I went for a little more of a postmodernist feel with this one. Not really intentionally, it just sorta happened. But hey, perhaps the lack of a conclusive ending just makes sense given the subject matter. Starting a new life in a new place is hardly something that can be summed up in 100 words. Or even 100 pages. Or even 100 megapages.
I don’t know what a megapage is. Maybe some kind of poster-board.
“I’ll pull it together and fix myself eventually.” My, what well-timed lyrics to show up right as I’m writing this. It’ll be more neat when you read the story. Probably.
For those who are wondering, those lyrics are from Phoebe Ryan’s (remixed by Illenium) “Mine”
Word Count: 100
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Title: Between Spaces
I swear I could hear the clanging bells of a train crossing as I stood there. An infinite space closed and opened in front of me, like a breathing wound. The sunlit streets of Chicago never looked so wide. Across from me… an apartment building with forty-seven occupied spaces and one unoccupied one. Or, one soon to be occupied space. I wondered, standing there on the sidewalk, if my new home would have a sunny window so I could keep growing my plants that smelled like dryer sheets.
A car screeched past me and I coughed, blinded by the smog.
I hadn’t expected this story to take on such a personal tone. After all, I’m due to graduate from college oh-so-terribly soon (emphasis on the “terribly”) and I still don’t really know what I’m doing for the rest of my life. Or even the first year out of college. Well, except writing of course. I bizarre neurological condition, sometimes called, an imagination (which hardly sounds Latin at all, if you ask me. I thought all these diseases had Latin roots), does not allow me to stop writing. Well, I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually. It’s all worked thus far so it couldn’t go THAT horribly, right?
Good luck, you brave writer folk!