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It’s food that is the apology; toast with a blanket of peanut butter is the best way to say, “I’m sorry.” 

Forgive me, Body, for I have sinned.  Today, I feed you not in punishment of your bad behaviour, of your embarrassing attitude, your glibness whilst being the flesh that you are.  Tomorrow, forgive me, I may not feed you again.  It continues like this until we come to an understanding.  I am in charge here, Body, and that’s the way it is. 

After a week, she knows she’ll be the one to apologize.  The Mandarin oranges never looker sweeter.

In the beginning the Ukrainian babas exclaim, “Eat!  Eat!  You’re too thin!  More!” but as the years wear on, and you aren’t spending every free moment at the playground playing handball or rolling down the grassy hill or swinging on the monkey bars and your hips take on the natural widening that hips do when you’re 13, suddenly it’s, “You’re getting so fat!” and “How can you ever expect to get a husband being so fat?!”

When they are not measuring what’s on your plate, they look at you sideways thinking, “You better not be helping yourself to my husband.”

He pulled his face back from the warm, sticky cement so that his ear unplastered itself from his scalp.  Once freed, he set his cheek against the sidewalk again, finding it cooler but only for a moment.  The boot weighing down on the base of his spine jiggled slightly as its owner laughed about something far above him.

His ear was stuck to his scalp again.  He couldn’t hear what was being said but he was definite that it contained the words:  hot, bastard, trip, pay, shoes, and decide.  He felt a trickle of sweat running into his eyebrow.  Hot.

(*all 100 Stones stories are exactly 100 words, without title and obviously without sidenotes like this)