The first challenge I gave myself was to write a story consisting solely of one-syllable words and, at the same time, using zero “e”s. This is what I came up with:

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I sit at a bus stop with a sack of books in my lap. A bus pulls up and I climb in. An old man winks as I pass him and I look down, find a spot to sit. I scan part of a book, a book on war, as a young man and his son board. This small boy naps and his dad runs his hands through his child’s hair. I watch. I wait. I don’t think, just watch.

At my stop, Roth Road, I go to Gil’s Bar. I inch down my skirt as I walk in. I think of what I will say, how I will say it. How I will, at last, put a stop to it all.

Mitch sits on a bar stool, swigs from a mug of Coors. I walk up to him but I don’t sit. I ask for a shot of rum but I don’t drink it. I will wait; I’ll drink it as Mitch walks out for good.

Mitch says, “So what’s up? Do you know what you want?” His mouth turns down in a frown.

I do know what I want, but it’s hard to say it. Mitch was my man for so long. It hurts to know I will walk out of Gil’s with just my sack of books. That I will go to my mom’s and stay in my old room. That I will hand my ring to Mitch and say, “You can’t fix things.” I won’t cry, but I will hurt.

Mitch drains his Coors, asks for a shot. A shot of rum. Asks if I want to toast.

“To what?” I ask.

“To us.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

My gut churns as Mitch holds up his shot glass with such faith in us.

“Mitch,” I gulp, “I can’t. You and I can’t.”

Mitch picks up a book from my sack. Bad Days. This is a bad day. Mitch knows it now.

I don’t mind that Mitch throws my book at a wall. I’m just glad to watch him go. I gulp down my shot, and his too.

On my own. Bliss. At last.