HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

The three sisters couldn’t spend their summer at home because of smallpox in the town. Their parents acquired the old farmhouse close to the boarding school and their favorite teacher agreed to spend her vacation taking care of them. She told them why the house was empty, of the little girl, who drowned in the cow pond. In time, the spirit came to each: in a dream; as a light over the field at dusk; and to the third sister, as the woman she spent the rest of her life with, from the age of twenty-eight, in a Boston marriage.

From Guest Contributor Jon Fain

Thus far in 2020, Jon’s fiction has appeared in 50-Word Stories, Fleas on the Dog, City. River. Tree., and Blue Lake Review.

It was boiling mid-September, Freshman Gym, 30 kids in blue and white trying not to faint, two bees hounding us, Mrs. Jenkins scowling at our clumsy volleyball.

But in that gym, Brian was a long-haired demon god, always moving, lean and all instinct, feasting on shiftless opponents and becoming the postscript to everything I would ever write about my youth, not always the point or the signature, but an afterthought never to be ignored.

From Guest Contributor Steve Bogdaniec

On her death bed, Jennifer’s thoughts don’t dwell on her husband, despite several decades of marriage and two children together.

It was only two weeks, but that was enough time to know Mateo was the love of her life.

Twenty years of marriage, twenty years of building a life together. Buying houses and cars. Now she is gone.

One episode of indiscretion, it wasn’t such a big deal. Deal breaker, she said. She is never coming back.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

He holds her close to him, the same way he has for over 70 years. She fights him and pulls away, she doesn’t know him. He doesn’t know not being with her. They were born the same day and grew up two houses apart, married once it was legal. He would visit her every day before it became too difficult. Then he moved into a room in the same care facility to be close to her. He still visits every day. He still eats meals with her. She still has no idea who he is. His is an endless love.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

NT has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, among others.

They sit in the bottom of a shoebox in a dusty corner of an attic on an unremarkable street in a neighborhood that could be located almost anywhere. Love letters. Old, forgotten love letters. They were written over thirty years ago by two people who barely exist anymore, only one of whom lives in this particular house. He doesn’t remember they’re there, of course, and she, wherever she is, doesn’t remember writing them. She has moved on, married someone else, had kids, just like he did. But the letters remain, fading reminders of a forgotten passion neither one feels anymore.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

John, riding down the dark empty road at three o’clock in the morning, takes a swig of beer.

Lying dead with his head on the steering wheel and his thumb pressing on Amy’s cell number, the phone begins to dial.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

She was the best stress buster I had. My best friend. My confessor, she bore all my messes. Talking to her was necessity not habit. She was my anchor in my bad marriage days. Ironically, my daughter shares a birthday with her.

She is the picture perfect woman to me. She got married to the best guy in the world. I’m so happy for her. I had never thought distance and time would keep us apart in these technologically advanced days. She is in EST and I am IST. What a mess these 9.5 hours have created in my life.

From Guest Contributor Dr. Scribbler

She stood in the kitchen, surrounded by packed boxes. The yellow rose lay wilting on the coffee table; a reminder of the stunning events of the past several days. In flower parlance, yellow roses ask for forgiveness. She knew her marriage was in trouble when her husband turned up with a sheepish look on his face and a yellow rose in his gloved hand. Now it wilted on the table, a ridiculously anti-romantic symbol of their once healthy and robust relationship. He had moved in with the dog trainer and she was left feeling as faded as the damned flower.

From Guest Contributor JoAnne Dowd

I have gotten myself into trouble over the years, forgetting simple little things like Valentine’s Day, wedding anniversaries, and such. Yes, her birthday too but only sometimes.

Today is the anniversary of my first marriage. What to do now?

From Guest Contributor Barry O’Farrell

Barry is an actor who sometimes writes, living in Brisbane, Australia. Barry’s stories appear in Cyclamens and Swords, The Flash Fiction Press, 101 Words, and of course here at A Story In 100 Words.