Stressful Day

There were more than twenty people in the crowd a little distance away from where I was standing. I shouted, but none could hear. A huge rolling tide swept me, I was choking. I could not feel anything.

I was holding on to the branch of a tree. Feeling so lucky to be alive, I walked a little distance.

There were snakes of all kinds along the path that led to a house. I was terrified.

Next morning, I went to an analyst and asked him the meaning of this dream. He said, “You indeed had a very stressful day.”

From Guest Contributor Thriveni C. Mysore.

Voodoo Graffiti

The night the lake turned purple, I was on the phone for three hours, fighting with my brother. He was dissing Grandpa's old white Ambassador which I'd inherited. Afterwards, I switched off my phone and shut myself up in my room. That's how I missed our town's first miracle.

Three days, one strangled rooster, a lungful of incense and a migraine later, I had succeeded in turning his BMW bright yellow. His scream of fury echoed across town. I sniggered and came out for coffee.

By then, the whole world had turned purple. Including Grandpa's car.

Still, better than yellow.

From Guest Contributor Aparna Nandakumar

Aparna lives in Calicut, India, and writes poems and short stories. Her work is forthcoming in The Atticus Review and Cafe Dissensus.

Cat Number Four

Shelly sighed as she looked at the stray. Something in her mind shouted "Run away," but it was too late. The kitten would be coming with her.

On the cab ride home, as she stroked the plush fur, Shelly recalled the dreams she had as a child. A successful career in business. A handsome husband. Two obedient children. Those dreams were now gone, replaced by this adorable fur ball in her lap.

She entered her home and set the kitten on the floor. There was no turning back. This was cat number four. Shelly was officially a crazy cat lady.

Guilt

I wasn’t the only one at the metro station the evening one of the trains blew up. But I was among those who stood the farthest from the flaming train. I was among the lucky few who escaped unhurt. I was among those who smelt the burning flesh first. I was among those who saw the first streams of blood escaping the bombed coach. I was also among those who ran towards the exit as soon as the shock wore off.

And now I am among those who are haunted by the images of the passengers we could have saved.

From Guest Contributor Namitha Varma

Namitha Varma is based in Mangaluru, India. Her works have appeared in Sahitya Akademi’s journal Indian Literature, eFiction India, Hackwriters, MadSwirl, and Every Writer's Resource, among others. She can be reached on twitter via @namithavr.

The Exporter's Lament

In Export there is something heroic about earning foreign currency for my country. It makes up for jet lag, family absences, and living out of a suitcase.

Disembarking the flight home, I am thinking of freshly made meals and welcome home sex, not necessarily in that order.

I open the front door to enter a silent, empty house; furniture, fixtures and fittings gone.

On the kitchen bench the business card of a lawyer, specializing in Family Law.

My mind floods with stories told by fellow exporters, their helpless acute vulnerability, when their wives ran off with another man or woman.

From Guest Contributor Barry O'Farrell

Barry O'Farrell is an actor in Brisbane Australia, who worked in Export many years ago.

Other stories by Barry can be found at Cyclamens and Swords, 50 Word Stories and here at A Story In 100 Words.

The Final Conversation

They walked the long way to her house, so they had extra time before they reached her porch. She had a previous engagement and he wasn't invited inside.

The conversation had been lovely. They'd shared their most embarrassing moments. They made each other laugh. They held hands. They kissed around the corner, and didn't care who might see them. He would remember it fondly forever.

It was their final conversation. He stopped returning her phone calls or answering her letters. He feared things ending on a bad note, so he had waited for the perfect moment to break things off.

The Ironies Of Doing Drugs

I'd never smoked marijuana before and I never imagined it would be so difficult.

First everyone kept telling me how dangerous it was. It would sap all my will power. I'd become a stoner.

Then, there was no place for me to buy any. It was legal in some states but in Philadelphia, no one knew where I could score some.

Finally, I found a dealer, but he wouldn't sell any to me. "You look like a good kid. Why don't you go home?"

I've done heroin plenty of times and this guy won't sell me a bag of weed!

Surprise

He always smiled when she appeared. Today, he also winked.

No one else gave her a second look. At school, girls called her names. Boys threw stones.

She placed a chocolate bar on the belt. He rang in the price. She paid.

“Not getting your favourite?” he asked.

“You’re out,” she answered.

“It won’t happen again.”

She tore the wrapper off exiting the store. Took a mouthful. As she started walking home, a car pulled up behind her. The driver’s window opened.

“Found these in the back of the store,” he said handing her a caramel chocolate bar.

“Thanks, Grandpa.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction. Her recent work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories and espresso stories.

Present

“The grandkids gave me a beautifully wrapped Christmas present. When I opened it, the box said apple. I thought it meant dried fruit. Turned out to be one of them takeaway telephones young people like.

“I’ve never tried a takeaway telephone. Grandkids showed me how to use it with finger sliding, pointing, tapping.

“They showed me all sorts of things inside it which were very surprising.

“Now I have lost it. Must have put it down somewhere, forgot it and walked off. If you happen to find it, my telephone has a white body and the front is black glass.”

From Guest Contributor Barry O'FarrellBarry has written other stories which appear on Cyclamens and Swords, 50 Word Stories and of course here at A Story In 100 Words.

The Only Casanova in This Dead Country

"She was so hot,” Sam says. “It was like she was blasting out chunks of magma. When we finished, the whole apartment looked like Pompeii. Anyway – how'd you do with your lucky lady?"

I light up a cigarette and think for a moment.

"I was depressed the next day. Does that answer your question?"

"You tellin' me you didn't make a formaldehyde fetus?"

"Oh we had unprotected sex. I don’t know. Something doesn't sit well inside."

Sam puts his hand on my chest.

“There's nothing comfortable inside that heart of yours,” he says. “It's an abandoned archaeological site. Like America."

From Guest Contributor Justin Karcher

Justin lives in Buffalo, NY. Recent works have appeared in Crab Fat Literary Magazine, Mixtape Methodology, and Maudlin House. You can find him on Twitter.