TOP / 100-WORD STORIES
- Last Days of Sunlight
by Feind Gottes
Her heart began to pound in her chest as though it would burst at any moment. The steel bands of anxiety tightened threatening to suffocate her. The last beams of light were coming through the window now, ushering in another nightmare filled night. He only crept in to torment her once the sun was gone. Blood dripped to the floor from the dozens of wounds covering her tiny frame. The last ray of sunlight burned out and died signaling a new night of terror. The last, she hoped. A tear rolled down her cheek as the door creaked slowly open.
By: Naching T. Kassa
Bobby stood by his grandfather’s grave, his eye swollen shut. Cory ran up, Bobby’s blood on his shirt.
“Give me your money,” Cory said, as he halted. “Or I’ll break your nose.”
Bobby glowered at his tormentor. “No. He told me not to.”
Cory glanced around. They were alone in the cemetery.
Bobby flipped him off.
Cory charged forward. Bobby side-stepped him and he fell on the grave.
A dirty skull rose from the earth and sank its teeth into Cory’s throat. He screamed.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Bobby said. “Grampa eats bullies for breakfast.”
by Jess Landry
The rain started to fall just as I finished up. As the cool mist washed over me, I was reminded of something my Baba had told me when I was little.
“Julia,” she had said. “There will be two great loves in your life. The first will be a beautiful home—”
(Currently burning to the ground)
“—And the second will be a caring, loving man to call your own.”
I tossed the shovel aside. The rain cleared the sweat and grime from my face as I sat on the mound of dirt I had once called my husband.
- Lily House
By AE Kirk
Walking down a gravel path at twilight, I made no sound as I stopped and saw a wooden cross that had been taken by the wind. It bore no name. It was just a simple marker. I placed it in my pocket. I passed by the others who came before me; they stared at their marble, their sandstone or slate. I felt sorry for those whose stones were covered by ivy, or ravaged by weather and time. I found my stone, newly cut, placed just today. Lily House. 1994-2000. Rest In Peace. I cried and lay beside my grave, alone.
- A True Artisan
by Timothy G. Huguenin
The baker thought of Carol as he kneaded. He’d been captivated by her frame—slight, tender—he loved her.
The dough was too wet. He reached into his flour sack. Empty. He had to make more. A true artisan, he milled his own flour. Nothing like stone-ground flour.
The walk to his shed was cold. No matter; the mill would warm him.
The light from the opening door fell upon his dog, gnawing a bone.
“Git outta there.”
The dog slunk away.
The light expanded to show the old millstone and the bone pile, waiting.
Carol, he thought. He smiled.
By Sumiko Saulson
In horror films, there’s a moment the audience knows our heroine should run. We scream at the idiot looming large before us, hoisted high above on silver lenticular projected through cellulose in particles of light.
Yelling at the movie, I don’t notice the monster leaning against me for comfort. Nearby monsters are difficult to identify.
A raised rash spreads over my shoulder where your head lay against me. Mold spreads outward, green and black tendrils where your fingers grasped mine.
This isn’t your fault.
Now, we are trapped, phantoms in the theater, offstage, in seats below, no audience watching us.
- The Count of Three
By Cat Voleur
“I love you,” he said, who had never loved anyone.
“I love you too,” she said, who had loved far too many.
“Together, then?” He asked, though he was not prepared to jump.
“Together,” she said, stepping up onto the ledge beside him.
“The count of three?” He asked.
She was ready, so with a sad smile she started off their count rather than to answer. “One.”
“Two.” He replied.
“Three.” She pushed him off and watched lovingly as he plummeted toward the rushing waters below. He didn’t scream as he fell. That was disappointing. Her other boyfriends had screamed.
- Wax on the Doorknob
By Quentin Norris
Emily called me at three in the morning, still breathing hard. She told me she’d seen the man standing behind her in the reflection on her phone. Standing under a streetlamp, he wore a black coat, his face and hands were covered in dripping wax. He’d followed her home, and tried to open her door, and was now standing in her yard. I peeked out the window at her house across the street, yet saw nothing. Everything seemed fine as I walked over, but my heart stopped when I reached for her doorknob and saw wax cooling on its surface.
by Jonathan Fortin
Fairies are eating my ex. She lies on a banquet table, smiling at me as they pierce her eyes with needle teeth and drag razor nails down her breasts. My breath quivers. I instinctively know she’s no longer mine, even if we never broke up.
“It’s wonderful, darling,” she says, with a voice that’s not her own. “I am devoured every night, and reborn every morning. I am courted, danced with, and given beautiful dresses.
Dearest, won’t you join me? Won’t you be eaten too?”
I know I should run, but I miss her so much. I reach for her.
By Adele Marie Park
A scratching, beastly noise. The prick of fear, sharp as a needle quivers through me. I am alone in the house.
I grip the bannister. Knuckles blanched. Only shadows thrown by the electric light.
I climb. My pulse racing deafens sound. Breathing laboured. Suffocating with foreboding.
Sweat moulds hair to my face. I turn the handle and push the door. Shadows sharpen into familiar objects except: an unknown darkness manifests before me.
My throat fills with bile. Frozen in terror. I scream.
Putrid smell of garbage fills my nostrils. Revulsion gags in my mouth as shrivelled lips tickle my ear.
By JC Martinez
I close my eyes, because Grandma asked me to do so.
I sit on the floor, behind the bed, as far away as possible from the room’s door, just like Grandma instructed.
The hinges creak. The sound makes me cringe. The footsteps even more so. But it’s just Grandma. I think.
She doesn’t speak, but I feel her breath on my face. I can smell it. Minty. Almost like toothpaste.
Something wraps my nose. Something slimy and wet, like a tongue. Makes me feel… uneasy.
But I don’t open my eyes. I never do.
Because Grandma told me not to.
- The Inevitable
By Harry Husbands
The black shape ballooned upward from behind Doctor Forster’s shoulder, then began to take on a human form made entirely of shadow. It was not the first time Michael had seen this figure—though never so close—and with muscles tensed, gripping his knees, he tried listening to the Doctor who spoke with an ashen face of pity.
“It’s cancer, Michael.” The Doctor said before continuing on at length about potential treatments and support groups. Michael paid no attention. His eyes were fixed instead on the apparition and the awful grin that emerged from its otherwise dark and featureless face.
- Dinner at the Millers
By Riley Pierce
Babysitting for the Millers the first time, Abby pressed the channel button looking for something that would keep her attention long enough to stay awake through dinner. Clutching the baby monitor, she ate another bite and smiled. The colicky child was now silent. It had only taken an hour, but she was proud of herself for handling little Eric and his seemingly endless cries. Happily settling on a cooking channel, she glanced at the clock and wiped his blood from her cheek. Daniel and Jayda would be home soon. Stew next, Abby thought, I think I’d like to try stew.
- Till Death
By Daphne Straasert
My bridesmaids would think I’m nuts if I told them. Nothing’s changed about him—he has the same face, same laugh as my fiancé—but he’s different.
The wedding blurs by in a parade of hugs and congratulations. I’m not alone with him until the limo door shuts behind me. In the silence, the air between us chills.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
I slide my hand from his. “You’re not Michael. You’re not my husband.”
His smile doesn’t warm his eyes. “Maybe not Michael… but your husband?” He leans forward so his breath tickles my ear. “Until death do us part.”
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