Dream?

The doctor looked at me through his eyeglasses that sat perfectly on the rim of his nose.

“In your dream, you said a spirit you didn’t recognize handed you a feather.”

“Yes, but the figure was only a cloudy shape of a person.”

“What do you suppose the feather represents, Charlie?”

“My father used to train pigeons before he died in the car accident. Maybe that?”

“Possibly. Time to stop. We’ll continue this next week.”

When I arrived home, I felt something in my pants pocket. I reached in and my eyes widened. It was the feather from my dream.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Fallen Fruit

The peach tree in the yard was surrounded by fallen fruit, all of it shockingly well preserved, as if each one had been individually painted there. The house itself was in worse shape, with pealing paint, overgrown ivy, and several cracked window panes. No one lived there anymore but ghosts.

Sarah took in the scene from her car. She'd been nervous all morning, not knowing what to expect, but now that they were here, she felt nothing. She was simply numb.

"Let's go." Henry drove away. Sarah stared at the old neighborhood and wondered why people take pleasure from nostalgia.

Platero And I - Louisette

The girl next door—I keep forgetting her name—just came by, Platero. She'd found an injured woodcock.

The bird was in bad shape, covered in blood, breathing weakly and blinking irregularly.

“She's going to be fine, isn’t she, mister (she keeps forgetting my name)”, she asked.

Despite her tender age, she may have suspected that the animal endured excruciating pain and that release from suffering proved to be the only possible act of mercy.

“I gave her a nice name. Louisette.”

I'm glad you didn't witness it, dear Platero, even though now you're sniffing the fluttered and sticky feathers.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

I Overhear My Grandmother In A Dream

I knew about the tarpaper roof torn in the shape of the mountains she had just left, the shape of her youth spent in birthing a dozen children. I did not know she sang only to the sons, who arrived looking like wrinkled old men. When I asked her why she wouldn’t sing to her daughters, I already knew the answer: the girls would just leave her for strangers.

I saved my voice for prayer. The light flinched under the lie, but it was only my shadow. That light came from some distance, she said. You really shouldn’t impede it.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Cheryl is a classically trained pianist who writes by ear. Author of several collections of poetry, she has also written a series of novels called Bombay Trilogy; and been published in hundreds of literary journals and anthologies, including a Best of the Net. Look her up on Facebook.

Bespoke

Gordon hated being measured. It wasn't just the crinkled-paper hands running over his body, but also the implication that in the intervening months he had changed shape.

This was the price he paid for original attire. Whether it was too familiar touches or jealous stares, Gordon's success was a constant chore. Yet these labors must be endured, for triteness was the precursor to death.

Let the old man fondle his buttocks, and the common folk stare at his unconventional wardrobe. He was one of the few people in the world that could claim he was truly one of a kind.

Cut And Paste

Today's story has a special format, and so we had to take a photo to insert it. Enjoy!

Barry O’Farrell is an actor who sometimes writes, living in Brisbane, Australia.

Barry’s stories have appeared in Cyclamens & Swords, The Flash Fiction Press, 50-Word Stories, 101 Words and of course here at A Story In 100 Words. One of Barry’s short stories was runner up in the 2015 Arts Alliance competition.