Sexy Beast

The sky that bleeds at dawn burns at dusk. I steep in the blood and flames as a kind of penance, but not for doing a recognizable wrong – for doing nothing. The honey bees are diseased and dying. The birds on the wire shake as though likewise afflicted. From somewhere nearby comes a shockingly loud bang. “Was that a gunshot?” I ask the first person I see stumble out, a diminutive woman of indeterminate age with unnaturally bright red hair. She squeezes my arm and begs for help. But I also would rather do the tying than be tied up. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry books are The Horse Were Beautiful, available from Grey Book Press, and Swimming in Oblivion: New and Selected Poems from Redhawk Publications.

My Father

My father says it’s okay to be scared, but now it’s time to be brave. I trust and look up to him, so when he tells me to hide under the floorboard because the Nazis are coming, I do so.

There’s banging at the front door, and then it bursts open. Footsteps and yelling are what I hear. My legs are cramped and I’m sweating from my forehead to my cheeks.

My father is crying, pleading with the Nazis and I feel helpless hiding. I want to show myself, but I’m too frightened.

Gunshot, thump, silence.

My father is dead.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

It’s Not Me, It’s You

You hear the thin cries of a drowning man. You notice that seemingly innocent words like “today,” “yesterday,” and “tomorrow” have been censored. You pick quarrels with the baggers at grocery stores. You try but fail to ignore the prevalence of right-wing militias, foreign movies dubbed in English, shark sightings. You prefer baseball to football and a medically induced coma to either. You wonder what it’d be like to suffer a gunshot. You have a recurrent dream you’re lost in an old abandoned warehouse, usually with a friend you had growing up whose brother played Russian roulette once too often.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

Melodious Birds

Erik sat silently in the small attic, fatigued, and his legs aching from being crunched together in the confined space. His father had told him to stay quietly hidden until the birds chirped.

Before the gunshot, his mother screamed. His father yelled a profanity, then he heard another gunshot and muffled his cries.

As Erik awakened, the birds sang. He slowly opened the creaking door and went downstairs.

In the kitchen, his parents bloodied bodies laid on the floor and a Nazi soldier stood against the wall.

“Ich habe gewartet.” I’ve been waiting.

A gun was aimed at Erik’s head.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Heart On Ice

I was driving like I always do, as if I were transporting a heart packed in ice for a patient in imminent danger of dying, when outside Springfield, Mass., a bird that was also in an exceptional hurry crashed into my windshield with the boom of a gunshot, startling me about as bad as I’ve ever been startled, but the strangest part was that there were no cracks in the glass, no blood splatter, no feathers caught in the wipers, nothing to see, just the greasy crayon colors of dusk smeared all around and the cold stretch of road ahead.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Medic

As we flee the bank, I hear the sound of a gunshot behind me.

I’ve never been shot before but suddenly I’m experiencing a strange sensation and call out, “I think I’ve been shot.” Just my luck to take a bullet.

“I’ll get you tended to,” says Zac. I knew he would. Zac’s reliable like that.

Zac half carries me to our getaway car. I feel myself fading during the rough car ride. “Here we are,” says Zac.

“Tattoo parlour,” I moan in disbelief. “You’ve brought me to a tattoo artist?”

“He’s famous”, says Zac reassuringly, “For good body piercing.”From Guest Contributor Barry O'Farrell

Barry O'Farrell is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. Barry's other stories have appeared in Cyclamens & Swords, 50 Word Stories and of course here at A Story in 100 Words.

Dueling Perspectives

I stumble down the street.

Everything about that night is pretty hazy.

There's no one around. I'm completely alone.

But I couldn't have imagined the gunshot. If everything else was a dream, that was real.

I look down to see if I've been shot. There's blood on my hands.

I don't remember seeing a gun. They said the gun was mine, but I don't remember having one.

I don't know where the man came from, but he's lying on the ground.

I didn't know until later he was sleeping with my wife.

The man is dead.

The man was dead.The Daily Theme from Figment for April 3, 2012

Choose a significant incident in your life. The incident should be discreet, with a beginning, middle, and end (a date, a car accident, a major embarrassment). Tell the story of the incident by moving between two points of view--your perspective at the time of the incident and your perspective now. How are these two different? How does shifting between them affect the telling? Try to use these shifts in POV to show how your feelings about the event have changed over time.

The Cannoli

Mr. Brand walked into the Italian joint and ordered the cannoli. Tony the server gave Mr. Brand a look of disgust the likes of which he had not seen in twenty years.

"Do you know who I am?"

Tony was not intimidated. "Screw you. Make your own food."

Mr. Brand looked out the front window at the setting sun. Then he turned back to Tony and shot him in the leg.

"Now get me my cannoli."

Tony fell to the ground and started laughing uncontrollably.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm your son."

"Good. Then get me my fucking cannoli, you bastard."

The Daily Theme from Figment for March 16, 2012

A person walks into a restaurant, orders a meal, and has a fight with the server. Let the setting (time of day, kind of restaurant) guide your telling of the story.

No Explanation Necessary For Looking Good

Detective Stephens surveyed the scene, trying to make sense of it. He could be certain of only one thing. The man was dead.

Stephens could find no explanation for the manner of death. The victim was fully dressed in a suit and tie, but had died from several bullet wounds to his heart. His clothes did not have any holes or blood on them. No one reported hearing any gunshots. A note read that despite his death, he refused to leave the neighborhood.

The mystery was never explained, but the man’s ghost never did leave. At least it was well-dressed.