After the day’s hard work I returned to my hut. In the corner slept my 9-year-old daughter, abused recently by rich boys. My fisherman husband had strayed far into the sea. Hungry I walked to the corner of the hut. There was a tomato and two slices of stale bread. I made a soup. The bread, I broke it down to crumbs. Counting one for one suffered sorrow, I drowned it in the soup. I and my girl sipped it as long as possible, in silence, wishing all the sorrows would drown the same way in this crumb of life.

From Guest Contributor Thriveni C. Mysore

The girls in accounts are crying.

Satisfied with his bonus, he savors the delicious memory of making the girls cry.

From Guest Contributor Barry O’Farrell

Barry is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. The acting experience has inspired a latent desire to write. Barry is enjoying the challenge of writing in 100 words.

Raymond stared across the horizon. Where Denver once stood, there was just a huge crater lake beneath a shimmering mist. The black water reflected the sunlight like a dark twisted mirror. There was no sigh of any survivors.

Fact: an atomic bomb was detonated 8.4 km from where Wally Kazinsky was repairing the toilet in a decent brothel. The brick house shivered violently from the blast, a few windows shattered. There’d been talk of an attack, and Wally considered the possibility. He grabbed his glass of scotch before he went to look out the window. His legs were wobbly. Maybe nervous, but definitely drunk.

People were crying, hurt, bleeding. Fuck. They were probably already bathed in radiation. Wally was dizzy but lucid enough. Time for emergency measures. He found his hammer, and headed to the corner liquor store.

From Guest Contributor Wil Wang

She understood Brooklyn. You needed the right glasses, the right shoes, the right jeans. And my God, the hair. You had to nail the hair exactly. If it looked like you were trying too hard, you weren’t trying hard enough.

But the sweater-skirt combination on that lady was going to kill when she wore it home for Christmas vacation.

It was a game. Sean and Phil followed the hunchback along the Northland Road on a gloomy October evening. It was something to occupy them. They were slight ten-year-olds, so although the eight-foot wall to their left hampered their manoeuvring, they were able to find cover behind the electric junction boxes, bus tops, and lampposts each time the figure in the long coat and brimmed hat made to turn.

Flushed with excitement at their successful shadowing, the hearts of the play-spies stopped when he tipped his Fedora, and skipped over the wall into the asylum; clipping stone with his hooves.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

He waves from across the street, leaving, working nights again. Smiling, I return his wave. She watches him from the doorway, my gaze goes unnoticed.

Sure, I’ll keep an eye on the place while you’re on graveyard shift. My pleasure.

From Guest Contributor Mirshaan.

Mirshaan has a BFA in Education. He loves words.

The Winchester Model ‘87 tore the first moon man in half at close quarters. The ancient shotgun had been a family heirloom and, legend had it, was successfully utilized in a bank robbery fifty some odd years ago down Tucson way. The relic still packed a powerful punch, as the bloody remains of the unwelcome visitor attested to.

Old man Glanton took another space critter down before what survived of their small party escaped in a silvery flying disc. Glanton spat tobacco into the dust and reckoned he’d better put on some fresh coffee before Bobby returned with the horses.

From Guest Contributor, Horrorshow

It was agreed I would be home schooled, with my Mother as the teacher.

That’s how I flunked home school.

From Guest Contributor Barry O’Farrell

Barry is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. The acting experience has inspired a latent desire to write. Barry is enjoying the challenge of writing in 100 words.