My grandfather liked to paint lead miniatures, redcoat British riflemen and coal-colored Zulu warriors with brilliant spears. He would wax poetic about square formations and Michael Caine, talk about each individual figure as though they led deeply introverted lives. On hot summer mornings I’d wake with my child’s eyes and see: all those soldiers shifted from their positions, playing out an historical drama that only my grandfather knew. Grandfather survived the brutality of the Pacific Theater. Now he lays forever asleep, something inanimate, molded by ancestral pressures unknown, moved with care, another lead actor in some endless recursive performance.

From Guest Contributor John K. Webb

Back to school shopping.

Where was I? In the elevator with the family, hearing their conversation as it unfolded to the public.

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.

“A single nuclear device, including laptop computer, can fit inside a standard 20-foot shipping container. There are 1,250 shipping containers on a regular container ship. Now if you look at this photo what do you see?”

“Our doomsday machine.”

Barry O’Farrell is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia.

Barry’s other stories appear in Cyclamens & Swords, 101 Words, 50-Word Stories, and of course here at A Story in 100 Words.

Floodlights dancing over the facade of D.C.’s skyline, lurid swirls of white illuminating lifeless constructs. Helicopters flitting, sound of thwift-thwift, fiery arcs followed by rifle’s boom. Jamie clasped his fingers between chain link and watched. Behind him, scattered over a lightless tract of dirt, the naked dying, bleeding from eyes, cries of pain a muted keening of metal. Above: C.D.C. in masks and Hazmat suits, brandishing assault weapons. Washington was long dark—indeed, the entire country. Jamie gazed upwards. The milky way had manifested like fever dream, ephemeral and monolithic, a terrible Prince awaiting its prize’s return to benign jungle.

From Guest Contributor John Webb

This is a repost of a story from 2014 that accidentally got deleted.

His heart was in the right place, Mama would say. To explain away anything Kurt did. Like it was about location, his heart, being where it should be. He meant well. I nod like I agree. But on good days when Timmy takes a nap after lunch, I go out on the front porch, close the door behind me. Think about how I’d pack just a few things, wear a white summer dress. I stand there on the porch alone, and it’s like I’m riding in a fancy car with the top down. Letting the sun and wind hit me.

From Guest Contributor Beth Mead

I enjoy winning. I am competitive by nature.

Yes, in my case it is a sickness. My doctor has diagnosed ‘Auction Fever.’

From Guest Contributor Barry O’Farrell

Barry is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. Barry’s other stories may be found at Cyclamens & Swords, 50 Word Stories, 101 Words, and of course here at A Story In 100 Words.

The skittering as her nails scrabbled at the tiles on the front door hall: impotent in the face of his grip on her favourite leash.

I’m going to kill the spoiled little Shitzon which pisses on my book collection.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

“C’mon, Helen, add me back! I know you’re still active.”

No message came from inside, but, crouched with ears against the wall, she thought she could hear the distant buzz of postings addressed to someone else.

From Guest Contributor Leonardo A. Castro

With more downs than ups, Francine realized she needed to make a drastic change. To reverse an unfulfilled lifestyle where only food seemed to delight her.

Clothing stores were not far away.

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.

We thought we’d have forever, but forever doesn’t last as long as it once did. One year, seven months, four days since we wed. Your beauty captivated me. Never thinking of yourself, you touched many lives, changed them, helped people achieve their deepest aspirations. You challenged me, forced me to chase my dreams. But what about your dreams, desires? You’ll never reach them now. You were there for me, but I failed you. Forgive me?

Goodbye.

From Guest Contributor Joshua Lanham