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.
Stop doomscrolling and start fiction browsing.
In Its Own Glory
“Tree looks unwell,” stated Dad.
“When was the last time you watered it, Robbie?” Mother asked their eldest offspring.
“Whoops! I forgot.”
Mother got the watering can out. After days of nurturing, the needles still cascaded to the floor.
“Need to add more decorations,” Dad beamed, holding a box of icicles.
On Christmas Eve they all gathered around the tree to sing carols. Selfies were taken between exclamations of “ooh and aah.”
“Christmas 2020!” exclaimed Mother. “COVID-19 edition.”
Extended family, among them the dearly departed, stared down from their portraits on the wall.
“Grandpa would’ve loved this tree,” said Robbie.
From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, stuffed animals and many friends.
Last-Minute Shoppers
“Wrapping paper! Ha, ha!”
Shoppers passed by clutching rolls of it.
“Fancy spending Christmas Eve wrapping presents!” Ian thought, reflecting on how he’d finished his yesterday.
“My God, they’re fighting over chocolates,” he sneered, observing a couple of housewives tugging the ends of a Milk Tray box in Howell’s Department Store.
He resolved to have a latte in Starbucks to fully savour the spectacle before the shops finally closed.
“Chocolates?!...Christ, I forgot the wife’s chocolates!”
Ian rushed out of the café.
“Where the hell can I find some now?” he thought, seeing the doors of Howell’s snap shut.
From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher
Christmas Eve On The Eastern Front
Schmidt and I carry Braun into the church. Outside we’d freeze to death this Christmas Eve.
Icy wind blows through the shell hole in the cupola. We break up a pew for a fire.
It illuminates a statue of St. Michael.
We share a cup of schnapps.
Braun cannot partake. His stomach wound means he will die during the night.
We hear the squeaking of metal tracks.
“Tanks!”
Schmidt extinguishes the fire. If they’re T-34s we’re doomed. The Russians take no prisoners for what we’ve done to their land.
In the darkness I sense St. Michael’s eyes staring down unforgivingly.
From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher
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