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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Death
I opened my eyes and spoke with the angel at the foot of my bed.
He didn’t have wings or look like Brad Pitt. His name was Derek; originally from Basildon.
“What happened to me, Derek?”
“You’re dead,” he replied.
“How?” I asked, my voice catching in my throat.
“Car crash.”
“When?”
“An hour ago. They tried reviving you. Your time of death was six-thirty.”
“So, I was on my way home from work then?”
“I suppose so,” Derek replied, not seeming to care one way or the other.
“Did they say what caused it?”
“You were texting someone, apparently.”
From Guest Contributor Bernie Hanvey
The Margin Between Here And There
The margin between her final breath and eternity was shorter than she'd been led to believe, barely enough time to comprehend what was happening. She felt herself suffocated by regret and panic and an overwhelming sense of injustice..
There had been one moment when she'd been truly happy.
As her body twisted inside its metal chariot that would drive her forcefully into the afterlife, the airbag slammed away her breath, swallowed up her regrets, bludgeoned her consciousness, until all that was left was that moment.
She wanted to call out to him.
Before she could say goodbye it was over.
Happy Dick
I fell hard for Johnny Carvello. Dagos got me wet. He preferred strippers, ringside tables, hand on crotch, watching them work the pole. Called it “happy dick.” We were the perfect pair, the ex-Mafioso and the car crash cripple. Both, second rate goods. He had a thing for my still-perfect feet, bathed them in rosewater, sucked the toes, jacked himself off all over them. He'd pose me naked, on the bed, do tai chi by candlelight, his eyes on mine. Months into it when he tried to fuck me, I broke it off. The relationship, not the dick.
From Guest Contributor Alexis Rhone Fancher
Alexis is a member of Jack Grapes’ L.A. Poets & Writers Collective. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in RATTLE, BoySlut, The Mas Tequila Review, The Good Men Project, Gutter Eloquence, Cultural Weekly, High Coupe, Tell Your True Tale, Downer Magazine, Bare Hands Anthology, Ireland, The Sun Magazine, The Juice Bar, and elsewhere. Alexis was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2013. She is the poetry editor of Cultural Weekly. Hotnovelist@me.com/alexis@culturalweekly.com
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