Mob Mentality

Samantha watched the rioters at a distance, curiosity piqued. An hour before, they'd been a united front, marching to the sound of protested chants. The pepper spray turned them into a mindless mass. The desire for destruction and an outlet for their frustration the only apparent bonds.

The police closed in, weapons raised, their eagerness to engage obvious even through their riot gear. The demonstrators scattered like water from a rock, splashing in all directions, following the path of least resistance.

Samantha was surprised to realize she'd never actually been an observer, but had always been part of the mob.

I'll Stay

I’ll stay.

I never did see their faces when they grabbed, raped, and beat me. Nor when they left me for dead in the canal not far from home.

A delusional hermit fished me out – tended to me in his old gardening shed they used to give coal miners. He called me daughter. His tenderness and doting seemed true.

It’s been two years – he is my Dad. And I his Isabella. A cozy shed-home for two.

But now shades of my past have begun flickering through the fog. I had been Anne. An orphaned young prostitute. Alone.

Isabella was lucky.

From Guest Contributor Nicolle Browne-Jamet

Locked

Depression lives with me. Locks my mind in a formidable place. It allows limited interactions with the outside world. Pushes aside the people who love me.

When I feel ready to emerge, it tempts me to abandon the thought. I’d peer out of windows opened to the world and sniff the air. Then, recoil. Preferring the comfort of what I know to something new.

Today, its hold is difficult to resist. A backpack filled with textbooks stays put in my bedroom. The bed becomes my refuge. The pillow, a sponge for tears.

The lock on my school locker remains locked.

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.

Running Man

I stroll around the park, mulling over my next 100-word story.

A scrawny bald man hurtles towards me.

“Ian?”

“Bill?”

He stops.

“10K training, 8 laps of the park - my 99th half-marathon’s on Sunday.”

“Wow!”

“But no full marathons now after my knee surgeries.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, impact injuries.”

Divorced, kids grown up, running has been the constant in his life.

“Still running, Ian?”

“Just jogging and some yoga.”

“Get back into it!” he says fervently.

Telling me his Facebook address he sprints off.

Leaving the park, I watch him running around in circles, the perfect subject for my story.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Born and raised in Cardiff, Wales, Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had poems and short stories published in Schlock! Webzine, 1947 A Literary Journal, Dead Snakes, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.

Priorities

Lillith's earliest memory is of her nail poking at her father's love handle. As if her finger was able to inject happiness, and heal the month-to-month worries that emerged as dollar signs in his eyes, just around his pupils.

In high school, Lillith filled out a career questionnaire while watching her mother dust her two-thousand-square-foot ball and chain. What did she want to be? She simply wrote: free.

On her thirtieth birthday, Lillith's parents pulled up to her one-hundred-and-forty-four-square-foot tiny home. As Lillith washed the sand off her feet, her mother whispered to her father, "When's she gonna grow up?"

From Guest Contributor Susan Shiney

Susan is a writer, painter, and teacher originally from Southern California. She is now living in Lille, France.

The Final Voyage

Grandfather boarded the old boat cautiously, wary of his footing. But once he'd left the docks behind, his balance actually improved. The years on shore might have accelerated his aging. We all silently hoped that being on the water might reverse his decline.

We waved optimistically as he pushed away from the pier, careful to act like this was any other departure. As Grandfather awkwardly raised the sails, he lacked the same proficiency of his younger days, though they eventually caught the wind and the boat glided away.

We cried then, knowing we'd never see Grandfather again. The horizon beckoned.

What Should Have Been

She was my first kiss at seven, she had a crush on me. She moved away a year later and was forgotten until high school when she found me on social media. I was busy, having parties and ignored her texts. In university, she found me again, through a friend, but I had no time, as I needed to study. Years later, by fortune, we bumped on the street. We talked for a few minutes, but that was all. Once more we met, this time at a funeral. Here I realized my folly, as I said goodbye to my soulmate.

From Guest Contributor Jordan Altman

Preserved

It floated in a four-foot cube glass case with runes etched into the gold frame and tiger’s eye gems set into all eight corners.

Connor found his gaze drawn to their chatoyant lustre and wondered if the sphere was only an optical illusion.

“It must be,” he verbalized. “There’s no such thing­–”

“Ah, ah...unnatural,” the mage corrected. “You were never going to get this from nature.”

The image of Claudia moved inside the time-bubble. Connor watched his daughter smile: a welcome change from the burial mask.

“I’ll take it,” he said, smearing tears with the back of his hand.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Verbal Therapy

“Hello, sir!” she exclaimed as she and two friends got out of their old car.

“Hi,” I replied as I bent over to remove my gas cap.

After fourteen hours of steady driving, my seventy-year-old back hurt, but in two more hours I would be home. Our vacation would then be over.

While pacing behind my car, waiting for my wife and enjoying the warm summer evening, the three teenagers returned to their car parked at the gasoline pump ahead of me.

“Good-bye, sir!” she shouted as she closed her car door before pulling away.

My back no longer hurt.

From Guest Contributor Gerald E. Greene

Old Mrs. Meyer

Johan returns with the potatoes for lunch. Mrs. Meyer, who lives opposite, opens her door. Though he’s eleven, the kind old lady still gives him candy.

However, seeing the two Gestapo officers with her, Johan hides.

“My father was German,” she says.

“The Reich is grateful,” they reply.

Soldiers arrive. Knocking down their front door, they drag out his parents and the family in the attic.

“Jew-loving Dutch swine!” says a soldier, spitting at his father.

Johan never sees them again.

His eyes meet Mrs. Meyer’s, peering out from between her curtains.

He never forgets her look of triumphant malice.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Born and raised in Cardiff, Wales, Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had poems and short stories published in Schlock! Webzine, 1947 A Literary Journal, Dead Snakes, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.