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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The Bequest

Matt arrived at the reading of Grandfather's will ready for his moment of ascendance. As the only living male heir, the family's wealth now belonged to him.

During the ceremony, Matt's seat was eclipsed only by that of the adjudicator. Grandfather was known for his love of pomp and grandeur, so it was only after many arcane rituals and benedictions that the adjudicator cracked open the will. "The heir shall find his bequest inside the labyrinth."

Next thing he knew, Matt was naked and bleeding at the center of a hedge maze. This was not the inheritance he'd been expecting.

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The Path

I hurried, heart trilling, feet moving. Left turn, right. The path was familiar, an old enemy. Left again. I could have screamed. It was here somewhere. Right turn.

Yes. There it was, the candy-red button. I pressed it down. A tray burst open with the pellet inside. I crunched into its horrible glory. Relief.

“Nice work, Algernon,” the human said, her thick hand lifting me from the labyrinth and setting me in fresh sawdust. I curled my tail around me. If I slept now, I would reawaken to the path and begin again. Did I have a choice?

I slept.

From Guest Contributor Ryan Doskocil

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In the Paris Catacombs

My tour is just two thousand meters of the hundred kilometer labyrinth that forms this subterranean ossuary.

The tunnel walls are stacks of femurs, tibias, scapulas, et alia, interspersed with grinning skulls.

Six million dead unceremoniously disinterred, generation upon generation, from centuries ago.

Good, evil, male, female, beautiful, ugly, aristocrat, artisan, everyone has attained an undignified égalité here.

I could laugh myself to scorn at this macabre absurdity. Not a ghost in sight, merely piles of bones!

Back in the land of the living, I emerge into the rush hour: busy throngs of stick people, all sharing the same destination.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian studied English Literature at Oxford University many years ago. He has had short stories published in various genres in Schlock! Webzine, Schlock! Bi-Monthly, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, and in anthologies by Horrified Press and Rogue Planet Press. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.

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