The wind whipped at my tattered jacket sleeve. The unholy mixture of salt, blood and sweat sickened me. My severed stump floated on the waves, sailing true north, until the menacing visage of the great white crested the surface and swallowed my dearly departed appendage.

The hunt was just getting started. I knew it would continue throughout the Seven Seas and into my nightmares.

Genre: Pirates

Happy new year!

The month of January has officially been dubbed Genre Month. Each story this month will fall into a specific genre, whether it’s a western, a mystery, a romantic comedy, or James Joyce.

If you have any suggestions for genres you would like to see me tackle, let me know. Or perhaps you have your own 100 word genre piece you’d like to submit. I encourage you all to join in the 100 word fun.

Mr. Flanagan’s yard was famous for its lawn gnomes. Every child on the block knew the tiny mischief-makers loved to drag unwary passersby into the yard and subjugate them to all manners of horror.

In hindsight, using Flanagan’s hedge as our homerun fence was almost certainly a bad idea.

I was moments away from death. The oxygen in my blood stream was starting to expire.

I had once again successfully executed the carefully calibrated intake of oxygen and nitrogen into my lungs.

Whenever I see a steam engine locomotive, I think of hoboes. Hopping on boxcars, riding the rails, free to travel the entire country, taking orders from no one.

I have since learned that hobo life is not so romantic after all. Hoboes are just homeless alcoholics like the one who murdered my father.

“I’ve got a great idea for a movie. It’s about a scientist, who discovers a way to clone dinosaurs from their DNA. He gathers experts from all over the world, and together they build the world’s first dinosaur amusement park on a remote island.

“I guess, kind of. But mine doesn’t star Jeff Goldblum.”

With a heavy thud, Kirby threw a thick file onto the desk, joining the mounds of paper already stacked higher than the tip of his hat.

Santa sighed again. Lawyers had ruined everything.

Later, he explained the solitude was good for him.

He grappled with what to do next, but everything made sense. The police scanners were quiet, news was normal. He was safe. Tonight, nine days later, he could kill again. The cycle continues.

From guest contributor, Kevin Reitz

He found it long ago, in his grandfather’s attic. The cover said Dictionary, but it looked more like an old journal: yellowed, desiccated, stained and crumpled. It contained a list of words, one to each page, words he had never seen before.

Once the word was scribed into the book, however, it escaped from the language, never to be uttered, written, thought of again. His dictionary that consumed words.