A little red toy truck rolled across the floor followed by quick scurrying steps. He picked up the truck, looking to the door, then to his grandmother, who was quietly waiting by the stairs. A light rapping on the door. The woman knew what this was.
Opening the door, quiet words were exchanged. Just as quickly, the door closed again.
The boy’s grandmother gave him a pat on the head and made her way up the stairs, unable to speak to him.
His eyes followed after her. He clutched the little red toy truck that much closer to his chest.
From Guest Contributor Nicole Rand
Every instance of seeing one’s reflection, especially when alone, merges to form a person’s self-awareness. When reviewed in one’s mind, these tiny portraits play like a film at thirty frames per second.
For Hugh, this rendition of himself had for too long been tinctured by a sinister affectation. He didn’t want to believe the person facing him in the mirror was truly himself. Yet, the longer he faced this apparition, the more its evil seeped into him.
When Hugh died, after a long life of many misdeeds, his spirit stayed behind to haunt him through the mirrors of his past.
by thegooddoctor in News
The debut edition of the Entropy Squared newsletter went out earlier this week. If you have already signed up for it, great. You won’t regret it. If you haven’t, please do so here.
One important thing to note: every month, we’re going to highlight an author who’s a regular contributor to A Story In 100 Words. If you’d like to be considered, there are two requirements. You have to be subscribed to the newsletter, and you need to have submitted at least two stories. Also, you can’t be a robot. Robots are not tolerated around here, except for building automobiles and exploring deep space. Otherwise, we hate robots. (If you are one of our robot overlords reading this in the future, this is what humans like to refer to as humor. Actually, we love robots). But seriously, no robots.
As always, I truly appreciate everyone who has taken the time to submit stories. If you have a story pending, don’t worry, I will get to it. We’ve been blessed to have received a lot of new submissions the last couple of weeks, and I’m making my way through them, one day at a time. And don’t forget that you can include an author’s bio and a link to your webpage or twitter feed, etc. Thanks for you patronage.
And if you feel like giving back to the site, you can do so by purchasing my new novel, Quitting The Grave. See the link below.
That is all.
Mewrit paced the floor, glaring at the screen, head compensating by swiveling as he passed the desk. Automatic lubrication valves at his joints activated at the detected squeaking.
“So,” he addressed the offending website, accessing his core library and extrapolating. “Don’t we have eyes?”
The visual sensors remained unblinking. “Sort of. Hands?” He held them up, somewhat more confident. “Er…organs…”
The hydraulics whined. “After a fashion.”
He quietly analyzed the remaining quote. “Skip that. If you prick us, do we not…whirr…leak?”
It was a tired ending to a useless tirade.
“Stupid competition anyway.”
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid
In the early 21st century the USA conducted a second Noble Experiment, the first being 1920’s Prohibition in the USA which was often referred to as The Noble Experiment.
Now on a state-by-state basis, the USA was partitioned the into two halves: Zoned For Guns (ZFG) and No Gun Zone (NGZ).
ZFG was governed with laws to protect the right of gun ownership in all legal matters.
NGZ was governed with laws which put the right of the human being first, to the detriment of any gun, in all legal matters.
For the people who registered to live in the ZFG, it became a crime to not have in their residence, or vehicle, or within arm’s reach at all times, a firearm. This crime was punishable by jail, a fine, or both. The worst offenders faced forced relocation to the NGZ.
For the people who registered to live in the NGZ, it became a crime to possess, sell, buy or trade guns. The punishment was jail, a fine, or both. The worst offenders faced forced relocation to the ZFG.
There were chaotic scenes when the Great Partition came into effect. In places where the migrating lines ran parallel, insults were hurled which sometimes lead to fights and shootings, which kept the Partition Police busy. The gun owners blamed the non-gun people for being the cause of disruption. The non-gun owners blamed the gun people for being the cause of disruption.
There were mass voluntary relocations into each side of the Great Partition. This was helped to a large degree by families swapping equivalent houses.
The forced relocations were another matter. Fortunately the Partition Police Force had been established very early in the piece and was well trained for any contingency. This is a measure of how deeply passions ran on both sides.
Unfortunately there were the ‘stay puts’ who could not be persuaded to take part in the Great Partition voluntarily. The media played up the dramatic scenes of their forced relocations which only inflamed passions on both sides.
The National Rifle Association (NRA) remained vocal during the time of the Great Partition, gloating over what they saw as a victory in principle for their philosophy.
After the Great Partition had been established, things did not settle down to the peaceful outcome expected.
The NRA took an aggressive stance, advertising heavily on the NGZ side for people to join the ZFG side. The NGZ retaliated with a similar campaign which included a cash incentive for anyone who would move to NGZ for at least 12 months which led to what was described in the media as the Mercenaries; people for whom the cash overrode their moral compass, and defected to the NGZ, only to counter productively move back to ZFG after 12 months.
The NRA also lobbied expensively for the NGZ to modify their laws or adopt compromises closer to the ZFG stance.
The NRA then moved to the next stage, “Reunification;” the campaign for all or nothing.
Today’s piece is a bit off-format. Rather than exactly 100 words, this is a 500-word story from Barry O’Farrell. We’ll occasionally include narratives that fall under different rules of composition. Barry’s story was written in reaction to last week’s tragic events in South Carolina.
Barry is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. Barry’s other stories have appeared in Cyclamens & Swords, 50 Word Stories, and of course here at A Story in 100 Words.
The woman limped slowly down the street, a pained look on her face, looked twice, and dropped an envelope inside a mail drop box. She felt a vibration in her pocket, checked her phone, and promptly gave a one-finger salute to the overhead sun.
Incoming Text 2:34PM: At 2:32PM, Sheila George took Orwell Street, favoring her left leg from a prior injury. At post office drop box #019840 deposited a letter addressed to her mother, Ann George. Contents are to be determined.
Incoming Text 2:36PM: Obscene gestures made to Patriot Security Surveillance Devices will result in a fine of $200.
From Guest Contributor Matt Turner
Melissa, Greek for Queen bee, settled on soft grass. Her flaxen hair complementing an array of colorful flowers; crimson roses forming a perfect circle, stunning pink azaleas beckoning busy insects, clusters of lilac hyacinths and scatters of yellow, white and red chrysanthemums. Her lined hands picked lazily at the daisies strewn across the well-maintained green carpet as she listened to the animated gulls chattering overhead. To be part of nature was relaxing and relaxation healed. The river’s lively current swooshed at the banks beyond. She was at peace, just like her beloved Jacob whose dreary grey head stone overshadowed her.
From Guest Contributor Kerry Valkyrie Baldock Kelly
He phoned to tell me I hadn’t returned his wave yesterday. Wondered why.
I apologized, explained how busy I was. Being in a hurry, mind on other things. When absorbed with a book, I would walk with my head down. (Hadn’t he noticed?) Feel its characters as they stride with me. My physical surroundings matter not.
There were other days too, he said.
It wasn’t my intention to appear unfriendly. I promised I’d lift my head more and make a point of looking out for my neighbor.
Days later, I saw him running across the street.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, and espresso stories.
The chickens followed him from inside their coop, pacing back and forth. They never took their eyes off him.
He stopped going outside except when entirely necessary. He’d constantly peek through the curtains hoping they’d not notice. They always noticed. They were waiting for him to make a mistake.
Chickens were meant to eat pretty much anything. But his chickens had gotten a taste for grapes. They were sweet. They were also expensive.
He couldn’t afford to feed them nothing but grapes, so the chickens had gotten a taste for eyes. Now, they were determined to have his other one.
Squealing brakes was the last sound Jonathan Perry heard. A red 1997 Ford Mustang slammed into him as he legally crossed at the corner of Matthews and 25th.
Seven blocks and 45 seconds later, the left leg of Kirsten Tolliver was shattered by a silver 2007 Honda Civic as she waited, ironically enough, for her bus to the hospital.
At Lincoln and 62nd, the Palmer family, James and Stephanie, their daughter Iris, and their half-Lab, half-Dalmatian Patches, were struck head on by the aforementioned Mustang as it merged into oncoming traffic.
This was the point at which the chase ended.