Christmas Cards

My eccentric aunt sits in front of a stack of approximately one hundred Christmas cards, freshly signed, sealed and stamped.

“May I help? Let me mail them for you,” I offer.

I grab a plastic bag. As I manoeuvre cards into the open bag, about one third fall to the floor. I kneel down to scoop them up.

She begins to wail. “Don’t you realize, I spent forty minutes sorting them into fashionable zip code order?”

Is there any point in explaining they will become part of the greater mass once dropped through the chute at the Central Post Office?From Guest Contributor Barry O'Farrell

Barry is an actor who sometimes writes, living in Brisbane, Australia. Barry's stories can be found at Cyclamens & Swords, 101 Words, The Flash Fiction Press and here at A Story In 100 Words. One of Barry's stories was runner up in the recent Arts Alliance competition.

Pest Party Hide

It wasn’t that butterflies were particularly speedy and – let’s face it – they do a lot of pit stops for nectar. Sean just couldn’t keep up because the path was so uneven of ground and full of over-tactile briars. He just couldn’t keep up.

What was more frustrating about the metaphor which emerged from his childhood memories was that he was married to this one and the “briars” were unbearable bores who insisted they knew him and were unbelievably eager to tell him how.

Sean detached himself, headed to the drinks table and ordered a double Jameson. She could drive home.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

The Pesto of Love

Jasper Bains had not meant to invent a love potion. He had an excess of macadamia nuts and fresh tarragon; it seemed a good idea to make pesto from them.

Every customer of Jasper's Specialty Foods who bought some returned hand in hand with a new customer. Business was booming.

Jasper spread pesto on crackers and gave them to a frowning brown-haired woman and a young man who'd shot shy glances at her. Eyes met eyes and the winter cold was forgotten.

Jasper's heart skipped a beat when Genevieve walked in, but he hid the pesto. That would be cheating.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

Santa Ritual

I’m ten, too old to sit on Santa’s lap. Tell my parents. Please, someone?

Last year I was a brat, on purpose. Cracked inappropriate jokes, tugged his beard, farted on his pants. Hoping my message would come across.

Yet, here we go again. When asked what I want for Christmas, I belted out my thoughts.

Santa was speechless. Mom and Dad stared. Parents with kids waiting to meet Santa looked like icicles.

Then, I remembered Scrooge. “Sorry Santa,” I said, not letting him see my tears.

“You’re forgiven, son,” he replied. “The greatest gift is love. You already have that.”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, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

Blue Girl

There once was a girl and she was blue. Everything she saw, thought, and felt was blue. She thought of pink, green and purple, but no luck. Everything was still blue. She thought of how much better things would be in a different color; brighter, warmer, easier. She kept thinking she should change, so that the blue would disappear. She would imagine vibrant turquoise and even bright whites. Then one day she took the plunge. She followed the light; the hope. She walked as far as she could walk. Then she floated. Now things are red. So very, very red.

From Guest Contributor Maureen Ferguson

The Golden Elixir

When the man entered the Golden Elixir, he was the only patron. The name was for both the establishment and the only drink it served.

The bartender greeted him in a friendly manner. "How'd you hear about us?"

The man wasn't sure what to answer. "I heard rumors that you serve drinks that are...solid gold?"

"That's true. Would you like to try?"

"Sure, how much?"

"The first one is on the house." The bartender pulled down a black decanter filled with a gold liquid and poured a glass. The man hesitated, then gulped it down.

The man immediately died.

The Setup

Purple marks stained the ivory flesh of the young victim's neck. DNA forensic technicians hustled around her with their swabs and evidence bottles.

My partner Isobel raised an eyebrow in an unspoken question.

"DNA will confirm it, but it's him."

Isobel sucked in a breath. "Adam Knowles. Been killing ten years, but not a hint of where he is."

I knew where he was. Twelve years since I killed him and placed a sample of my DNA labelled with his name in the database.

The victim's final screams played in my memory as I, Detective Richard Morrison, guided the investigation.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

The Remnants Of Atlantis

The agents of Atlantis first infiltrated the upper world more than a thousand years ago. Their technology was far more advanced than what humans were accustomed to and they easily assimilated themselves without detection. They became Kings, Generals, Scientists, and Philosophers. Everywhere they emerged, they prospered.

When the underwater volcano erupted in 1066, the bulk of their civilization was destroyed. No one mourned though, for they had essentially conquered the upper world for themselves, without fighting a single battle.

Not everyone agreed. Some Atlanteans argued that though they thrived, in reality, their civilization had been subsumed by the land-walking humans.

Educated

At a student’s desk, she wept. A cheerful message written earlier on the whiteboard: “How are you, Miss Jimenez?” in English and Spanish.

“You can press charges, but I wouldn’t advise it,” one assistant principal said. “He is getting suspended for one day. Any bruises?”

Jimenez hung her head. “No, sir.”

“I’d advise taking a personal day, but it’s so hard getting a sub. Besides, you don’t want to look weak,” the other assistant principal said. The radio squawked - an emergency in the bus lane. The AP’s rushed down the hall on the only day Jimenez left at 4:30.

From Guest Contributor Embe Charpentier

228 Days To Mars

The Delta 2 rocket clears the tower. All eyes are on the big screen. Lift off is a success.

Spontaneous cheering breaks out.

In 228 days our unmanned vehicle will be on Mars. If all goes well, our next launch will be the much anticipated manned mission. We can feel the excitement already.

I notice Eddy is subdued. He is not joining in the celebrations erupting around him.

“Eddy my man, why the long face?”

“Uhm, just been thinking.”

“Oh yeah, thinking about what?”

“Just remembering something… something important, I forgot I would adjust, recalibrate, in time for this launch.”From Guest Contributor Barry O'Farrell

Barry is an actor who sometimes writes, living in Brisbane, Australia. Barry recently had a short story awarded runner up in the Arts Alliance biannual short story writing competition. Barry's stories may be found at Cyclamens & Swords, 101 Words and of course here at A Story In 100 Words.