The doctor was explaining how behavioral changes are just as likely to cure my depression as drugs.
“Has it occurred to you doctor, that I ought to be depressed, because I’m living a meaningless life?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t going to say it.” Then he saw I wasn’t joking.
“The truth is, I feel just about right for my situation,” I said.
“I don’t tell people how they ought to feel. If they come here, it’s because they think there’s something wrong.”
I didn’t reply.
“So you want me to increase your dosage then?”
It was easier to say yes.
From Guest Contributor Thomas Vicinanzo
“A single nuclear device, including laptop computer, can fit inside a standard 20-foot shipping container. There are 1,250 shipping containers on a regular container ship. Now if you look at this photo what do you see?”
“In profile, a container ship, fully loaded.”
“Notice anything unusual? Take my magnifying glass. Let me help you. There are wires connecting every container.”
“Every container’s armed?”
“Triggered at the same time, and the ship can be anywhere in the world, we can blow the planet asunder.”
“What is it?’
“One of ours.”
“Yes, I understand but what is it?”
“Our doomsday machine.”
Barry O’Farrell is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia.
Barry’s other stories appear in Cyclamens & Swords, 101 Words, 50-Word Stories, and of course here at A Story in 100 Words.
I rent an apartment that’s above a garage.
But there’s a dog who has made a home for himself in the corner.
He’s without a collar
and needs a bath.
I’m polite, so I don’t say anything.
But he growls as if it’s his apartment!
I explain; I’m paying the rent, so really it’s my apartment, so he needs to accept reality.
He dismisses my argument.
I offer him food and he eats it.
I give him a bath and he goes along with it.
Finally, he licks my face in an apparent suggestion that we become roommates.
From Guest Contributor Kent V Anderson
When Kent isn’t writing stories, he is building robots.
Floodlights dancing over the facade of D.C.’s skyline, lurid swirls of white illuminating lifeless constructs. Helicopters flitting, sound of thwift-thwift, fiery arcs followed by rifle’s boom. Jamie clasped his fingers between chain link and watched. Behind him, scattered over a lightless tract of dirt, the naked dying, bleeding from eyes, cries of pain a muted keening of metal. Above: C.D.C. in masks and Hazmat suits, brandishing assault weapons. Washington was long dark—indeed, the entire country. Jamie gazed upwards. The milky way had manifested like fever dream, ephemeral and monolithic, a terrible Prince awaiting its prize’s return to benign jungle.
From Guest Contributor John Webb
This is a repost of a story from 2014 that accidentally got deleted.
His heart was in the right place, Mama would say. To explain away anything Kurt did. Like it was about location, his heart, being where it should be. He meant well. I nod like I agree. But on good days when Timmy takes a nap after lunch, I go out on the front porch, close the door behind me. Think about how I’d pack just a few things, wear a white summer dress. I stand there on the porch alone, and it’s like I’m riding in a fancy car with the top down. Letting the sun and wind hit me.
From Guest Contributor Beth Mead
My love is a store whose shelves are stocked with goods which are all long past their expiration date. Somewhere amongst the forgotten and unwanted items I know there’s still one or two things whose time has not yet come. They’re waiting patiently, like me, for the day a shopper finally comes inside and finds exactly what’s she’s been looking for. When that day comes (and it will), all the waiting will have been worth it, and I can shut down the register, turn off the lights, and close the doors for the last time on this unique little shop.
From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten
After twelve years of working on the 72nd floor of that building his curiosity got the better of him.
He’d been warned, “Whatever you do, don’t open the windows on this floor.” But it was the only floor with windows that opened. Why would there be a rule against using them?
Everyone was diligently working in their cubicles. He’d only crack it an inch or two. The latch flipped quietly.
Just as he placed his hands against the pane it disappeared, as if it had never existed. In his surprise he didn’t realize he’d leaned forward too far. He fell.
From Guest Contributor Cameron Filas
I enjoy winning. I am competitive by nature.
The trouble starts when winning becomes the focus.
To be honest, for me the trouble starts when winning becomes everything. Winning for the sake of winning, I describe as the ultimate step.
Especially when I am in a room full of other people who are winners, or think they are winners.
Damage happens. I know the masochistic irony of what it is like to win, and lose, simultaneously. In private, as I tally the losses, my self-loathing grows.
Yes, in my case it is a sickness. My doctor has diagnosed ‘Auction Fever.’
From Guest Contributor Barry O’Farrell
Barry is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. Barry’s other stories may be found at Cyclamens & Swords, 50 Word Stories, 101 Words, and of course here at A Story In 100 Words.
The skittering as her nails scrabbled at the tiles on the front door hall: impotent in the face of his grip on her favourite leash.
The desperate eyes and face as she strained against a collar she could have slipped off her wasted neck; had her limbs moved that way. That is my last image of Honey.
Her frenzied bark in the background of the terrible phone call I took from traction was the last noise and the reason I vowed never to have another dog.
I’m going to kill the spoiled little Shitzon which pisses on my book collection.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid
“C’mon, Helen, add me back! I know you’re still active.”
She knocked a few more times on the portion of the wall where the door had been, hopelessly. Livid, she cursed the day she granted Helen authority to set permissions in her house.
It was progress, they said, that rooms and buildings could be subject to malleable privacy permissions. But now, locked outside, she missed the days when connections were not so easily lost.
No message came from inside, but, crouched with ears against the wall, she thought she could hear the distant buzz of postings addressed to someone else.
From Guest Contributor Leonardo A. Castro