Someone told me the other day that a drabble is a story of exactly 100 words. How did I not know this before? Trying my hand at 100-word stories today, one an hour for 5 hours.
The first story is here.
The second is here.
The third is here.
And now the fourth:
She lingers at the gourmet salt display, feeling as out of place as if she were the little girl on the Morton’s Salt box, spilling generic plainness on the ground behind her as she goes.
It’s gorgeous, this salt. Slabs of ribboned cream and pink carved from the thigh of some meaty rock-beast. Vialled crystals as well, in stunning shades of blue and green and grey.
Just for a moment, to have life in which her cares are so few she has time to fuss over the perfection of her salt.
Teeth bite to taste blood.
Metaled salty bloom.
Anodyne.
