Susan Hoffman

100 Words

The challenge of writing exactly 100 words every day seems pretty easy, but it’s actually harder than one would think. 100 words are very few to express something meaningful, to tell a story, to communicate either the complex or the mundane in this limited way, and still make it relevant. The examples provided here were diligently composed each day, without prompts of any kind other than what my brain was occupied with at the moment. Some are related to the events of a particular day, others are random musings. I hope they provide some food for thought.

Dream

I had a dream, which did not seem a dream, more like a vague reminiscence. Beyond the shadows of the darkened room stood the man of my dream. I knew him. He had charmed me once, long ago. Half awake, with perishing memories, I strain to see his face, to find a clue in his expression to the enigma of past happiness. But the visage is elusive and the figure is foggy. He cannot give shape to my reminiscence nor can he re-ignite that spark of love yearning to fulfill itself. The enigmatic truth perhaps, is in the yearning itself.

Mercury

Mercury oozes like lava only faster ‒ it’s quicksilver. It can beat like a human heart when exposed to certain elements. Somehow I made yours beat and you lathered me in your beautiful ooze. You are irrepressible, irresistible but also capricious. In the blink of an eye you can become volatile. Your ooze turns into lava that razes the places you’ve touched. I am burnt. Then just as quickly you turn to liquid gold, slowing down, passionately covering me with the precious metal that you are. I am subdued and become glued to you, until you change once again into poison.

Orange

The orange is a perfect fruit. Yield of the tango tree, this dimpled orb comes in its own easily removable package and is conveniently divided into segments to be savored one juicy mouthful at a time. Unlike other seasonal fruits, oranges are available year round regardless of where you live due to their ease of transport. Apples, pears, plums and such, are much more delicate and deceptive, often arriving bruised or rotten at the core. But the orange, covered in its protective coat, honestly shows any defects on its outside and even a damaged one protects the juicy sweetness within.

Fire!

I want to embody the terror and desperation of Angelinos fleeing their homes, flames lapping at their feet, thinking that somehow that will make things better. But I can’t, and it wouldn’t. I watch as if it were my duty to bear witness to the devastation, feeling guilty for my own good fortune – my loved ones are safe, my home is secure. Then as I carry on with my daily life, I forget what’s happening. I enjoy a bath, I sit by the fireplace, cozy and content reading a book when unexpectedly it creeps in between the paragraphs.

Fire!

Plants

I always wanted to make things grow. Wherever I lived houseplants thrived; cuttings sprouted leaves, Bonsais grew new branches, cacti bloomed. Colorful cut flowers in pretty vases always graced my table. I’d place the fallen blossoms in little bowls of water to let them live a while longer. When I finally had my own garden, I planted vegetables and berry bushes and thrilled at the bountiful yield of tomatoes, peppers, strawberries and more.

This year the trees and shrubs on my deck have betrayed me by dying. As for the white-spider-laced houseplants? I want to murder all the needy bastards.

Purging

The hardest part of moving is purging. The hardest part of purging are the books. Deciding which to keep and which to discard is a kind of Sophie’s choice; which of my children should I let go? Do I relegate my favorite books to the donation pile or the garbage pile?

Even a glance at their spines makes the characters jump out and rouse my love anew. How to choose? Once gone, will I forget Philip and Mildred, Úrsula Buendía, Lolita, Sabina, Jane, Genevieve and all? Will the poignant thoughts and emotions they evoked also disappear and leave me bereft?

Snow

In my new studio I look out my window and see a pristine layer of snow covering the yard below me. Three fir trees of diminishing sizes line the fence to the right: tall, medium, small. In the corner where the fences meet, stands the skeleton of a deciduous tree, about 40 feet high with branches reaching 20 feet wide. Possibly a Northern Catalpa or a maple variety (hopefully orange), it will introduce itself to me in the spring.

Fat fluffy snowflakes have morphed into salt shaker specks that keep refreshing the white blanket covering the yard. It’s so quiet.

Dangerous

I paint my nails vermilion. My hands appear to be dripping blood. Good. It makes me feel dangerous. I want to scorch the earth with my rage.

The howling wind abets my murderous mood. I growl at the homeless man who relies on the condescending coins I toss at him. I bark at the barista ‒ today I take my coffee strong and black, adding bile to the fire in my belly.

Kevin, inside his glass office, is oblivious of my presence.

“Liar, cheat, degenerate!”

My red-tipped hand lands a hard slap leaving a scarlet mark of shame on him.

J6

The long lens view of this first week of January sees the beginning of a rise out of the cold dark months of winter, but the close up view is quite something else. Grey days, grey streets, grey snow, grey moods. This January sixth we have the added dimension of having to reflect on what occurred this day in 2020 when Americans lost their minds in a frenzy of jingoistic fervor. The MAGA movement’s stated goal of achieving greatness again, paradoxically diminished its greatness by smearing its own Capital in shit. Zoom out and the picture is no less dreary.