One of my worst habits is calling myself a writer. I do write but in that cliche, tortured way where every moment of my life is spent contemplating all the words I’ll never type. I’ve discussed this before but rarely do enough to merit having said anything about it.

Recently, however, I’ve started writing short stories. I suspect this is what I should have been doing all along as I tend to create in bursts. If I can do that consistently enough I might just crack the safe I’d long since stowed the remnants of my creativity in.

I’ve even started working on a few pieces I intend to submit to literary magazines because I long for the familiar sting of editorial rejections. In that process I’m now jotting down tales in exactly 100 words. There’s an online lit mag called 100 Word Story that I may eventually submit these to but I liked the exercise of telling a complete story with such agonizing constraints.

Here’s one I’m not embarrassed by. Let me know what you think.

Emeraldis

The dreadful crack of her crystalline skin pursued him. That splintering, tinkling percussion demanded he gaze once more upon the opalescent visage of his Emeraldis.

What love he'd placed in each beryl of her gown, and what sorrow he saw in the glints of ruined quartz streaking across her face. Rubies dripped venomously from her lips as her selenite teeth gnashed and chattered. He felt the iciness of her existence and knew the shards of diamonds set into her sleek spectrolite hands would soon rip into his flesh.

In her splendor he fell choking as tourmalines burbled in his throat.