Her Date

She didn’t let anger precipitate her tears. Not yet. She was intent on finding the man of her passion. Approach him head-on. Strike him repeatedly with fiery bolts as thunderclouds rolled in her eyes.

Stiletto heels clicked her steps up the runway to where he lived. She rang the doorbell. Waited.

How could he forget a special day or ignore it?

She noticed the door ajar. Pushed it. Entered a dark apartment.

“Surprise,” voices screamed in unison. Lights went on.

Her beau poked his head into view from the other side of the door.

“Happy birthday, honey,” he managed sheepishly.

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, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, and espresso stories.

Sid

Tears streamed from Charlotte's blue eyes. Her protective doberman 'Sid' had died. Even her job as a vet did not help. The cancer had spread. Two weeks after Sid's sad demise Charlotte tied her brown locks into a bun and returned to saving other pets' lives. She accepted only token payments to cover her lonely expenses.

One moonlit evening whilst withdrawing takeaway cash a scuffle ensued. Police arrested a crook from the off license nearby. As he was dragged away the thief shouted back,

'Lady, you're lucky you had a big dog watching you, I was gonna rob you first!'

From Guest Contributor Kerry Valkyrie Baldock Kelly

Each Other's Company

Barbara and Dave fought more on vacation, and much more intensely, than any other time in their marriage.

"I wish you'd just shut up about it," Barbara finally shouted.

"As soon as you admit that this time it wasn't my fault," Dave countered.

"Okay, it's not your fault. Are you happy now?"

"Yes." Having gained her absolution, Dave stopped bickering and turned away.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. They just bobbed quietly in the water, wishing the other one wasn't there. It would have been better to die alone than to endure each other's company a moment longer.

This is a 101-word story I wrote for 101 Words. You should check out their site.

Internet Freedom

“Worst case scenario,” solemnly begins my lawyer, looking up from his papers to fix me with his most sobering stare, “They will seize your computer, hard drives, thumb drives, charts, journals, everything.

“They will want the details of everything you have ever worked on, all your current work in progress, every project you plan to work on in the future.”

“I’ll go into hiding.”

“You can’t hide. They will track you down to the ends of the Internet. They want it all. They will scan everything inside your head.”

“I will cut off my head to stymie the Thought Police.”

From Guest Contributor Barry O'Farrell

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

Basic Behavior

All I could say to my mother as she stood haggard over the sunken sink and washed the dishes; rattled the stainless steel pots trying to make some type of noise to fill up space that the silence had long held ransom was, “I don’t mean to be sad.” I gripped at the air as I said the words; tried to catch eloquence and understanding in my palms. I wanted to give her a better answer, a better reason. I wanted to appease. “I don’t mean to be sad,” again. Basic. All I could be…everything I could say. “I’m sorry.”

From Guest Contributor Endya Goliday

Endya is a fiction writer and playwright who resides in Saint Louis, Missouri.

Her Little Plum

The plum blossoms dance in the spring breeze like pink snowflakes across the yard.

A boy again, mother lifts me into the limbs to pick ripened fruit. “Be careful, my precious squirrel.”

“Ready, dear?” my wife asks.

“Yes,” my voice chafes. I inspect my dark suit, adjusting my tie in the window’s reflection. Wipe my face and rub wet fingers together.

“Your speech is in my purse.”

Words. An inadequate parting gift.

My mouth waters as mother sets down a steaming plum pie.

After her funeral, floodlights illuminate wreckage of the fallen tree. A brittle heart splinters. Sobs erupt anew.

From Guest Contributor Eric Schweitz

Second Date

Let me tell you about being single again and dating.

I meet remarkable women.

Non-smokers who chain smoke; social drinkers being borderline alcoholics.

When we talk on the phone, without exception, they’re all size 10-12. We arrange to meet.

The old joke goes, the women in our town are size 24, size 26, size 28, and then there are the big fat ones!

Seems to me it’s true.

They get offended when I say, “You deceived me,” and ask why I say so on our first date. I mean, why would anyone wait til the second date to speak up?

From Guest Contributor Barry O'Farrell

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

House Hunting

The realtor pushed the door open. “Will your wife be joining us?”

“Don’t worry about her. Does it have everything I asked for?”

“I believe it does.”

“Which way to the basement?”

She led him through the kitchen. “This is it.”

He flipped on the light and peered down into the dark dank hole. “Uh huh,” he said as he disappeared down the stairs. The realtor followed down behind him.

It was the worst sort of basement, dark corners, only one sliver of a window, musty, dead.

He toed the dirt floor and it gave way under his boot. “Sold.”

From Guest Contributor Darci McIntyre

What Patti Smith Gets Up To

"I saw Patti Smith in concert once. It was quite recently actually. I like to think that after the show she went to a late night beat poet meet where they gave beautiful spoken word renditions through the fug of cigarette smoke whilst drinking sour wine. Or she went to keep candlelight midnight vigil over an altar of Allen Ginsburg, a vigil unbroken by his devotees since his death in the 90’s. More realistically I think Ms. Smith went back to her hotel with her band and caught an early night, she was getting on a bit at the time."

From Guest Contributor George Aitch

Parking Lot Poet

I sit and think.

Of what, I'm not sure. As this mind has tendencies to wander. Wanting perfection, but tending to squander.As the ideas flow as dam water, next thing you know you're down the river. I gasp, adrenaline flows to capture the shore. Just to be able to hold to one original idea.

I sit and think.

In ways of harnessing this cursed gift, since frustration foreclosures many of them before they leave the pen. In a sense I'm the hopeless poet I so ironically created. The oxymoron of a poet's life sitting in a empty parking lot.

From Guest Contributor UInk Poetry