I entered the following in a writing contest. The rules were to write a true story (mini-memoir, if you will) in 91 words or less. I didn’t win the contest but I am still proud of what I could do with 91 words:
The Palm Reader
I strolled down the crowded sidewalk in early autumn.
Manhattan’s cool humidity weighed on my shoulders, and microscopic dirt particles tickled my nose.
I was 19 years old.
An exotic woman approached and offered to read my palm.
Her makeshift table was set up in clear view to entice those who wanted to drop a few bucks for an unreliable glimpse into the future. Skeptical, I sat down and gave her my hand.
She intently traced the lines on my palm.
Confident yet humble, she quietly predicted my future.
After typing the story, I realized that if I gave each sentence a line, it could almost be a poem.
I say almost because it doesn’t possess the poetic qualities I usually incorporate, such as a word pattern, rhyming, or other lyrical cadence.
There are poetry contests coming up and maybe I should try my hand with turning this into a poem.
Hmmmm, something to think about.