A Story In
100 Words
Literature in Tiny Bursts.
You are invited to the wonderful world of microfiction. Whether you’re a reader, a writer, or one of our future robot overlords, welcome! A Story In 100 Words is a community of literature enthusiasts no matter the length, but we have a special predilection for narratives exactly 100 words in length.
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Bass Fishing In America
CONTEST WINNER:
The bass must talk to each other.
“Hey, I’m not going to chase those chartreuse spinners today. Are you guys with me?”
It’s amazing that creatures with brains the size of a split pea can outsmart other creatures that are supposedly the pinnacle of creation, or happenstance. Anglers driving hundred-thousand-dollar boats equipped with underwater cameras, sonar, and drones occasionally get skunked.
“Let’s follow those surface poppers right up to the boat, then suddenly dart into that network of rocky crevices.”
“Okay.”
Stealth trolling technology, GPS markers, anise-scented lures.
I’m really not surprised that the war in Afghanistan didn’t go better.
From Guest Contributor Mark Thomas
Doomed To Repeat
Alexander’s Eastern campaign had gone well until now. But Bactria was different. He sat astride his beloved horse and studied the valley below. These lands were ruled by tribes and the fighters were unpredictable, as was the weather. Would he be able to rule this land once he had subdued it?
General Gromov looked back across the Afghanistan border and sighed. The last of his Russian troops were safely out. Nine years and thousands of Soviet deaths later, there was no victory.
American General Miller looked down from his Blackhawk and mused: what was that saying about history repeating itself?
From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius
Prisoners
Auntie asks my mother and I to move out of her house. She says I make too much noise when I sleepwalk and my rock albums are causing Uncle Herman more brain damage from his tour of duty in Afghanistan. Upstairs, I take down my posters of Geronimo, John Lennon, and James Dean from the finely cracked yellow walls. Exhausted, my mother sits on my bed and breaks down. “It’s all your fault,” she says. As if I had the power. At night tiny policemen march into my ears. I’m not sure it’s a dream. They say come with us.
From Guest Contributor Kyle Hemmings
Kyle's latest collection of text and art is Amnesiacs of Summer published by Yavanika Press. He loves street photography, French Impressionism, and 60s garage bands that never made it big.
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