The Veil Of Light

My body wakes to join my mind in shock as scenes of a distorted world vanish, and realization sinks in. The darkness of the world I inhabit dissipates, and the light arises once more. Haunted by the past and present, but none so terrifying are they to the unknown of the future. That eldritch thing that lurks behind the veil of light, creeping across the land and praised by the Cult of the New Dawn. I lie here in fear, hoping and praying that I possess the strength to face it once more, to conquer the daemon of the day.

From Guest Contributor Michael Atherton

A Night On An Empty Skywalk

The skywalk at the Santa Cruz railway station which connects SV Road in the west to the highway in the east was empty that night. He took his time to walk eastward, each slow step was counted so as to not reach shelter too quickly. Sleep was not cheap.

On the eastern end, another man was on the run from the police with a gun in his hand, having outdone the police. The emptiness of the skywalk seemed like the best possible thing. He could make his escape. Only then he saw a well-dressed man walking lethargically on the bridge.

From Guest Contributor Debarun Sarkar

I Killed Him

The corridors, they felt never ending. The blood stained my hands, no matter what I wiped them on the blood stained my hands. I attempted to wipe the blood from my face but that caused more mess. I turned right. I heard shouting from behind me. “RUN!” It was the last thing said to me before it happened. I slipped into the bathroom running into a stall. I tried not to look but I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Covered head to toe in blood. As I breathed heavy all I could think was I killed him.

From Guest Contributor Lulu

In her own words: My name's Lulu I'm 14, I wrote this in 2 minutes.

Write Story

It's my second semester at college. When I started school, I really wanted to become a writer. But I always have trouble deciding what to write about.

So I'm flunking my Creative Writing class!

Today's the final and it's 60% of our grade. The instructor announces, “Write a very short story, with a protagonist, his/her background, his/her goal, an obstacle to that goal, ending with a little twist.”

I have trouble writing any story, let alone one with all those requirements!

Time is running out. So I just start writing:

“It's my second semester at college. When I started school...”

From Guest Contributor Kent V. Anderson

When Kent isn't writing stories, he is building robots.

Song Service

It’s seven in the morning. I’m supposed to be at Songshan Church in Taipei teaching a small Sabbath-School group at nine. But I’m sitting in my kitchen hot boxing a cigarette. Mitigating the queasiness from last night’s escape: a single malt Speyside scotch accompanied by Mozart’s Requiem.

Blazing summer humid heat even at this hour. Should I shower? Will they smell the booze and tobacco on me?

A two-hour train ride later and I find myself up in front of all of the congregants. Ambushed into leading out in song service. The sweat oozes and I wonder if they know.From Guest Contributor Robert Vogt

Robert worked as a custodian for a number of years until switching to EFL educator after graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts. Changing from manual laborer to educator caused Vogt much regret though he has reaped manifold benefits from the career change. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Degenerate Literature, Horror, Sleaze and Trash, Outlaw Poetry, and Unlost Journal. Vogt is chief editor at White Liquor.

The Billionaire's Mistress

The detective smoked on the cigar as he watched the new client walk in. The person was evidently from the lower rungs. Quite distinct from his general clientele. He wondered where did she get the reference, money, and the confidence to approach his office.

"I'm a mistress of the owner of Exotic Chemicals. His daughter has gone missing. I'm here to represent the owner."

As he put down the cigar on the ashtray, he recalled the magazine stories about the secretive billionaire. The conspiracy theories on film raced across his vision as the client opened her lips to speak again.

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, Tittynope, and here at A Story in 100 Words, among others. He can be reached at debarunsarkar.wordpress.com

Imprint

Larry unloaded the wood from his pickup and hauled it into the workshop. Both facades, the truck and the shed, were as worn down as he was.

Larry did most of his thinking while he worked. It was always that way. He could look at a piece, even twenty years later, and remember what he'd been thinking while he built it.

Now he was thinking about his wife. There had been a time when he'd think about leaving her, but that was many years ago.

He was glad he staid. That's what he was thinking as he built her coffin.

Hell Is Paved In Pink Flamingos

He struggled—obsessed was the right word really—with finding just the right word to describe his surroundings. The decor might have been chosen by a meth-addicted toddler who also happened to be a fan of early 80's Madonna. The word kitsch came to mind, but while the neon atmosphere did have a tacky garishness one would associate with lava lamps or chia pets, there was also an aggressiveness to the design that implied a malevolence to the circumstances. He wasn't here by accident and whoever brought him here wanted him to suffer. The pink flamingos were proof of that.

There's Probably A Metaphor Somewhere

They'd played countless times, but never with so much at stake. Their matches began as flirtation, then morphed into courtship. They won in equal amounts until, as time passed, her victories became mostly afterthought.

Their styles contrasted perfectly. He was aggressive, careless even, looking to strike quickly at her most vulnerable spots. She played cautiously, guarding every pawn. Eventually, he'd wear down her defenses.

This was their final game. The winner would keep the house, the car, the dog. When she won, he couldn't believe it.

"You were always awful at chess. I let you win because it was easier."

The Taxidermist

He stuffed his victims, then mounted them on his wall. That's why they referred to him as the Taxidermist. His arrest, and subsequent conviction, was thought to be the end. No juror would've signed off on an insanity plea. He was locked away and, by the time his appeals were exhausted and he finally met his fate, the story had become more legend than reality.

But he was more than just a serial killer. He wasn't just preserving their skins, but also their souls. Now, with his death, those souls have been released. May God have mercy on us all.