“Beautiful garden,” a man interjected. “Looks like a good harvest.”
Judy paused from pulling out weeds. “Not really. July was too rainy. Zucchinis are rotting on the plants and maggots have infested my apple tree. It’ll be a chore to salvage what’s edible.”
“Do you need help? I have lots of time being on my own.”
“Sorry, it’s getting dark,” Judy answered.
The man turned around and started walking.
“Wait!” Judy called out. “Pot roast is almost ready. Would you like to join me for supper? I too live alone.”
Harvest became bountiful with the start of a new friendship.
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.
“Daddy, why are there bars on the robot monkeys’ windows?”
Roger picked a bit of cotton candy off his son’s nose. “Danny, it’s a zoo.”
“But Daddy, they aren’t wild animals like the others. We don’t keep our robots in cages.”
Roger laughed and tousled Danny’s hair. “Well, Buddy, our robots have Gen IX brains. These little guys are first generation. Nobody wants them and they could never survive on their own.”
“But why keep them then? Why aren’t they just recycled?”
“Daniel. We’re not barbarians. We gave them life. We can’t just throw them away. Besides, aren’t they cute?”
From Guest Contributor Simon Hole
Francis stared gawping at the bleak picture of a white house on a twilight prairie for at least a couple of minutes before breathing. Hattie linked arms with him and pressed close.
“Well, what do you think?”
Francis sighed a wordless soliloquy.
“Isn’t it wonderful? Look at the shading, the perspective, the detail.”
“I just finished that wallpapering.”
“Soot from the aromatic candles and sewing chalk.”
“All dangerous hobby stuff is locked away. Candles…top shelf.”
Francis confirmed the press was locked and tight against the wall before addressing his two-year old son.
“Grant, you’re one creepy-ass kid.”
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid
I was doing time at another warehouse.
Another W2 in a factotum year.
Maurice, pudding formed with a handlebar mustache, sat across from me.
He liked security. “I keep a weapon in every room. I don’t even lock my door. I have got a shotgun on the wall, a handgun in each room unregistered. I got a bat in the bathroom and a sword under my bed with a knife between my pillows.”
“My dad was in the navy. Antiwar activists target the relatives of veterans.”
Maurice was found dead in his apartment.
Stabbed in the eye.
From Guest Contributor Michael Zone
Michael is the author of Fellow Passengers: Pubic Transit Poetry, Meditations & Musings and Better than the Movies: 4 Screenplays. His work has been featured in Because Eileen, Dead Snakes, Horror Trash Sleaze, In Between Hangovers, Three Line Poetry, Triadae, and The Voices Project. He scrapes by in Grand Rapids, MI
At age two, baby Suresh miraculously wrote the words yes and no on to foggy glass. His family gathered in awe around him wondering if he would write again, maybe?
With pencils, chalk, twigs in sand he wrote the words over and over.
What divinity was this, what genius? No one had taught him. Being pious people, his parents immediately told the household servants that all future decisions, big or small, would be made by baby Suresh.
“Please,” said Chef, “tonight shall I cook chicken or lamb?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” baby’s mother snapped. “He can only answer yes or no.”
From Guest Contributor Faiza Bokhari
The little girl stomps the yellow rain boots through the puddles, scattering the water that bled from the ground and collected in the damaged parts of the cement road.
She does not feel the moisture that has leaked into her woolen socks, or the place on her ankles where the shrinking shoes chafe. At this age, a child has such a narrow focus. She kicks the water around her until it has been redistributed across the dark pavement.
Once the puddle has disappeared, the patch of ground loses her interest, and she moves down the street, searching intently for another.
From Guest Contributor Caroline Meek
Love letters are beautiful and they are really fun to write, especially when you are writing it for yourself and not for others. But nowadays, there are a considerable number of copywriters doing the job for you, for money. Maybe it’s time to take back writing love letters. How can you write a love letter in 100 words if you are not good at writing, you may wonder. The answer is actually very simple.
Write “I love you” 33 times and “I…” once. That makes it simple and infinite. Just title it A Love Letter in 100 Words, or else…
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 Visitant, Off the Coast, The Opiate, Peeking Cat Poetry, Literary Orphans, In Between Hangovers, and here at A Story in 100 Words, among others. He can be reached at debarunsarkar.wordpress.com
“Some days you just can’t write,” he said aloud.
The citrus-scented candle was not impressed. The flame didn’t even react to his big sigh. It sat on the side table oozing atmosphere but no empathy.
“Oh yeah?” he snapped at it. “When you’re burnt out that’s the end of you. I prevail.”
Hiatus… Odd looks in his direction and muttered comments from bar patrons fused as he tried to blink his tired eyes clear. In the bright honey light, they became drones attending the queen behind the counter: alkaloid aromas their insectoid murmurs of my intrusion.
The page remained blank.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid
The father grabbed his son’s attention away from his overbearing mother and said, “Go now before it gets too late or you’ll miss her. If you let this young lady get away you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. It makes no difference whether your mother will accept her or not. Here, take this money and my credit card and get going now.”
The boy responded, “Dad, I don’t want your money, only you’re blessing.”
The dad, somewhat choked up, said, “My dear son, you already had my admiration. My blessing is freely given to you with joy.”
From Guest Contributor James Freeze
It is hard to swallow that the sun always beams on someone, when she ignores shining on me. The sun parks behind the clouds on sullen January mornings, knowing, full well, the snow would be whiter and the air, warmer, if it was ambitious enough to burn through molten lead skies.
Wallowing in darkness, with only a feeble moon, I am not the least bit rapturous to know the sun blazes in Australia. Cosmic, coquettish peek-a-boos of partly cloudy days throw me into a dark mood but, in my codependency, I am happy that my constant inconstant keeps coming around.
From Guest Contributor Tim Philippart