By Kim Tackett
A few months ago, I discovered that the 35-word (or shorter, never longer) story was a perfect fit for me. It started as an accident, my failed attempts at a six-word story. I couldn’t be that concise and not feel some regret for my leftover words. But the short-short-short story kept at me, until I found a format that gave me enough, but not too much. And the funny thing is, as I keep on writing, I find that the stories are showing up everywhere I look…and listen. I can’t make this stuff up.
When I overheard the two of them discussing the merits of living in a yurt vs. a shipping container, I knew my daughter had met a mate worthy of her imagination.
He said, “I’m not a good person to ask if that picture looks better here or over there. I consider it miraculous that anything even exists, so I can’t render an opinion on its position.”
The final act of her 80th birthday celebratory entertainment was a 12-year old boy jump roping with his butt. It was fabulous.
The priest reminded us that everything changes, and we have to learn to let go. Difficult advice to follow when a casket is in your midst and your heart is hanging on.
Does it ever seem to you that the only purpose in life is to reconcile stuff that doesn’t make sense? The comforting piece, of course, is that there is so much material to work with.
If I’m being completely honest, one of the thrills of midlife is no longer worrying how my daughters might shock me, and in turn, my mother… but delighting in imagining how I might shock them.
He exited the gallery, clearly agitated. “It was all emotional blather. Just feeling about feelings, and more feelings.” I considered asking how he really felt, but that would be missing the point.
Overheard: “Ryan, I mean, what is your super power in real life? Like Mom can see behind doors, and Dad can open anything with his teeth, and I am half monkey. What’s yours?”
It took me six months to realize that the cute, carefree succulent I bought at IKEA and had never watered, was actually plastic. I had to bite it to confirm. The dirt was real though.
The forest wedding was already full of magic and delight. But when the bride arrived in a llama-pulled chariot, the Imps, Sprites and Fairies went nuts. And so did I.
I do hate exercise. I really hate it. But sometimes it’s good to feel your heart beating, you know?
Driving through the town of rusted and worn out Winnebagos, he said, “Everything here used to be something, and now it’s not anything.” As a lover of all things rusty and abandoned, I enthusiastically disagreed.
Baseball is bearing witness to the “maybe this time” to “maybe next time” pivot. A 162-game social contract between player, coach, fan, and the guy at the hot dog stand.
For my 57th birthday, I am giving up high heels forever. Truth is, I gave them up years ago–the gift to myself is finally admitting it with my outside voice.