Here’s another 100-word story. I will welcome your feedback.
By Laura McHale Holland
Day after day she winds blackberry vines around paperbacks, doorknobs, French fries, shoes—everything she can touch. It’s an effort; she concentrates. But the barbs bend, limp on contact, the vines dissipate like love gone bad. She calls to people walking iguanas on the other side of the fence, but they saunter on unaware she is watching. There was a time, she’s sure, when she was a life-giver, tender lover, beloved friend, but that was before she sliced her world in two, in three, in four, before she saw her holy grail gleaming in the blade of a knife.
Photo by Wayne S. Grazio under Creative Commons license.