I belong to the Airdrie Writers Group where we write some fun exercises, including the 99-word story. I’ve created a 3-part series of 99-word stories from a young adult point of view, but for any age reader (over twelve.) The intent of a 99-word story is to be brief in writing and to the point. It also should have a meaningful message to ponder. It may seem simple, but it isn’t.
This series may leave you, the reader, with more questions than answers. Watch for the next step. I’ll write a full-length short story on the same premise, plotline of the series. I want to fill in some of the backstory and details about my fictional family, because the 99-word stories leave me wanting more.
Enjoy and let me know what you think.
Relentless (98 words)
Part 1
Dad stands at my shoulder firing a stream of insults, then asks, “Did you get a job?”
I refuse to answer and continue peeling the potatoes for dinner.
“You’d better get one!”
I’m sixteen, I scream inside as my heart closes like odd flowers do when the sunlight disappears.
“Freeloader.”
No, I grit my teeth. This is my home.
Tears slide down my face, unchecked, burning a trail of shame along my skin.
“Must be your time of the month.”
Never the bad guy, he figures I’m on the rag. I mean, why else am I so emotional?
Relentless (99 words)
Part 2
My feet pound through the mall as I replay the scolding from Dad. I almost miss the help wanted poster. Squaring my shoulders, I take a quick turn into Kresge’s store and strut to the customer service counter.
I’ll show him, I snarl.
It’s easy filling out the application. Other than babysitting, this will be my first part-time job.
My heart quakes when the manager scans the form.
Eyeing me, he asks several questions.
I answer with shy confidence, hoping I can be a good salesclerk.
“Can you start this weekend?”
“Yes,” I nod, giddy inside. “Yes, I can.”
Relentless (99 words)
Part 3
After a Friday night shift, I buy, then pocket a pack of smokes in my winter jacket.
Once home, I hang up my coat, nod to Dad, and heat some leftovers.
Mom shifts past me, grabs the trash, slips on my jacket, and disappears out the back door.
When she returns, she says, “I was looking for a tissue and found these.”
My heart plummets as she holds out my smokes.
“These are yours?”
I nod.
Dad curses. “If you can buy cigarettes, you can pay rent. Or quit. You choose.”
Later, I hand Mom half my pay cheque.
Hello, thanks for sharing. Wow, what a 'dad', not to mention a 'mom' going through the daughter's coat for a tissue. Instantly unlikable, unbearable tension, and sympathy for the girl.