There Hangs The Sword

There hangs the sword, the one handed down from father, to son, to me, the symbol of my family, the defender of our home, the weapon that has slain hundreds, that fought for our homeland in the long war, and struck fear into our enemies, the blade that was retired but never allowed to dull, that was laid to rest but never sheathed, that was put on display as a reminder to all future interlopers this house will forever be vigilant, there is the sword even now, still hanging there, as I slowly bleed out on the floor below it.

Grief, Lack, And The Last Transmission

The cities were brought to a grinding halt by the death of the Great Leader. There was grief and tears, on personal media feeds, the walls, the screens, holograms, everywhere, even the real faces and eyes.

The psychologist-in-charge at the ground control station of the manned extra-solar expedition warned her supervisor not to intimate the traveling crew. She had warned, but the supervisor in his grief, blurted out the news to the Captain.

That was the last the world ever heard of the traveling space shuttle and of its crew. XT9 became a haze among the frequencies and disappeared forever.

From Guest Contributor Debarun Sarkar

Debarun sleeps, eats, reads, smokes, drinks, labors and occasionally writes stories and submits them. Recent works have appeared or are forthcoming in Visitant, Off the Coast, The Opiate, Aainanagar, Literary Orphans, Friday Flash Fiction and here at A Story in 100 Words, among others. He can be reached at debarunsarkar.wordpress.com

The Do-Gooder From Beyond The Grave

Shit! Here he comes.

“I’m running for cancer research on Sunday.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say looking at the gaunt face, an over-achiever in athletics as well as the office.

“Will you sponsor me? Most are pitching in a pound or two per mile.”

Christ, a fucking half-marathon.

I pledge a pound.

“Thanks, it’s a good cause.”

Monday morning. He’s late, he’s never late.

“Bad news,” says the boss. “Mike collapsed and died after the race.”

Thirteen quid saved, I think amidst the office tears.

“I suggest we all double our contributions to show respect,” says the boss.

God damn him!

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had short stories and poems published in Schlock! Webzine, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, Dead Snakes, 1947 A Literary Journal, and in various anthologies. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.

Woman In Silhouette

I still remember the night when you left me, air thick with mist, the full moon hanging low like a moth in a tomb of cobwebs. Your deceitful voice was floating like paint fumes, stretching through the void.

«Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be back in a bit,» you said, kissing my forehead with stone-cold lips, smoothing my braids with moist and stiff hands.

Time has swallowed hundreds of full moons ever since, its belly round and black, cradled my sleepwalking heart, watched your features fading away from my memory. Now there’s nothing left of you but a woman in silhouette...

From Guest Contributor Cristina Iuliana Burlacu

Your Lips

I can judge this only by looking at them, but I think you almost certainly have the most kissable lips I have ever seen. They look soft and your bottom one hangs out from below the top one slightly in a way that is so graceful and delicate that it fills me with an immense desire to kiss it—and bite it a little. They are always of the correct moisture too; they are never dry nor too wet. They seem to have that perfect amount which makes them look radiant and healthy. Desperately, I want to kiss your lips.From Guest Contributor Mark Beddard

Step Nine

He rode that one hit as far as it would take him. Now all he had left was the blue guitar. He had hocked, sold, or left behind everything else, including the royalties. The blue guitar, even with the missing string; he couldn’t bring himself to part with that.

The alcohol and cocaine haze had lifted long ago, leaving memories from that time scrambled.

He knew she was blond, she wasn’t just any groupie, and he’d broken more than just a guitar string.

He needed to make amends but he couldn’t remember where the tour had been playing that week.

From Guest Contributor Simon Hole

Simon lives in rural Rhode Island where he taught fourth grade for 35 years, publishing essays and co-authoring a book focused on life in the classroom. Since retirement he has been playing poker, gardening, and writing short fiction. Some of his work can be found on-line at 101Words, The Zodiac Review, 200cc’s, and Bewildering Stories.

Overindulgence

She was tired and had too much to drink. Her eyes drooped to provide the perfect screen for strange imaginings. Time passed.

Chloe jolted awake to a shift in the buzz of conversation, her vision presenting a weird split screen of a now empty hotel bar, a new day’s sun barging through the large windows and reflecting off each polished surface to sear through the fog in her brain: judgmentally bright.

Her clothes smelled of staleness and smoke. Stale vomit prowled the back of her throat.

Chloe waddled to the bathroom, suddenly aware of another need.

She’d open late today.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Descending On A Gas Giant

'Remember Jupiter?" he heard his friend ask.

"Yes, that was nothing compared to this. At least we knew what we were mining for there."

"Tell the base to abort in 2 years, in case we don't find anything."

Tox spoke into the wireless to his superintendent. He remembered that moment clearly, years later.

"We are not here for mining, Tox. We are here to terraform and colonize."

Tox remembered the look in all his colleagues' eyes. Even today, they remember that haunting look. As they looked down inside the gas giant planet, they knew something had certainly gone wrong, somewhere.

From Guest Contributor Debarun Sarkar

Debarun sleeps, eats, reads, smokes, drinks, labors, and occasionally writes stories and submits them. Recent works have appeared or are forthcoming in Visitant, Off the Coast, The Opiate, Aainanagar, Rat’s Ass Review, Cerebration, and here at A Story in 100 Words, among others. He can be reached at debarunsarkar.wordpress.com

Previously appeared in Friday Flash Fiction.

A Day, A Span

At dawn I am brought forth into this world, howling, crying. Mama, a girl hardly thirteen, swaddling my small frail body in a torn shawl. Oblivious that I am a load, or so I think.

At noon I walk briskly through dusty thorny paths nobody else walks through. A long march that brings only thirst. Fighting a war with no combatants. I am an assassin. I aim, I miss. I aim again, I hit.

By dusk I am an old man walking out of this world, soon. Mama, so long a spirit by now. Papa, a boy hardly an adult.

From Guest Contributor Troy Onyango

She Was Beautiful

I’ve never been accused of being a dirty old man and I’m not. I know it. I’m not even close. But I couldn’t help staring at her walking in the park. What a beautiful sight. Trim, lean, and muscled; a perfect specimen. A joy to watch. She had no idea how perfect she was. Perhaps that made her perfect. I stared at her and no one seemed to care. I even received a nod or two from others in the park. I can’t be sure, but I think they were watching her as well. A prize-winning poodle, she was perfect.

From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin