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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Temperature Rising
Rudder lay on the trainer’s table writhing in agony. His throwing arm was swollen to bulbous proportions. A nasty, blistering rash spread from his wrist to his shoulder. His body convulsed with chills, a fever of 105°.
“Have you been self-treating again?” the team doctor asked.
“Just some analgesic balm. The big game’s on Sunday and my arm’s killing me. I need to be ready.”
“How much balm?”
“Four tubes.”
“What! The body can’t absorb that much!”
“Will I be okay by kickoff?”
“There’s no way you’re playing!” the doctor said. “You’ve got a severe case of Ben Gay Fever!”
From Guest Contributor Lee Hammerschmidt
Lee is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour who lives in Oregon. He is the author of the short story collections, A Hole Of My Own and It’s Noir O’clock Somewhere. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!
The Arena
He sat on the stone bench waiting his turn. All his training for the last ten years led up to this moment. He could hear the muffled roar of sixty-thousand screaming fans in the stadium above. If he won today, the Emperor would grant him his freedom and the citizenship.
His trainer signaled him to get ready. He picked up his shield and sword and walked to the platform that would slowly raise him to the arena floor. As his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, he saw the lions. A sudden foreboding flooded through his body. The crowd cheered.
From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius
Duty And Thoughts Of Alisen
A sweep of peach graced the western sky...maybe. Sleep deprived, he couldn’t really be sure. Vision might be compromised, eyes too bloodshot to discern the ambiguous purity of grey dragging the downpour along the horizon.
And the windows were filthy.
Sunday eyed him from the corner, placid gaze sharpening as her head rose from his Nike, quasi-spaghetti dangling from open maw.
He identified with the drool-laden laces.
“Curious passion,” he said, observing the dog...but thinking of Alisen.
Sunday growled, mouthing the trainer, front paws tensed and backside hoisted by her wagging tail. Play and a walk.
Duty called.
From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid
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