Why The Absence?

A lot's been going on behind the scenes at 100 Words, more than can possibly fit in a 100 word story. I wanted to update my loyal readers as to why I've been MIA for the past couple months.

First of all, I'm a few weeks away from finishing the final draft of my novel. That's exciting. The next phase will begin soon, when I start actively looking for publishers. Or figure out the feasibility of publishing it myself. Stay tuned for updates.

I've also been compiling stories for a 100 Word Story E-Book. It's going to be at least 50% all new stories, and we'll be selling it through iBooks and Amazon among other places. I'm hoping to have that ready to go by the end of June, but no guarantees at this point.

I'm also working on two submissions for the Machine Of Death 2 project. If you don't know about Machine Of Death, you can read about it here or here. Basically, it's a series of stories based on the premise that someone has invented a machine to 100% accurately predict how a person dies.

In the meantime, here's a new 100 Word Story based on the Machine Of Death concept. And I'll do my best to keep adding new stories on a semi-regular basis.

Thanks,The Management

His First And Last Day On The Job

Shawna James was the only female butcher in the tri-city area. She was known to be impatient with the new employees, especially as they looked at her as some kind of aberration.

But she wouldn't have trusted anyone else with explaining how the machinery works. No one else cared as much.

"This here's the mincer. First you need to wet the sausage down. If it's too dry, you might create friction. Then you need to insert it into the slot. If it doesn't fit, don't worry. Just keep pushing until it goes all the way in."

"That's what she said."

Institutional Negligence

They found her body–tattered, ripped open at the seams with the fluff bleeding out–in the middle of the sidewalk. The authorities labeled it accidental murder; she was the victim of circumstance.

But murder is never an accident. It takes nerve and planning and years of resentment piled on top of envy and systematic failures. Triggers don’t just pull themselves.

Neither of the authorities wanted to hear about it. They refused to own the fact their institutional negligence had allowed Mrs. Cassidy to be chewed to death by Chocolate, the cocker spaniel. Her parents were always skirting the blame.

Fabrication

Everything is desolation.

The more involved the enterprise, the more bustling and productive society becomes, the greater the emptiness.

Activity creates a void.

There is an inherent meaninglessness in fabrication. The greater the heights of the accomplishments--both metaphorically and literally, if one was talking about the mammoth skyscraping towers--the more devoid of meaning they become.

Even religion has become transparent in its vacancy. Enforced attendance and ritualistic devotion do not make for fulfillment. It just seems something fundamental is missing. It's like memorizing a list of vocabulary without understanding what the words mean.

Everything was different before the robot apocalypse

Dear Diary

Today I got my first period. I'm the first in my grade to have one.

It wasn't bad at all. I was in English class, and I told Mrs. Johnson what happened, and she gave me a pass to the nurse's office. Only a few of the girls understood what was going on, and none of the boys.

Mom tried to be reassuring, like it was something I might be ashamed of. I think Dad was more embarrassed about it than I was.

Actually, I'm proud. I'm way ahead of schedule. This is definitely going on my application to Harvard.

Absolute Zero

Is it so easy to discard Einstein? To forget Kuhn? Nothing is absolute. Even the rules Einstein himself believed inviolable proved fallible.

We've broken the light barrier. We've entered a black hole and returned. Still they demand their rules be sanctified.

Now she would prove them wrong again. She would surpass absolute zero. She would prove that no matter how cold, it could always be colder. She would do so by transforming the hermeneutics of quantum gravity, and forever alter our understanding of the universe.

And she would die in the process, praying she's right about the viability of cryogenics.

Glass House

She'd built it metaphorically, to point out the fragility of our realities. If it earned her six figures, well she had to make a living.

Now she was confined inside a true house of glass, forever damned to clean windows, and floors and walls. Her fingers tasted of windex.

The worst part was the audience of gawkers and art critics parading past, taunting her with their stones and opaque clothing. They recycled themselves incessantly, and their presence was a constant reminder of her former hubris.

You see, the devil believes in metaphors too, and in prisons of our own making.

Alice With The Small Hands

She was a freak, her hands impossibly tiny. They all shunned her.

She dreamed her hands were larger than they actually appeared, shrunk on their way through the looking glass, but life was no wonderland.

Her grandmother made her believe. There was always a logic to God's madness, a meaning behind her abomination.

And then, the clockwork men attacked, their precision machinery working in time to destroy the Earth. Alice, only her tiny hands able to fit inside, saved humanity. Her day had arrived.

They still shunned her. Even her grandmother. Her purpose had been served, praise be to God.

The World's Worst Optimist

Dr. Jane Spurlock, world renowned neurologist, just finished the worst workday ever.

"You won't believe the awful things that happened today. First, several babies died of brain cancer. Then, a puppy with a broken spine tried to climb stairs to reach its master, who also died of brain cancer. And I spilled coffee on my new blouse."

Her always attentive husband, Roger, tried to place everything in its proper context.

"Look at the bright side. With the Republicans about to retake the House and dismantle Obama's health care reform, you won't have to attend to the poor and disenfranchised anymore."

A Modern Day Chastity Belt

I keep careful track of my house keys. Each one is tagged with a tiny GPS chip so that I can pinpoint their locations at all times. I note every person that has ever touched one in my key journal.

I don't trust locksmiths, so I apprenticed myself to learn lock making techniques. I developed a special algorithm based on integral wave theory to measure out the grooves, giving my locks the equivalent of 256-bit encryption.

You might consider me excessively cautious, but no one has ever broken into my house.

My key journal has only a single name listed.