Over three hours ago I sat down to write a story for this blog. Just 100 words. No big deal.

7 pm: Picked up a pencil and sketch pad (my writing tools). Realised I was low on paper. Spent 10 minutes ordering a new sketch pad online.

7.15 pm: Spent another 40 minutes browsing random junk on Amazon.

7.55 pm: Made a cup of tea. Checked email. Replied to emails. Organised emails into folders.

8.20 pm: Tinnitus irritating the hell out of me, so decided to search through YouTube to find the right music to block it out. Instead, watched a TED talk. Then another. And one more. Then watched some outtakes from Peter Kay’s Car Share.

9.50 pm: Finally found the right music. Pressed play. Laptop froze. Had to reboot. Accidentally put it into Safe Mode. Took forever to load back up.

10 pm: Made another cup of tea. Checked email. Replied to emails.

10.20 pm: Wrote half a sentence. Got stuck. Couldn’t think of the right word to use. Went to for inspiration. Got sidetracked by Word of the Day (purloin, in case you were wondering). Spent five minutes reading about the origin of ‘purloin’. Still couldn’t find the word I wanted.

10.30 pm: Stared at the half a sentence I’d written. Realised I’m too tired to write a story now. I’m really annoyed with myself 😦

100-Word Story: The Survivor



The Survivor

She was the survivor. They fell asleep together to find an escape route. She woke up. He didn’t. Her screams made the whole building tremble.

And perhaps we should’ve known right then – should’ve guessed. But we were young. We were thoughtless. Or maybe we didn’t care. Youth has its own reasons for inaction.

We watched in silence as she shuffled through the kitchen in her bare feet and dirty white robe. An apparition looking far away to some distant place; never looking us in the eye.

No one wanted to open her bedroom door the next morning. We already knew.

100-Word Story: The Guy That’s Made of Ghost

Ghost Guy

The Guy That’s Made of Ghost

We shared a taxi once, you and I. Your kindness reminded me to breathe. I see you now, walking past my window; your skin so grey, clinging to your cheekbones like the last traces of flesh on a decaying skull.

I watch as you mouth silent words, imaginary conversations with people only you can see. I watch as you laugh at jokes that no one else hears. And I can’t help but wonder if there was ever a moment, all those years ago, when I could’ve still reached you. A moment before you became the guy that’s made of ghost.

Published on The Drabble