There was a young fisherman who lived in the desert. Everyone mocked him, for there was no water in the desert. Regardless, each day he went over the horizon, seeking water and one fish.
One day, an old fisherman set off over the horizon, in search of one live fish. As the sun set, he returned with a still-flopping dorado. "There," he said, "I have caught my fish."
A few seconds later, it died. A few seconds after that, so too did he.
"Don't feel sorry for me," his last words went, "It's fishing for him that I truly love."
You're probably looking at me right now like I'm stupid.
I'll elaborate. This is more of a writing exercise for me. It's the anti-writer's block. When I don't feel like I can write a single sentence worth writing, I've decided to challenge myself to write a short story in one hundred words or less. As I write, I inevitably arrive at more than one hundred words. One doesn't anticipate much in 100 words; they write whatever comes to mind. After all, it's just 100 words -- Who cares what it is?
And yet every time, I break 100 words. And then I have to trim it down to 100 words. And even the littlest things that are cut -- an adjective here, a shorter phrase in favor of a longer one there -- it hurts. Things are missing. And, even from just 100 words, ideas spring forth. Characters exist. Dialogue develops in my brain. A beginning, middle and an end develop without me ever telling them to develop. Something bigger than 100 words comes into frame; something that might actually be good, from something I didn't even care about in the first place. All from 100 words worth of story. It makes big writer's blocks look small, and small ones disappear. It's akin to picking a small, insignificant toy from the bottom of a giant stack of toys and having them all tumble out onto your head. It makes me feel like I can write.
You might still be looking at me funny. If so, remember: Gaiman wrote a story about a futuristic werewolf Baywatch. People still think he's a genius. Coincedentally, I do, too.