Rebellion

The pale-eyed, reed-thin child had asked a question, timidly, adding a please.

"No, you can't," said a stern voice.

“But why?” inquired the child. Her feeble voice squeaked.

“You needn’t know why. When I said no, it means no,” replied the gruff tones of the elder.

Silence settled down as uncomfortably as the calm before an impending storm. Resentment rose like gushing steam from a kettle and condensed as tears in those little eyes, now shining with indignation.

A rebel was born.

She clenched the stone paperweight tightly in her fist.

The elder, blissfully ignorant, failed to imagine the aftermath.

From Guest Contributor Sayantika Mandal

An avid reader and an aspiring writer, Sayantika Mandal graduated with honors in English from Presidency College, Kolkata and pursued a post-graduate diploma in English Journalism. After a two-year stint as a copy editor in the national daily Hindustan Times, she left to pursue her dream of being a full-time author.

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.

Sanity

It started to rain as I got down from the ramshackle bus at the edge of the nondescript town. "Which way is the Nowhere Inn?” I asked the man hidden behind the newspaper. There was no response.

“Can you tell me which way…”

“Aren’t we all looking for the way…” the man had strangely glowing eyes. I noticed he had his paper open upside down. “I have an easier route for you…” He flicked out a knife.

Suddenly, a huge van with the legend NEW HOPE ASYLUM drew up.

It was time for me to return to my nightmarish home.

From Guest Contributor Sourya Chowdhury

Sourya is a sports journalist based in New Delhi

The Scent Of A City

She hasn’t unpacked yet. The clothes still smell of Paris. No, not of butter and cigarettes. Of that indescribable smell that is the smell of the City of Light.

Cities are redolent beings, each one with a distinct indescribable scent. Indescribable because Bombay doesn't just smell of sea waves caressing concrete, raindrops infusing with sweat on a monsoon day, or fried green chillies consorting with vada paos. Bombay smells of Bombay.

She needs them clothes now.

They didn’t tell her that you can carry a smell across 7,000 kilometers but there’s simply nothing you can do to make it stay.

From Guest Contributor Sheena Arora

Our Understanding

Will you wait for me? I was distracted in the company of voices. Remembered you when I realized the time.

I race, feet positioning haphazardly over cobblestone. Last narrow lane weaves through a city's historic gate, connects me to the main square where I met you yesterday. Where pigeons scrambled for tossed seeds. Tourists watched.

I see you in the same location with the sun setting behind you. Your body pivots, face gestures into countless expressions. Your hands deliver a new story, in silence.

When you see me, your eyes smile. For you know I understand your art of pantomime.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her fiction and poetry have recently been published online and in journals at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, A Story in 100 Words, 101 Words, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, and espresso stories. Her nonfiction has appeared in flash fiction chronicles and in Wild Lands Advocate. Krystyna resides in Alberta, Canada.

The Retreating River

Peering through the tinted windows, she saw the river’s glittering trickle and the constellation of shiny debris scattered over the vast expanse of sand. Plate-sized, they glinted in promise. Starfish? Shells? Ornaments discarded as the river retreated to curl down in a corner?

Sliding back the glass, she blinked. Stark sunlight shone down on a thousand shell-bright paper plates, discarded as family picnics retreated to idle their way home, say their twilight prayers, curl down in a corner, and let the television flash blindly off their faces.

The train blew past the retreating river with barely a sigh, as always. From Guest Contributor Aparna Nandakumar

Aparna lives in Calicut, India, and writes poems and short stories. Her work has previously been published at Atticus Review and A Story in 100 Words, and is forthcoming at Cafe Dissensus and Red River Review.

Other People's Weather

No one had been expecting snow this far south. The local meteorologists all insisted the snow would stop at least a hundred miles north of here. How wrong they were, Dee thought as he stepped outside and was immediately blanketed in large, chunky snowflakes. They had a bona fide blizzard on their hands. Dee smiled, and out of the corner of his eye he noticed the specter of a yeti ambling across the street and into a neighbor’s backyard. No one, not even the yeti, would ever know how Dee managed to steal other people’s weather and bring it here.

From Guest Contributor, Dan Slaten

Bankruptcy

The company declared bankruptcy this morning. Everyone is in shock. No-one saw it coming.

Overnight the company’s liquid assets vanished. No-one seems to know why or how.

In a numb state, I work as quickly as possible preparing the forms and statements the incoming Liquidator will require. My heart is not in it.

The Directors need to sign the documents. I enter the Boardroom freely, the door isn’t locked.

The five directors are standing around the boardroom table. Each has a suitcase open on a chair beside him. The table creaks under the weight of the cash piled on it.From Guest Contributor Barry O'Farrell

Barry O'Farrell is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. Barry's stories have appeared in Cyclamens & Swords, 50-Word Stories, and of course here at A Story In 100 Words.