Pilgrimage

Sage pushed up her visor and glared into the distance. Through the haze and the light, she could just make out the temple nestled into the gulch at the end of the valley. She registered no sign of life between here and her destination.

After such a long journey, she was too exhausted, both mentally and physically, to truly take in her surroundings or reflect on the implications of her pilgrimage nearing its end.

Sage had traveled one hundred light years to get to this planet. Until this moment, she had not given any thought to what would come next.

You Took The Sunshine When You Left

My world consisted of captivating sunshine, the kind that seeps into your skin and leaves your soul hopeful. Fresh mountain air, fresh rain on the pavement where my glory days still reign. The leaving hurt. The remnants of you mark my eyes with devastating longing. The sun went into hiding and the blue birds no longer flutter past my window. Leaving hurt. I no longer see the serenity of tomorrow in a golden haze, but dark. Destined for loneliness. The hope of loving you has become yet another long lost dream that the sandman refuses to leave at my door.

From Guest Contributor Courtney Alvarez

Courtney is a student at Pikes Peak Community College who loves writing, reading, and photography.

Prey

The birds of appetite circled the spot below them on the desert floor. Inkblots against a sky cloudless and blue. They wheeled in decreasing concentric circles. Always, the spot the center of a bull’s-eye.

One bird landed feet from his target. Drawing nearer, he became agitated. There was nothing there. With a screech he took off in search of better prey.

Slowly, the spot resolved itself against the haze and became the figure of a man. He had stopped to rest after walking for hours. He stood now, indifferent to temperature and to thirst. Indifferent as well to his destination.

From Guest Contributor James C. Clar

Ripen And Split

We both said we meant it, your hands in my hair. In the end it didn’t matter, you looked out across the desert like you were already crossing it, a dehydrated camel hell bent on pushing yourself towards purple sunsets no matter how rough or dangerous the terrain. I sat in the barely shade near a towering saguaro and braided spines and blossoms intermittently, blood flowering on the waxy white petals. I watched you go until the heat rising from the sand turned you into a wavy haze. I sighed when both hands dropped the struggle to hold you near.From Guest Contributor Sarah Reddick

Sarah is a writer, editor, and a writing professor at the University of Missouri-St. Louis. Her work has previously appeared in The Local Voice, The Mid-Rivers Review, and Salt Journal.

Grief, Lack, And The Last Transmission

The cities were brought to a grinding halt by the death of the Great Leader. There was grief and tears, on personal media feeds, the walls, the screens, holograms, everywhere, even the real faces and eyes.

The psychologist-in-charge at the ground control station of the manned extra-solar expedition warned her supervisor not to intimate the traveling crew. She had warned, but the supervisor in his grief, blurted out the news to the Captain.

That was the last the world ever heard of the traveling space shuttle and of its crew. XT9 became a haze among the frequencies and disappeared forever.

From Guest Contributor Debarun Sarkar

Debarun sleeps, eats, reads, smokes, drinks, labors and occasionally writes stories and submits them. Recent works have appeared or are forthcoming in Visitant, Off the Coast, The Opiate, Aainanagar, Literary Orphans, Friday Flash Fiction and here at A Story in 100 Words, among others. He can be reached at debarunsarkar.wordpress.com

Step Nine

He rode that one hit as far as it would take him. Now all he had left was the blue guitar. He had hocked, sold, or left behind everything else, including the royalties. The blue guitar, even with the missing string; he couldn’t bring himself to part with that.

The alcohol and cocaine haze had lifted long ago, leaving memories from that time scrambled.

He knew she was blond, she wasn’t just any groupie, and he’d broken more than just a guitar string.

He needed to make amends but he couldn’t remember where the tour had been playing that week.

From Guest Contributor Simon Hole

Simon lives in rural Rhode Island where he taught fourth grade for 35 years, publishing essays and co-authoring a book focused on life in the classroom. Since retirement he has been playing poker, gardening, and writing short fiction. Some of his work can be found on-line at 101Words, The Zodiac Review, 200cc’s, and Bewildering Stories.