Hermitage

Harvest missed, starlings busy with unworked seed, overripe corn, a laugh with the scarecrow - leave toward evening. Leaves of fall turn red like the blood fingering across the green linoleum kitchen floor after the thud of the back of your head, split like a too-ripe pumpkin. A widower falls in the kitchen, no one hears it, did it make a sound? The trees in the yard mourn the wood you stacked anticipating winter, as it dries, rots, quietly decays. Equinoxes later it splinters, skips off across tan, fallow fields in a cold wind, wet with the rustle of black wings.

From Guest Contributor Craig Kirchner

Craig thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus is being published and has work forthcoming in a dozen or so journals.

Floating

On the way to our waterhole, I noticed something hanging from my ballcap. Repeated brushing did not get rid of what I had thought was a spider on a thread. Checked eyebrows and eyelash – no. Eventually had to accept it was in my eye. Call to doctor sent me quickly to an ophthalmologist. I got my first floater but was relieved to find out that I didn’t have anything more serious wrong with my eye. I thought that it would dissolve by itself or there was a miracle laser that could blast it, but no. We’ve learned to live together.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Assignment

I had been told of the dangers of the assignment and assured my boss that I could handle it. Now on the dark, ominously quiet streets after curfew, in Nazi-occupied Poland, I wondered. I told myself I’m doing it for my country and for myself.

I hid the folded map in the secret compartment in the heel of my shoe. If I am captured, we will all be tortured and then executed.

I continued until I reached my destination and handed over the map to the leader of the resistance.

I finally let out a sigh of relief and wept.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Problem

Ender the pirate was paying attention. Aliens were among those who called themselves humans. August 2023, alien souls from Perseus arrived via asteroids. Eager to explore our world, they realized the limitations of their ethereal existence. Filled with curiosity, they inhabited human bodies to navigate our reality. At first, chaos ensued as they adjusted to their newfound life. However, through empathy and understanding, they integrated seamlessly. Together, humans and extraterrestrial souls embarked on a remarkable journey, fostering unity, and rewriting the definition of what it means to be alive. The problem? Everyone on Orion were hybrids already with mRNA vaccines.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Cheat Sheet

Smith, from supply-chain management, stirring lemon into oolong. Taylor and Grzegorzewski, from customer service, talking about their crap husbands. Sunny sweaters, coffee mugs. Smith nods, sips. He knows their pain. Taylor plays with her jade rabbit pendant. She says she is like a secretary, fielding his calls. Grzegorzewski harumphs. In Santorini last fall, their second honeymoon, celebrating the remission of her lupus. Caught in flagrante delicto, pants around his ankles with the chambermaid. I have crib notes, Taylor huffs. To keep track of the lies and the ladies. Smith finally speaks. I’ll show you how to use Excel, he says.From Guest Contributor Lorette C. Luzajic

Lorette reads, writes, publishes, edits, and teaches small fictions. She has appeared in Unbroken, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Brilliant Flash Fiction, and hundreds of other journals. Her story was selected for Best Small Fictions 2023. She has been nominated several times for Best Microfictions, Best of the Net, and the Pushcart Prize. Her collections of small fictions are The Rope Artist, The Neon Rosary, Pretty Time Machine and Winter in June. Some of her works have been translated into Urdu and Spanish. Lorette is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by art. Lorette is also an award-winning mixed media artist, with collectors in more than 40 countries so far.

Check Out A Story In 100 Words On Instagram And Threads

Hey everyone,

For many years, Twitter was my social media platform of choice when it came to A Story In 100 Words. Now that Twitter is officially dead, I've decided it's time to move on to another option for spreading the word about all the great flash fiction hosted on the site. With that in mind, I've started an Instagram account: https://www.instagram.com/astoryin100words/

I'll be posting the stories on IG in addition to here, so it will be easy for you to share your stories and show them off. If you're on Instagram, please go follow to support the site!

I've also started a Threads account, which I can't link to. But if you're on Threads, it's the same username as the IG account.

Thanks for all stories and keep reading and writing!

Plus, don't forget that you can also support the site by purchasing one of my books on Amazon. I super appreciate every one who's bought one.

Not Hurt

At 11:30 p.m., Mother woke and found her son Bin wasn’t in bed. She scurried into the living room and found the siblings watching cartoons.

“I was so worried, my baby. Go to bed with Mom,” Mother said to Bin gently. She then glared at Lan, “Don’t be a bad influence on your brother!”

“But Mom, it is Bin who wanted to watch cartoons. He begged me to stay with him,” Lan tried to explain.

Mother shouted, “You are the elder sister. You are supposed to take good care your brother. Never do it again!”

Lan pretended she wasn’t hurt.

From Guest Contributor Huina Zheng

Huina either coaches her students to write at work or write stories for fun after work.

As If

“Darling,” Burt said from the bedroom doorway to Anita, his wife of many decades. “You may get another email.”

“Oh?” Anita eyed him above her crossword puzzle.

“Random con artist,” Burt continued. “Claims about online activity. Sexual and whatnot. The usual.”

“Uh-huh,” Anita said.

“Totally fictitious, of course.” Burt waved a dismissive hand.

Anita blinked, laughed, and returned to her crossword. “As if you even have such thoughts these days, sweetheart!”

Burt laughed too. Then he returned to his private study where he transferred another cryptocurrency payment to the anonymous account, hoping this would resolve the matter at long last.From Guest Contributor John Sheirer

John lives in Western Massachusetts and is in his 30th year of teaching at Asnuntuck Community College in Northern Connecticut where he edits Freshwater Literary Journal (submission welcome). His work has appeared recently in Five Minutes, Wilderness House Literary Review, Meat for Tea, Poppy Road Review, Synkroniciti, Otherwise Engaged, 10 By 10 Flash Fiction, The Journal of Radical Wonder, Scribes*MICRO*Fiction, and Goldenrod Review, among others. His latest book is Stumbling Through Adulthood: Linked Stories. Forthcoming in fall 2023 is For Now: One Hundred 100-Word Stories. Find him at JohnSheirer.com.

Biopsy Results In Ten Days

I want these days to be about more than just waiting. How can they be? Waiting surrounds me, engulfs me, floods me...swirling, fast, faster than I can dog-paddle away... Things will never be the same again, even if, even if... Things will never be the same again, even if the white coats say all is well, even if what I’m awaiting turns out to be snip-snip-and-it’s-gone. I’ve caught a whiff that so permeated my nostrils my neural pathways my brain my heart, its remnants echo into the rest of whatever part of not-forever that I do get to see.

From Guest Contributor Cynthia Bernard

Repose

The warmth of the spring sun filled my body with repose. I laid back and looked up at the sky. The blueness bright and cheery awakened my eyes to ebullience.

I let the small rowboat drift on its own while the sound of ducks quacked and flapped their wings bathing in the lake. Nature was all around me. Birds chirped, on the shore frogs hopped, crabs crawled on the sand, and tree leaves quietly blew in the slight breeze.

I closed my eyes and soaked it all in, storing every sound and image in my mind.

Tomorrow, I start anew.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher