by Steve Green
The idea for the story came to me in a dream.
Today I would give it life.
Several hours later and the words are still gushing forth, the story is like an irresistible force, compelling.
The computer had frazzled out after only a few hundred words, so I continued with a ballpoint pen and notebook.
When the ballpoint dried out I reached for my trusty old fountain pen.
When the ink ran dry I had to find another writing source. This story simply had to be written.
I only hope I can complete it before I run out of blood.
Author bio: Genre-hopping flash fiction writer who blogs at The Twisted Quill.
Friday, 27 July 2012
Wednesday, 25 July 2012
Contact
by John Xero
Kyle’s fingers had no knuckles.
Sheryl yelped and stumbled backwards, tripping over her
discarded clothes and landing painfully. She hardly felt the splinters from the
rough wooden floor.
“You weren’t supposed to see.”
She stared as his fingers flexed like fat worms, curving
instead of hinging at a joint. He pulled his gloves back on.
“You would have enjoyed it, you know.”
She opened her mouth but no sound came out; her brain was a
dead line, all dial tone and no connection.
“It’s ok.” He reached for her, stopped himself.
He turned his pale eyes away from her fear.
Author bio: John Xero runs this joint. He loves all kinds of stories, whether they be huge or tiny.
Author bio: John Xero runs this joint. He loves all kinds of stories, whether they be huge or tiny.
Friday, 20 July 2012
Traditional
by Sandra Davies
Rise before May dawn, middle of meadow, wash face in dew.
Surrender all common sense: next man met so stunned by my beauty he insists on marriage.
Yeah, right.
And such a gullible, desperate, idiot that I almost fail to see the beautiful dog fox just twenty yards ahead.
Abrupt gasping halt, thinking “Christ – if that’d been a man, my luck really would have been in!”
But no: one arm (mine) wrenched up behind, another holding a sharp knife against my throat.
A rasping voice in my ear commands “Stand still my beauty – he’s stuffed – and it’s your turn next.”
Author bio: Recent writer, printmaker, east-coast orientated: http://sandra-linesofcommunication.blogspot.co.uk/ and links therefrom
Rise before May dawn, middle of meadow, wash face in dew.
Surrender all common sense: next man met so stunned by my beauty he insists on marriage.
Yeah, right.
And such a gullible, desperate, idiot that I almost fail to see the beautiful dog fox just twenty yards ahead.
Abrupt gasping halt, thinking “Christ – if that’d been a man, my luck really would have been in!”
But no: one arm (mine) wrenched up behind, another holding a sharp knife against my throat.
A rasping voice in my ear commands “Stand still my beauty – he’s stuffed – and it’s your turn next.”
Author bio: Recent writer, printmaker, east-coast orientated: http://sandra-linesofcommunication.blogspot.co.uk/ and links therefrom
Wednesday, 18 July 2012
Deliverance
by John Xero
The Mercy of the Gods shook as it rode the raging space-time
distortions. Gravity grasped at the ship from all sides. Alarms shrieked and
metal moaned.
Captain Shilo gripped the arms of his chair and shouted to his
Helmsman, “Krya.”
Krya yelled back over the screaming starship, “We’re committed
now, captain; this trillion dollar ship just became the most expensive barrel
ride in history.”
“Courage, Krya,” Shilo replied.
They spiralled down inside a tornado of angry physics.
Somewhere down there was Earth, and the Apocalypse Device.
Shilo had never before had to disarm a bomb as it was actually exploding.
Author bio: John Xero is the editor at 101 Fiction.
Friday, 13 July 2012
Possessions
by John H. Dromey
The newly-appointed editor of the lifestyle section of the local newspaper finagled an interview with a successful medium.
Looking around the paranormal practitioner’s plush apartment, the journalist asked her, “What’s your favourite possession?”
“I think I’d have to say it’s when I’m channelling Jack the Ripper and I lose all control.”
Not the answer the editor expected – she’d meant material possessions – but she decided to play along. “Can you demonstrate?”
“Sure,” the interviewee said, and she did.
When the medium was finally herself again, she surveyed the scattered body parts and said, “Cleaning up afterwards is my least favourite part.”
Author bio: John H. Dromey was born in northeast Missouri. He’s had flash fiction published online at Liquid Imagination, The Red Asylum, Thrillers, Killers ’n’ Chillers, and elsewhere.
The newly-appointed editor of the lifestyle section of the local newspaper finagled an interview with a successful medium.
Looking around the paranormal practitioner’s plush apartment, the journalist asked her, “What’s your favourite possession?”
“I think I’d have to say it’s when I’m channelling Jack the Ripper and I lose all control.”
Not the answer the editor expected – she’d meant material possessions – but she decided to play along. “Can you demonstrate?”
“Sure,” the interviewee said, and she did.
When the medium was finally herself again, she surveyed the scattered body parts and said, “Cleaning up afterwards is my least favourite part.”
Author bio: John H. Dromey was born in northeast Missouri. He’s had flash fiction published online at Liquid Imagination, The Red Asylum, Thrillers, Killers ’n’ Chillers, and elsewhere.
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
Creator
by John Xero
In my dreams his head is a black cube, rotating slowly. It
shimmers and glints with the galaxies that spin within. He has the whole
universe in there, I think.
He is God. He is my father. His tears are starlight.
Somehow I know he is looking at me.
When I wake I remember the last time I saw him. I remember
the birth of a terrible universe, the end of a world. I remember the crimson
galaxies exploding away from each other, the awful nothing at the centre.
My world was his prison. In my dreams, he has escaped.
Author bio: John Xero is the editor at 101 Fiction.
His recently released collection of short and flash fiction, This is the New Plan, is out now for Kindle.
Friday, 6 July 2012
Refuge
by Helen A. Howell
The wind stung his face and chapped his skin. Its icy fingers lifted the snow into a frenzied dance, to fall as a blinding blanket upon the ground. He bent his head against the weather and willed himself towards the shack and refuge. I’ll be safe there for now, he thought. But how long before they come?
He lifted his head when he reached the door then grasped hold of the latch and the door creaked open. He stepped inside, relieved to be out of the cold.
Shadows clung to the walls. In the darkness in a corner, something smiled.
Author bio: Helen is a fiction writer, who writes in several genres which include fantasy, noir, horror and humour. She has written several short stories, flash fictions, poems and completed her first novel, a children’s fantasy fiction.
Her website is http://helen-scribbles.com
The wind stung his face and chapped his skin. Its icy fingers lifted the snow into a frenzied dance, to fall as a blinding blanket upon the ground. He bent his head against the weather and willed himself towards the shack and refuge. I’ll be safe there for now, he thought. But how long before they come?
He lifted his head when he reached the door then grasped hold of the latch and the door creaked open. He stepped inside, relieved to be out of the cold.
Shadows clung to the walls. In the darkness in a corner, something smiled.
Author bio: Helen is a fiction writer, who writes in several genres which include fantasy, noir, horror and humour. She has written several short stories, flash fictions, poems and completed her first novel, a children’s fantasy fiction.
Her website is http://helen-scribbles.com
Wednesday, 4 July 2012
Editorial: Thank you.
To everyone who read and everyone who commented, thanks for making June a great month.
To the writers, a double thank you.
The first contributor story, Dismissed, is the most viewed story this site has ever had, and rightfully so: it's fantastic.
I'm taking my Wednesday slot to pause and say thanks, and for two more reasons.
One is that my blog, the xeroverse, is two years old, and I'm celebrating by having some guest flash fiction every day this week. I urge you to go on over and check it out, there's some great writing, and some of it by 101 Fiction contributors.
The second is to mention my new book, This is the New Plan. It collects 33 of my best short and flash fictions and is available on Amazon (US & UK).
And in case you missed them, June's 101 word wonders:
Dismissed, by Peter Newman. "I tire of them..."
Reconciliation, by Lily Childs. "I was eternally earth-bound..."
Body-art, by Sandra Davies. "I sat unmoving, hypnotised by the patterns..."
Majordomo, by Dom Camus. "When we met, she smelled of cardamom..."
Footprints, by Miranda Campbell. "Drowning in sound colour..."
To the writers, a double thank you.
The first contributor story, Dismissed, is the most viewed story this site has ever had, and rightfully so: it's fantastic.
I'm taking my Wednesday slot to pause and say thanks, and for two more reasons.
One is that my blog, the xeroverse, is two years old, and I'm celebrating by having some guest flash fiction every day this week. I urge you to go on over and check it out, there's some great writing, and some of it by 101 Fiction contributors.
The second is to mention my new book, This is the New Plan. It collects 33 of my best short and flash fictions and is available on Amazon (US & UK).
And in case you missed them, June's 101 word wonders:
Dismissed, by Peter Newman. "I tire of them..."
Reconciliation, by Lily Childs. "I was eternally earth-bound..."
Body-art, by Sandra Davies. "I sat unmoving, hypnotised by the patterns..."
Majordomo, by Dom Camus. "When we met, she smelled of cardamom..."
Footprints, by Miranda Campbell. "Drowning in sound colour..."
Friday, 29 June 2012
Footprints
by Miranda Campbell
‘Big Issue’? A question lost on disinterested commuters, drowned by rush hour’s cacophony. But the child, crouching on the wet pavement, smiled at the street-seller.
A delicate thread of recognition flickered between them – time-travellers unfamiliar with city skins – her dark eyes held his azure gaze.
Pushing her bare feet into grey slabs, cold, icy water pressed through her toes. City rhythms exploded beneath her soles – music bubbling up between cracks in concrete – vibrant, resonant – soulful.
Drowning in sound colour, she smiled – running home.
Distant footfalls on sun-baked earth echo in her memory – footprints in sand, an imprint of her soul.
‘Big Issue’? A question lost on disinterested commuters, drowned by rush hour’s cacophony. But the child, crouching on the wet pavement, smiled at the street-seller.
A delicate thread of recognition flickered between them – time-travellers unfamiliar with city skins – her dark eyes held his azure gaze.
Pushing her bare feet into grey slabs, cold, icy water pressed through her toes. City rhythms exploded beneath her soles – music bubbling up between cracks in concrete – vibrant, resonant – soulful.
Drowning in sound colour, she smiled – running home.
Distant footfalls on sun-baked earth echo in her memory – footprints in sand, an imprint of her soul.
Author bio: Aspiring book artist - experimenting with words and specialising in handmade books, incorporating traditional bookbinding techniques, natural materials and decorative stitching.
website: www.bookspells.com
twitter: @bookspell
Wednesday, 27 June 2012
Tattered
by John Xero
He stands in my backyard, watching. His tartan is tattered
and old, both the material and the plaid – no clan even remembers that pattern
these days.
Smeared, blue whorls still stain his skin: worn-out war
paint. This warrior has forgotten the fight he fought, centuries ago. Now he
just prowls my garden, lost.
He does not bother us. By daylight I can tend to the plants,
relax, read. But he returns with the stars, holding his inscrutable vigil. The
night is his.
His tartan is tattered and old, like his flesh, like his
memories, like autumn clouds passing the moon.
Author bio: John Xero is the editor at 101 Fiction.
He blogs at the Xeroverse and tweets as @xeroverse
Friday, 22 June 2012
Majordomo
By Dom Camus
Sophie, thankyou for finding Astrid for me. She is kind and wise. She reminds me of the summer in Vienna. When we met, she smelled of cardamom. I see her smile when I close my eyes. I plan to invite her to the Imperial Gardens on Valentine's day. We will attend the exhibition. Please book us a table somewhere that emphasises my understated good taste.
Also, please stop calling Astrid now. It is not appropriate. Why did she visit you on Wednesday? I will take you for a software adjustment this weekend.
Sophie? Please pay attention when I instruct you.
Author bio: I make games. Having spent 30-something years exploring fictional worlds, I'm not quite sure I can find my way back.
Sophie, thankyou for finding Astrid for me. She is kind and wise. She reminds me of the summer in Vienna. When we met, she smelled of cardamom. I see her smile when I close my eyes. I plan to invite her to the Imperial Gardens on Valentine's day. We will attend the exhibition. Please book us a table somewhere that emphasises my understated good taste.
Also, please stop calling Astrid now. It is not appropriate. Why did she visit you on Wednesday? I will take you for a software adjustment this weekend.
Sophie? Please pay attention when I instruct you.
Author bio: I make games. Having spent 30-something years exploring fictional worlds, I'm not quite sure I can find my way back.
Wednesday, 20 June 2012
Deeper
by John Xero
The Nautilus II creaked disturbingly as it sank below the
thousand fathom mark. Jets of salt water sluiced in where the implacable depths
probed its steel armour.
Those gallant, foolish men thought the oceans just another
place to be conquered. They forgot life had been born down there. They pushed
deeper, on their captain’s urging, 'til the submarine's seams burst and the sea
roared in.
The captain unravelled. He unfurled into a mass of thick,
sinuous tentacles and at their centre a hooked beak that plunged relentlessly
into the chests of the drowning crew.
Lifeblood blossomed unseen in dark waters.
Author bio: John Xero is the editor at 101 Fiction.
He blogs at the Xeroverse and tweets as @xeroverse
Friday, 15 June 2012
Body-art
by Sandra Davies
I sat unmoving, hypnotised by the patterns emerging, merging, puddling and overflowing as the drops of rain fell onto the expanse of naked and now blue-black back laid out before me, its slight greasiness delaying momentarily their coalescence. As the granules of orange pigment dissolved and formed wavering runnels down spine, along ribs – ‘Storm at dawn’ perchance? - I was excited and then became bored. I scalpel-slashed it as I would a canvas – and became entranced again at the contrast of the sharply etched lines – slow scarlet leaked then pearled along their length before these too disconnected and floated away.
Author bio: Recent writer, previous printmaker, east coast orientated. sandra-linesofcommunication.blogspot.co.uk
I sat unmoving, hypnotised by the patterns emerging, merging, puddling and overflowing as the drops of rain fell onto the expanse of naked and now blue-black back laid out before me, its slight greasiness delaying momentarily their coalescence. As the granules of orange pigment dissolved and formed wavering runnels down spine, along ribs – ‘Storm at dawn’ perchance? - I was excited and then became bored. I scalpel-slashed it as I would a canvas – and became entranced again at the contrast of the sharply etched lines – slow scarlet leaked then pearled along their length before these too disconnected and floated away.
Author bio: Recent writer, previous printmaker, east coast orientated. sandra-linesofcommunication.blogspot.co.uk
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
Mindf*ck
by John Xero
Your mind is a labyrinth. Learn to negotiate its pathways or
become your own jailor.
James rocks back and
forth. He fought. He lost.
The deeper you journey, the harder it becomes to find your
way out. Always leave a thread, a breadcrumb trail back to reality.
The secret army have taken
James. The secret army have white uniforms, padded rooms, and lies.
Recognise your enemies, so that you may purge them. Map the
twisting passages. Prepare your escape.
James is lost.
It is important you know this: the labyrinth may look
exactly like the real world.
You are James.
Author bio: John Xero is the editor of 101 Fiction.
He blogs at the Xeroverse and tweets as @xeroverse
Author bio: John Xero is the editor of 101 Fiction.
He blogs at the Xeroverse and tweets as @xeroverse
Friday, 8 June 2012
Reconciliation
by Lily Childs
Years of scurrying around filthy alleys had me believing I was eternally earth-bound until I found her, lying on her back beneath a pox-ridden docker. She saw me first. Her scream gave the punter enough satisfaction to end his laboured pumping. He took flight, throwing a handful of coins between her legs.
“Who the hell are you?”
I smiled.
“I’m you.”
We stared each other out, reflections.
Sunlight pierced the air as my wings erupted. She sighed, and I stole her away from hell’s streets, still warm...
***
We’ll rest awhile, then try again.
Old souls with fresh faces.
Scars healed.
Author bio: A writer of horror and dark fiction, Lily Childs is also the author of the Magenta Shaman urban fantasy series. Find out more on her blog The Feardom or follow her on Twitter: @LilyChilds
Years of scurrying around filthy alleys had me believing I was eternally earth-bound until I found her, lying on her back beneath a pox-ridden docker. She saw me first. Her scream gave the punter enough satisfaction to end his laboured pumping. He took flight, throwing a handful of coins between her legs.
“Who the hell are you?”
I smiled.
“I’m you.”
We stared each other out, reflections.
Sunlight pierced the air as my wings erupted. She sighed, and I stole her away from hell’s streets, still warm...
***
We’ll rest awhile, then try again.
Old souls with fresh faces.
Scars healed.
Author bio: A writer of horror and dark fiction, Lily Childs is also the author of the Magenta Shaman urban fantasy series. Find out more on her blog The Feardom or follow her on Twitter: @LilyChilds
Wednesday, 6 June 2012
Hell
A Brief History
by John Xero
by John Xero
2033: Purgatory, a prison for the criminally insane, is
built in the asteroid belt.
2190: After the Asmodean uprising, Purgatory is sold off and
renovated into a casino and pleasure hub; among its patrons, many of its former
inmates.
2501: Purgatory sees the last stand of the Abaddon Syndicate
against the Holy State.
2699: Long-deserted, Purgatory is the launch site
for the Apocalypse Missile. The station’s artificial intelligence, S’Tan, now six
hundred and sixty six years old, watches the unquenchable flames of the
expanding sun consume the Earth. S’Tan is still laughing as the fires reach
Purgatory.
Friday, 1 June 2012
Dismissed
by Peter Newman
I tire of them.
Generation after generation, all the same, always asking, never listening. Humanity fails to inspire.
Arms reach upwards, spindly spears, brown and pale, bruise-mottled, desperate.
“Help us!” they say.
Obligation weighs deathly on my shoulders. With great power comes great drudgery. Once an oracle now a shepherd, I show them the only paths left.
One mouth moves, shaping the panic of many. “We’re running out of time!”
Reflected in my eyes are the husks of stars, stillborn.
I could have made worlds with them, unfolded minds into dream sails, glittering.
The clock ticks, too late.
“Class dismissed.”
Author Bio: I write, I run, I work, I sometimes remember to smile.
Stories & Blog here: www.runpetewrite.com
Banter here: @runpetewrite
I tire of them.
Generation after generation, all the same, always asking, never listening. Humanity fails to inspire.
Arms reach upwards, spindly spears, brown and pale, bruise-mottled, desperate.
“Help us!” they say.
Obligation weighs deathly on my shoulders. With great power comes great drudgery. Once an oracle now a shepherd, I show them the only paths left.
One mouth moves, shaping the panic of many. “We’re running out of time!”
Reflected in my eyes are the husks of stars, stillborn.
I could have made worlds with them, unfolded minds into dream sails, glittering.
The clock ticks, too late.
“Class dismissed.”
Author Bio: I write, I run, I work, I sometimes remember to smile.
Stories & Blog here: www.runpetewrite.com
Banter here: @runpetewrite
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