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.

Barbara and Dave fought more on vacation, and much more intensely, than any other time in their marriage.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. They just bobbed quietly in the water, wishing the other one wasn’t there. It would have been better to die alone than to endure each other’s company a moment longer.

This is a 101-word story I wrote for 101 Words. You should check out their site.

The old man who lived on the hill was named Mr. Hill. He was so stingy, he even begrudged giving affection.

Although Mr. Hill and Mrs. Bottoms did indeed marry, their union brought neither of them happiness.

Wendell stared at the woman he called his wife, debating whether to respond. For some reason, all he could think about was how beautiful she used to be.

Wendell returned to reading his sports magazine.

She holds two swords of societal success. Her career of achievement, her marriage of love realized. Nice house, nicer car. The look that men look at – even her husband. Meditative dreams on summer days under a comforter of cool breezes. Still, one regret reflects the swords’ sharp edges. Cut her caesarean style – deep as you like; take out the child she cannot carry… his son. The single thing she cannot give him. Justice, she feels, is not in the cards for her. She seeks to be satiated through gluttonous eyes. Where are maternity clothes, the infant boy she must steal?

From Guest Contributor. Keith Hoerner

Keith lives, teaches, and pushes words around in St. Louis, Missouri.