The Cookie Jar

Leon sat across the kitchen table, gulping down instant coffee and looking everywhere but at Jaclyn. He was late for work, again, and spoke of nothing else. The toaster pinged and he bustled away.

She felt that their love was like a cookie jar. At first it was full of unexpected treats: crumbly sweetness with sticky jam fillings, dark chocolate coated crunchy goodness, and much, much more.

Now she felt that if she turned the jar upside down and shook it, there might be a few crumbs in there. But it would be too much effort for too little return.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

Karaoke Superstar

The sweaty man standing behind the microphone had been a pop star of some renown once upon a time, many years ago. Everyone in the room, even those paying more attention to their drinks than the immolation occurring in the corner of the hazy bar, could tell the man had the voice of an angel. One or two heads turned, thinking the man sounded somehow familiar even though they couldn’t quite place him. A woman, half drunk, nodded a buzzed nod and winked at the man, who barely noticed her, so focused was he on finishing this one last song.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

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

A Woodpecker

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! We're taking a short break for the holidays, but I would like to share a story of mine that just got published in Loreli. A Woodpecker is a story about my time living in Beijing. A warning: it's not flash fiction, but a full-on short story, more than 6,000 words.

For my American readers, enjoy the holiday. For everyone, keep submitting your stories. I'd much rather be sharing your stories in this place rather than my own.

That is all.

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