She kept the Nevers in a shoebox. Most came from her mother, from childhood, but even now, she could sense her mother preparing more for Christmas. Her step-father gave her a few in the early years, but they faded to nothing as their relationship thickened to indifference.
The one from her father appeared the day after he died. Everyone thought she was too young to remember his return from the war, the nightmares, the gun shot, the funeral. Perhaps she had been, but she still kept the Never, like a scar.
She often wondered why he’d left her only one.
From Guest Contributor EM Eastick
I had first come across her archive of personal video footage, when she left the house to me for a few months, on her trip to Japan.
She had a considerable collection of 8mm tapes, DVDs, and CDs filled with amateur video footage.
I remember clearly that, I spent a whole month locked in the house, watching her film the mundane and the eventful. When she did not return from the trip to Japan, I auctioned it to an art gallery for a considerable sum of money.
Her ‘Sans Soleil’ though was never seen, like her footage of the riots.
From Guest Contributor Debarun Sarkar
Debarun sleeps, eats, reads, smokes, drinks, labors and occasionally writes stories and submits them. Recent works have appeared or are forthcoming in Off the Coast, The Opiate, Aainanagar, Rat’s Ass Review, Cerebration, and here at A Story in 100 Words. He can be reached at debarunsarkar.wordpress.com
He used the lamppost to drag himself to his feet, having groped for the muddy spectacles.
“Help,” he thought he called, clamping the damaged frame to his face to supplement the remaining arm. “I’ve been mugged.”
But he couldn’t have made a noise. Surely the trio who passed would have stopped if he had?
He steadied himself against pain and dizziness and tried to focus his remaining energy into a shout for aid.
He watched through smeared lenses as they faded into the rain: ghosts into oblivion.
He couldn’t be sure they’d heard.
The blood seemed the only irrefutable fact.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid
He had spent the morning prepping: moving furniture, taking down curtains, removing pictures from the walls, spreading drop cloths, and taping: lots and lots of taping.
Finally, the paint was open and stirred. Before dipping the brush in the can, Paul looked longingly through the picture window at the gorgeous spring day. He sighed, knowing his friends were probably just finishing their round at the country club.
“Honestly,” he thought, “who can tell the difference between Yucca White and Painter’s Canvas. I just did this room two months ago.”
He hated painting, but when his wife said paint, he painted.
From Guest Contributor Simon Hole
Simon lives in rural Rhode Island where he taught fourth grade for 35 years, publishing essays and co-authoring a book focused on life in the classroom. Since retirement he has been playing poker, gardening, and writing short fiction. Some of his work can be found on-line at 101Words, The Zodiac Review, 200cc’s, and Bewildering Stories.
Flamboyant scarlet blossoms arched twisting, winding heirloom English ivy. An
unexpected downpour ignored by the water-soaked guests. Whitewashed mason jars
splashed crimson pallets of rustic rural splendor. The music began, he stood nervously
waiting, looking down at his rented black shoes. She grasped her father’s arm. Fervent
desire charged fiery passion. Sugary words melted sultry shadows. Fireflies and fairy
dust lit moonless nights. Silence invited the darkness. Substance replaced by distance;
whiskey preferred to a kiss. Emotions frost bit in autumn’s showy splendor she’d climb
grasping, experiencing struggle with the fortitude of English ivy. She knew he watched
From Guest Contributor Christy Schuld
At age eleven I begged to travel to Venice, to see those water streets.
“My desert baby has wanderlust,” Mama laughed.
On weekends, if we had money for gas, she’d tell me, “Pick a direction.”
We stopped at roadside attractions to buy those tiny spoons. We ate questionable tamales. We took pictures with four different Paul Bunyan statues.
For my sixteenth birthday, we followed highway signs promising The Thing. Surprise! It was a fake mummy. Stomach dropping, I realized people like us never saw the Grand Canal.
“We’re lucky,” Mama whispered. “Italians don’t even dream about seeing something like this.”
From Guest Contributor L.L. Madrid
I used to believe that villains didn’t exist. That wrongdoers were victims of their circumstances, victims of their upbringing, or victims of their own tortured brains. I thought that ‘bad guys’ were just the people who didn’t get to frame the narrative; that ‘inner demons’ was code for the same primal and chemical conflicts that we refer to as depravity when found in those who fail to conceal them. I thought of the dichotomy of good and evil as merely a crutch for those who wish decisions were easy.
I never believed in villains. Until I realized I’d become one.
From Guest Contributor E.F. Boehm
Her house was situated next to a busy route. A road which connected the city to the southern parts of the suburbs.
The whole year, living in that house without wired broadband, with the incessant dust of the road, and the smell of pollution as the trucks roared by; she could barely sleep.
In her dreams she murdered and killed drivers of four-wheeled vehicles, and imagined a day when she could make their lives miserable.
The next year the media went gaga over the unaccounted increase in car crashes on that road. She was not on the list of suspects.
From Guest Contributor Debarun Sarkar
Debarun sleeps, eats, reads, smokes, drinks, labors and occasionally writes stories and submits them. Recent works have appeared or are forthcoming in Off the Coast, The Opiate, Aainanagar, Rat’s Ass Review, Cerebration and here at A Story in 100 Words. He can be reached at debarunsarkar.wordpress.com
A painting pulled me from across the room. Past spectators scrutinizing other exhibits. Past a man commenting on contemporary art.
I wanted to meet the artist and ask what had inspired him.
Hut alone in a field. The dark evening sky contrasted with flaxen wheat. No people or animals.
“Do you like it,” a man asked me.
“Too depressing,” I answered. “Looks familiar.”
“It’s the toolshed on my parents’ farm. As a boy, I took shelter there during a sudden storm.”
“So, you’re the artist,” I exclaimed eyeing him.
I left the gallery realizing we were once classmates at school.
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, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.
Winter surrendered. Riverbanks croaked a single splash with each muddied footstep. Wild Sweet William’s dainty lavender flower mingled lush green leaves and twisting vines of yellow-hued buttercups and scarlet sumac. Scraps of ocean blue ribbon and coral-colored yarn frantically entwined weaving sticks and leaves, nesting six brown-speckled eggs. Wild turkeys gathered strutting rowed corn fields. Beneath the refuge of centenarian pine fawns struggle against tottering wobbled legs. Snapping turtles lazily sit side by side sunning on downed oak logs across the trickling eddy. A deluded hummingbird, hoodwinked by an empty bird feeder, tells me to get busy.
From Guest Contributor Christy Schuld