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.

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.

Andre

Looking at him you could not see a less extraordinary man. A head that is oddly large for his small stature, one that seems to contain more than it could possibly hold and a heart that matches it. You can always find him in a room full of much taller people by simply following the sound of laughter. He possesses an uncanny self-assurance that enables him to approach and engage even the most daunting characters and once engaged, you would be hard-pressed to ignore him. I married him because he made me laugh. I have been laughing for 40 years.

My Annus Horribilis

The year began with frequent panicked calls, multiple falls and nightmarish nights in the ER until my 95-year-old mother mercifully passed away on April 30^th. With spring came news of the end of my daughter’s marriage and the loss of a son-in-law. Underlying all this, the steep decline of my husband’s health to the point of immobility. Then October 7^th happened and the world seemed to finally collapse. Even the launch of my novel, an accomplishment, seemed like a loss – no more intimate early morning hours spent with my protagonist. Queen Elizabeth’s got nothing on me. 2024 can’t come soon enough.

Hell

It has a name – Hamas, a face – Terror, and a date of birth – October 7, 2023.
Evil came bursting through Hell’s gates and flooded the land of milk and honey with blood and offal. Jihad versus Chai perversely glorifying death instead of sanctifying life. That day Hell was born on earth, joyful innocence and blind trust were casualties. Love has become pain, anger reigns, and hate is rampant. The one emotion struggling to survive is Hope. Hope that innocents, if not innocence, will be returned and the hope that now exposed, evil will die in the light.

Calendar Pages

Calendar pages flip over in fast motion as if being blown by a gust of wind, a trick used in old films, to indicate that we are no longer where we were a minute ago. No kidding! I have just regained my bearings from a spring and summer fraught with bad news; fires, floods and death, only to see that the trees in Forest Hills have begun to put on their autumn show. Next thing I know it’ll be the dead of winter and soon a new year on the calendar. It didn’t go so fast when I was younger.

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.

AI

Artificial Intelligence is made by humans to simulate natural intelligence. Like most artificial things, it’s never as good as the original. Instead of enhancing our problem solving capabilities, we’ve abdicated our innate human ability to acquire, understand, and use knowledge to a computer. Yes, AI has more robust datasets than we could acquire in our lifetime but they will never be human. We can never instill empathy, compassion, altruism or love for one another in a machine. Losing those human attributes, will we become artificial beings ourselves? Having created this thing, how much of our humanity have we lost already?

Old Friend

I hadn’t seen my best-friend-wannabe in years and then one August afternoon she was walking toward me on Queen Street. Was it really her? The brilliant sunshine was unkind to her. As she approached I noticed the mutations that time has wrought. An exhausted face with rings around eyes that have lost their luster. Her throat has thickened as has the rest of her. Her physique is a collection of body parts that don’t fit together. Short legs, long arms, small flat buttocks below wide hips. My stomach knots as she gets closer. Will she stop? Who will she see?

Hello 2023!

How is it that as the clock winds down, the years remaining seem to speed up and the prospects for completing bucket-lists become slimmer? Not that I’m a bucket-list person. I’m more of a see-what’s-around-the-corner-and-take-advantage-of-whatever-it-is type. There is no prospect of globe-trotting, horseback riding, sailing or romance around the corner. Instead there is space and time for writing, painting, and learning. As for thrills, there is still driving fast. Speeding around corners is no longer in anticipation of adventure, but for the enjoyment of how well I can hug them. And still, you never know what curves lie in wait.