Our Rooms Are Like Treehouses

Both with decks attached that lead into pockets of treetops. Our rooms are like treehouses, and if I had a string long enough, I would make a tin can telephone and give one half to you. If we had a tin can telephone tying our treehouse rooms together, then I would whisper into it at night to see if you were still awake. If you were still awake, then I would tell you all the things that freeze on my tongue when we are together—when everything gets flurried, and I forget that you can’t hear me through the silence. From Guest Contributor Grace Coughlin

Grace is from Buffalo, New York. She is currently a Senior at St. John Fisher College, majoring in Psychology with minors in English and Visual and Performing Arts. She has 100-word stories forthcoming in Eunoia Review and Otoliths Review.

What Family?

When I sat at my one-hundred-year-old mother’s bedside, she told me I was adopted, that she couldn’t die without telling me. I’m seventy-three years old, what was the point when no family was left to answer my questions?

I did a DNA test, and thought--what have I done?

An e-mail appeared in my DNA account from Tom, who said he was a cousin. My parents were illiterate, poor and didn’t know they signed me away permanently.

Tom explained I was a victim of the Tennessee orphanage scandal, along with many victims.

I deleted my account and never looked back.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Numb

“I’m so sick of pain, Gene. I wish I couldn’t feel at all.” With a shaky sniffle, Emily stroked the black fur of Gene’s chin, eliciting his tractor purr.

She may never fully recover, the doctors said. They called it transverse myelitis. Emily preferred less polite terms.

Gene‘s glowing eyes slid closed. Emily’s followed.

She awoke to a ringtone, heart pounding. Her thoughts reached for the phone inches away on the sofa.

Not a muscle twitched. No sensation, as though her nerves had died. The phone fell silent. Gene‘s stare blazed with yellow light.

Gene...

In her mind, Emily screamed.

From Guest Contributor Michelle Cook

Evolution #9

Yesterday was scheduled to be a holiday. Then shoals of fish came creeping over the hill, having grown rudimentary arms and legs. “What the fuck?!” you said as you watched them begin to blend in with the surroundings. Despite the invasion, no one was coming to save us. Some people panicked and, in their impatience to escape, broke out windows or jumped from moving trains. Others were climbing up to their roofs. I think this might be the way of the future, and just in case it is, maybe you should be standing over there helping hold the ladder steady.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Please Let Us Know How We're Doing

Hey everyone,

After some time where I let the website coast, I've refocused my attention on making sure I post stories on the regular. Thanks to everyone who's been submitting stories even when I was slow about getting them posted.

It's always been my dream that A Story In 100 Words would be a community exercise, where authors can come together to share their work and improve their writing. I really believe in the 100-word exercise and I want to share that with everyone, whether you're a professional writer, an aspiring creative, or just someone interested in telling stories as part of their personal journey.

With that in mind, I'd LOVE to hear from you about what else you would like to see from the website. Is there anything besides stories you think would be useful/interesting?

A few ideas I've had:

• Story Prompts
• Featured Authors
• Writing Tips
• Contests

I'm sure that you creative people have your own ideas. Please feel free to write in the comments or drop me an email at doc@entropy2.com and let me know what kind of content, in addition to more stories, you'd find valuable.

I've also started a new mailing list after allowing my last one to lapse (it had been so long since I sent out an email, that MailChimp deleted it). That means I'm starting over completely and all those people I had signed up have been lost to the ether. I'd really appreciate you taking a second to sign up here. There will at most be one message per month (and likely a lot fewer). While we're at it, you can also follow me on Twitter at https://twitter.com/entropy_squared. I promise at least one cute photo of my beagle every week.

Thanks as always for your continued support, whether you are sending in stories, or just reading them. I think the fact that we're creating a global community of writers is extremely meaningful.

That is all.

Regrets

I write my own praises, dictating stories to muckrakers. Advisors insist on it.

I ran for office to serve. Tragedy. Much is given, much is expected.

I spout platitudes with such grace, it scares me.

Advisors expect me to conduct myself with grace. Don’t show feelings.

Constituents expect a shining prince, savior of liberalism.

I drink copiously, the moon as my witness. I can’t contain the weight of demands, desires.

I wake up on stairwells and in closets, hangovers uniquely my own machination.

I feel failure pirouetting, a taunting ballerina. She’s right to taunt.

But I’m not allowed to regret.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri.

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. He is the recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train. His story, "Strangers," was nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Mir-Yashar's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as (mac)ro (mic), Runcible Spoon, JAB Fiction and Poetry, Unstamatic, and Ariel Chart.

Happiness In Heaven

I walk down the abandoned streets as the slightest beam of light begins to brighten the unlit sky. The brisk wind forces a stubborn tear to stream down the side of my cheek and crystallizes from the absence of warmth. In the fog filled skies of New York City, I take my last exploration before I restart my life. I stumble down the stairs that stand before me and I make my way into a desolate tunnel that fills with light the longer I wait. A loud horn echoes. I guess now is my time to fly away from here.From Guest Contributor Lilia Onstott

Lilia is an English student at Pikes Peak Community College. She spends her free time by allowing her mind to express itself within many artistic fields, like writing, photography, and music.

Thanks For Asking

You ask me what my faces mean, if I trust people, what I think of you. You ask what I think about everything. You are amazed by what I see. How I can feel what’s invisible. Through miles and miles of walks, the no-destination drives, the not-so-torturous library hours, you keep listening to me, even when I’m quiet. I’m amazed that you can hear me over the sounds of our beautiful, loud friends, who think attention is inevitable. I trace my hand on paper: a habit. You copy on the other side: an unbalanced coin. Two sides of separate things.

From Guest Contributor Grace Coughlin

Grace is from Buffalo, New York. She is currently a Senior at St. John Fisher College, majoring in Psychology with minors in English and Visual and Performing Arts. She has 100-word stories forthcoming in Eunoia Review and Otoliths Review.

Theodore’s Halloween

Ten-year-old Theodore sat in front of the window and watched the trick or treaters. A boy dressed as Dracula flapped his black cape and his fangs glowed under the streetlight. Theodore took a sip of cocoa and listened as his mom wished the children a ‘Happy Halloween’ while they chortled and chose their favorite candy.

His mom placed her soothing hand on his shoulder before walking into the kitchen to prepare their dinner.

Theodore finished his hot cocoa, pushed his wheelchair in front of the television and stared blankly at the screen until his mom called his name for dinner.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Fool Moon

It was his initiation day. Just the thought of what was to come turned his stomach upside down, yet having to transform with the entire family watching was a nightmare.

When the time came, he followed the trail through the forest. They were already there, waiting in silence. His parents came for a moment to speak words of encouragement, then joined the others in the circle.

He took a deep breath then looked above him at the night’s sky. He saw the moon rise from behind the crest, silver and round, and he heard himself howl. Something inside him began.

From Guest Contributor Ioana Birdu