a word to me; he just stared at me. I sat with him all day, until the cops came and took me back home.

When I asked, they said the only boy in that house died over 100 years ago.

I hope he's ok.

Posted by: shannon at May 20, 2005 1:56 AM · Permalink

>>Steve iss right. It counts all contractions as two words. Should we?

Nope, we'll verify counts by hand or with Word.

Posted by: Sekimori at May 20, 2005 7:12 AM · Permalink

He's back.

Just like yesterday, a little closer today.

He reminds me a little bit of the last one. Bobby, I think his name was. About the same age, somewhere between late Schwinn and early Chevy. Does his exploring on foot these days.

His courage is about as thick as his skin. Both will be gone soon.

Maybe tomorrow he'll get up enough nerve to come in. I'll still be here, just like always.

I'd better pick up some herbs and spices; maybe some barbecue sauce for this one.

My stomach is really starting to growl.

Posted by: Don at May 20, 2005 8:50 AM · Permalink