Calendar Sex

Cellos make little nicks in the dark and we breathe together. The afternoon was a failure. This plain gesture, togetherness, makes quick use of industrious forgetfulness. I cannot keep you behind this gate beyond the third movement. We mean to create more than one monologue to accompany the flutist. The children upstairs, our occupancy momentarily set. I position your fingers behind my neck as talisman for strings. The tent is down. This igloo explodes into every shard of routine that has, before this moment, set what stands for you and for me, aflame, sparks falling into pockets, to the ground.

From Guest Contributor Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee and has won awards for her poetry, prose, and scholarly work. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri St. Louis. She is the director of the River Styx Hungry Young Poets Series and founded the Graduate Writers Reading Series for UMSL. She is currently a Professor of Humanities and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen is the author of two chapbooks and one flash fiction collection. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, arrived from John Gosslee Books in 2012 and was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

Fear

I always said I was scared of nothing. I wasn't afraid of the dark, or death, or even lizards, mice and cockroaches. I didn't disbelieve in ghosts, but they’d done nothing to make me believe. Nor was I frightened of Judgement Day, because I am a conscientious person. Until the moment I heard the sound of footsteps approaching my room, I was truly scared of nothing. But when his shadow crept into the bedroom and his sinewy hands stifled my scream before tearing off every scrap of modesty on my being from that moment on, I became scared of everything.

From Guest Contributor Namitha Varma

Namitha Varma is a media professional based in Mangaluru, India. She has publishing credits in over 15 literary journals including Sahitya Akademi’s journal Indian Literature, eFiction India, Hackwriters, MadSwirl, FIVE Poetry, Microfiction Monday Magazine, and Postcard Shorts. Her micropoem has been read out on NPR Radio as part of the National Poetry Month 2014, and a poem of hers features in the Authorspress anthology ‘Resonating Strings.’ She blogs on narcissistwrites.blogspot.com and tweets via @namithavr.

Witness

The firemen backed out of the room, choking on the gut-churning scent. The old woman lay splayed across the floor, one purple foot twisted out from under the quilted bathrobe, the other in a pink slipper, the lamb's wool gripping the foot it could no longer warm, by her side a bloated miniature dachshund and a cat curled and frozen on the cushion of the kitchen chair. A cockatoo danced back and forth on his perch, still calling to the woman on the floor, to the dog in whining vigil, to the three weeks of silence in the house.

From Guest Contributor Diane de Anda

The Poet's Life

I sat on the large stone in the middle of the picnic field. I had my notebook out and was busy scribbling away. There were couples and families and dogs and blankets. There was food and sport and laughter and a few tears. The more life unfurled around me, the faster my pencil lurched across the page.

This is the life of the poet. A life of watching. You might call me a mirror, or a tape recorder. I am an instrument.

But life is lived whether we laugh and love our way to death or record others doing it.

Impressions

“Ugh, Dad you cannot send me to that school!” I squealed.

“Why Samantha? It looks lovely there.”

“It is on that terrible estate where children smoke drugs and lose their virginity at twelve years old.”

“You don’t even know the name of that estate, Sam,” my Dad challenged.

A wave of silence flooded the room. My Dad huffed, walked over to the bookshelf, picked up Hamlet and opened it to page twenty-six.

“Come here Sam and look at this page very closely, but don’t read the words. Read between the lines. What do you see?”

I hesitated. I saw nothing.

From Guest Contributor Joshua Wallis

Joshua is a home-school student from the United kingdom, who loathed reading literature until recently! He is looking forward to reading works of great novelists and insightful 100-word stories in the coming years.

On The Shore

"They'd both die for you, you know," he said.

She watched as the man and the dog, floundering in the sand as though beached at low tide, laughed and barked in hoarse revelry.

"Does it scare you?" he asks.

"No. That I'd die for them, that scares me."

He watches her watch the man and the dog.

"Feeling is more frightening than being felt for?"

"It's more difficult to control," she says, finally looking at her interrogator.

"Dying," he says. "That's the ultimate in losing control."

"Not if you control how you die."

Her pockets were already full of stones. From Guest Contributor Peter Hynes

Peter's stories have appeared in such publications as Flesh & Blood, The Malahat Review, Transversions, Dark Tales, Wicked Hollow, Rain Crow, Not One Of Us, Aiofe's Kiss, Horror Library Vol 2, and On Spec.

Pollution

My pager summons me to the Master Observation Analysis Lab (MOAL).

Based on the theory telescopes will see pollution in the atmosphere of planets which have, or had, industrial life as we might know it, MOAL is analysing photographic images of planetary atmospheres.

Initially we agreed upon three levels of pollution, Minimal, Moderate, High, which are yet to be calibrated into sub-levels.

“We've found the very first planet with measurable readings and in the High zone,” calls the Manager to me excitedly. “We need you to verify.”

“Wow! Fantastic! How many light years away?”

“It’s in our own solar system!”

From Guest Contributor Barry O'Farrell

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

Hotspot

The lone imagineer of the radioactive sand cloud that froze Florida in death and time worked for Disney. Tourists, natives, gangsters, and gators were rendered untouchable beneath a toxic sheet of glass. The reflection burned up satellites and crisped drones mid-air, and it was agreed the whole place should be forgotten, for now. So they forgot the flamingos and the dancing girls and the cigar factories in Tampa where the son cubano played on. Nobody remembered to forget the island past Key West where an old man sold boat rides to Havana for five dollars and a bottle of rum.

From Guest Contributor Courtney Watson

Nothing More Than Coincidence

The argument over the next-door cemetery was one of those that never ended, though nobody in the Miller family took it particularly seriously. None of them were actually frightened.

But after the third Miller boy died of an unusual accident on his 18th birthday, the rest of the Millers began to wonder. No family could be that unlucky, right?

It was Mr. Bodewin, the retired Sheriff, who told them they didn't live on the edge of the cemetery, but smack dab in the middle. But he maintained the boys' deaths were an accident still. Mr. Bodewin didn't believe in hauntings.

Infinity Pool

She and I are married but not to each other, if you get my drift.

Seizing a window of opportunity, we are spending four nights in a five-star hotel on the coast complete with infinity pool. I swim, she wades.

She says, during my swim, a young girl approached her complaining a couple of boys mischievously removed the safety floaters to use for a game in the pool. The lass asked, “Can you tell your husband to make those boys put the floaters back?”

“Why don’t you?” I ask cheekily. “Grab your phone, make the call.”

We both laugh.

From Guest Contributor Barry O’Farrell

Barry's stories can also be found on Cyclamens & Swords, 50-Words Stories and of course, here at A Story In 100 Words.