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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Bee Grudged

The creature basked in the sensory experience that was home, almost oblivious to the otherwise hypnotic aroma of clover which wafted in from beyond the hive’s entrance each summer.

To most fauna beyond the narrow and disguised access, this was an old tree clinging to its few remaining vital branches.

Rejuvenated, the worker set to follow the next wave out to forage for more nectar and the inadvertent spreading of pollen on which the rest of the planet depended.

Its world ended when a great hairy paw collapsed walls, mashing bee with wax and bark as the bear claimed honey.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

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The Birthday Party

Once the lawn chairs have been folded and stacked inside the shed, the plastic wrap stretched across rows of cheese glistening with sweat to be stuffed into the fridge and forgotten, the shrieking of grandchildren and boozy chatter of distant relations swept out the front door and down the driveway, and the candles—slabs of wax carved into a 7 and 5 and crusted with cake—tossed into the sink to be dealt with later, the man lifts legs snaked with purple veins onto the recliner and makes his annual wish: that he won’t be here this time next year.

From Guest Contributor Doug Koziol

Doug is the Fiction Editor for Redivider, a journal of new literature and art. His work has appeared in CounterPunch, Driftwood Press, and theEEEL.

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It Is Easier To Say Too Much On Readiness

You tell them you don’t want to hold her, you tell them this four times, then you fade, replaced of self by softness, sudden. When you wake, they are placing her on your chest. You cannot see her face, rather one primitive, pink hand, waving something uselessly away. But you can smell her. Her smell is yours, as if your body were turned in, then out, as a glove worn far too long, the wax and weight of you heavy, older, and they have made a wick of that youness and it has been lit for the first time now.

From Guest Contibutor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

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