by Robin Dunn
I would have your joy. It is the hardest to sell. The hardest to acquire. It is a beautiful thing, joy. Something I have worked hard here in Los Angeles to make marketable, to make translatable into media my buyers can perceive and understand.
People of Earth, listen. The time we know is only now. It’s now; here we are, seconds ticking by. Why not make an investment? In your future. In the trade routes we have only begun to establish here in your region.
Your joy is so beautiful. Log in to Facebook and click ‘Like’ on “Joy Sell.”
Author bio: Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in The Town of the Queen of the Angels, El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles, in Echo Park. He is 33 years old.
www.robindunn.com
Friday, 28 December 2012
Wednesday, 26 December 2012
Editorial - 2012
No story from me this Wednesday. Instead I want to say thank you to everyone for reading and contributing to 101 Fiction this year.
We've had six months of fantastic contributor drabbles, beginning with Peter Newman's excellent Dismissed, and ending 2012 with Robin Dunn's Joy this coming Friday. We've already got some great stories lined up for the first few months of 2013 too. I can't wait for you to read them.
Since August there's been a 101 Fiction Tumblr as well, if you like your tiny fiction delivered that way. And I added a little page on drabbles a few weeks ago.
I've been looking back through the past six months' 101s, and it's really difficult to pick favourites without providing links to almost every single piece. I kinda think that's a pretty good sign (even if it's a bit of a cop-out too ;) ). I don't accept all the pieces I'm sent, and I'm really happy with every one I've let through.
So, thank you. =)
Merry Christmas, and a happy New Year.
John Xero.
We've had six months of fantastic contributor drabbles, beginning with Peter Newman's excellent Dismissed, and ending 2012 with Robin Dunn's Joy this coming Friday. We've already got some great stories lined up for the first few months of 2013 too. I can't wait for you to read them.
Since August there's been a 101 Fiction Tumblr as well, if you like your tiny fiction delivered that way. And I added a little page on drabbles a few weeks ago.
I've been looking back through the past six months' 101s, and it's really difficult to pick favourites without providing links to almost every single piece. I kinda think that's a pretty good sign (even if it's a bit of a cop-out too ;) ). I don't accept all the pieces I'm sent, and I'm really happy with every one I've let through.
So, thank you. =)
Merry Christmas, and a happy New Year.
John Xero.
Friday, 21 December 2012
Storm
by Jessie Woods
We stood in a circle of make-believe stones, waiting for the man we built from mud and twigs to rise. He'd turn us into zombies, replace tooth fairies with shrunken heads. We'd find fingers in gumbo soup. We called it a day. We found him in mirrors. Our dreams turned to rancid butter. We hunted the darkness in packs of scavenger sevens. Telephone wires spilled scratchy voices. We whispered the names of ghost towns to our sickly grandmothers. They crossed themselves and died. When the great storm hit, we locked ourselves in our rooms. We grew bigger than our shadows.
We stood in a circle of make-believe stones, waiting for the man we built from mud and twigs to rise. He'd turn us into zombies, replace tooth fairies with shrunken heads. We'd find fingers in gumbo soup. We called it a day. We found him in mirrors. Our dreams turned to rancid butter. We hunted the darkness in packs of scavenger sevens. Telephone wires spilled scratchy voices. We whispered the names of ghost towns to our sickly grandmothers. They crossed themselves and died. When the great storm hit, we locked ourselves in our rooms. We grew bigger than our shadows.
Author bio: Jessie Woods lives in New Jersey. He has been published in Veil, Short-Story.Me and elsewhere.
Wednesday, 19 December 2012
EVA
by John Xero
Gerry drifted through space, slowly spinning, one more piece of debris in an expanding cluster. Karl floated nearby.
"Brilliant plan, Karl. Fucking brilliant."
Karl said nothing.
Gerry flexed the stiff joints of his spacesuit, old habit, staving off the muscle atrophy that set in under zero-G. Not that it mattered anymore. No one knew where they were - one of the many joyous hazards of unlicensed prospecting.
Karl had been safely inside the ship, unsuited. Dead now, of course.
Gerry checked his air. Two days.
He wondered which was worse, to die in a flash of terror, or in drawn-out anticipation.
Gerry drifted through space, slowly spinning, one more piece of debris in an expanding cluster. Karl floated nearby.
"Brilliant plan, Karl. Fucking brilliant."
Karl said nothing.
Gerry flexed the stiff joints of his spacesuit, old habit, staving off the muscle atrophy that set in under zero-G. Not that it mattered anymore. No one knew where they were - one of the many joyous hazards of unlicensed prospecting.
Karl had been safely inside the ship, unsuited. Dead now, of course.
Gerry checked his air. Two days.
He wondered which was worse, to die in a flash of terror, or in drawn-out anticipation.
Author bio: Life is, of course, dying in drawn-out anticipation. John Xero is a realistic optimist, he likes to believe the best will happen, but knows it probably won't. ;)
Friday, 14 December 2012
Options
by Milo James Fowler
The hideous alien on the viewscreen bared its white teeth in some sort of bizarre greeting ritual. "I am Captain Bartholomew Quasar of the Effervescent Magnitude," it said.
Gorthrexx the Goobalob Sector Twelve toll collector scowled with most of his eyes - and he had a myriad of them, located all over his gelatinous body. "Prepare to be boarded," he droned.
The alien blinked its measly pair. "I don't understand-"
"You have trespassed into our space and will be enslaved."
"Is there a second option?"
Gorthrexx sighed. "You pay the toll."
Captain Quasar checked his credit. His shoulders slumped. "Welcome aboard."
Author bio: Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day and a speculative fictioneer by night. Stop by anytime: http://www.milo-inmediasres.com/
The hideous alien on the viewscreen bared its white teeth in some sort of bizarre greeting ritual. "I am Captain Bartholomew Quasar of the Effervescent Magnitude," it said.
Gorthrexx the Goobalob Sector Twelve toll collector scowled with most of his eyes - and he had a myriad of them, located all over his gelatinous body. "Prepare to be boarded," he droned.
The alien blinked its measly pair. "I don't understand-"
"You have trespassed into our space and will be enslaved."
"Is there a second option?"
Gorthrexx sighed. "You pay the toll."
Captain Quasar checked his credit. His shoulders slumped. "Welcome aboard."
Author bio: Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day and a speculative fictioneer by night. Stop by anytime: http://www.milo-inmediasres.com/
Wednesday, 12 December 2012
Inhuman
by John Xero
There's a place, down in South Carolina, where they farm hatred. Shipped and sold to markets you know nothing about. A trade in things to turn your skin. The secret economies of the world.
Tumours ripple and shimmer as they swell through the children's skin, and when the growths begin to seep they are ready to harvest.
The smell of hate is bilious and sour.
The cattle are bred for purpose, a different species, a line centuries deep, Homo Domesticus. Sometimes they learn words from the workers but they have no rational thoughts - we promise ourselves that, trying to believe.
There's a place, down in South Carolina, where they farm hatred. Shipped and sold to markets you know nothing about. A trade in things to turn your skin. The secret economies of the world.
Tumours ripple and shimmer as they swell through the children's skin, and when the growths begin to seep they are ready to harvest.
The smell of hate is bilious and sour.
The cattle are bred for purpose, a different species, a line centuries deep, Homo Domesticus. Sometimes they learn words from the workers but they have no rational thoughts - we promise ourselves that, trying to believe.
Author bio: John Xero believes in secret histories and hidden conspiracies. Nothing specific, mind you; maybe everything is true, and maybe nothing is. Trust no one. ;)
Friday, 7 December 2012
Footnote
by Steven Valor Keck
3 While XxXLordDiabloXxX wrote, "fuck every fuckin thing in this fucked. life love the fucking ACRAXIX metal. BEST! LMAO when the world end 2012, and ALL WHO HAVE EVER LIVE will bow in HELL to blow acraxix 4EVER 3:D Jajaja:3 ACRAXIX RULES!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!!!♥," it is clear that in the idiom of his day he certainly did not mean to include Acraxix themselves amongst those to be fucked, nor to suggest an eschatology wherein the band would spend eternity engaged in autofellatio, as bitchplzzzz erroneously concluded in his History of YouTube Commentary, the First Century. See drjanepnewton21, 103, see also brown*pwnzor, 233.
Author bio: Steven apologizes for the profanity, but he felt it was integral to the plot. He considers this story a dire warning, of a future internet that need not be. He posts surrealist short fiction at subsequentemissary.tumblr.com.
3 While XxXLordDiabloXxX wrote, "fuck every fuckin thing in this fucked. life love the fucking ACRAXIX metal. BEST! LMAO when the world end 2012, and ALL WHO HAVE EVER LIVE will bow in HELL to blow acraxix 4EVER 3:D Jajaja:3 ACRAXIX RULES!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!!!♥," it is clear that in the idiom of his day he certainly did not mean to include Acraxix themselves amongst those to be fucked, nor to suggest an eschatology wherein the band would spend eternity engaged in autofellatio, as bitchplzzzz erroneously concluded in his History of YouTube Commentary, the First Century. See drjanepnewton21, 103, see also brown*pwnzor, 233.
Author bio: Steven apologizes for the profanity, but he felt it was integral to the plot. He considers this story a dire warning, of a future internet that need not be. He posts surrealist short fiction at subsequentemissary.tumblr.com.
Wednesday, 5 December 2012
Gunpowder
by John Xero
Santos sat in his chamber sipping tea. His own blend - black teas, with the tiniest pinch of gunpowder green - perfect for his final moments.
He felt calm.
He let the paper walls and bamboo matting of the simulation dissolve around him till only the cold metal remained. No more distractions.
He launched. A spear thrown from one tribe at another.
The enemy fleet fired counter-measures. Santos dodged decoys and weaved through clouds of flack. More than a simple smart-missile, he was sentient. He was a hero.
They were all heroes. Hundreds of missiles. Each a Santos seeking death and glory.
Author bio: John Xero makes his own personal blend of tea, it's a little different each time, so he can't guarantee the taste. He's also a big fan of Studio Ghibli films, including the Cat Returns.
Hopefully one day people will stop inventing new spears to throw at each other.
Blog | Twitter
Santos sat in his chamber sipping tea. His own blend - black teas, with the tiniest pinch of gunpowder green - perfect for his final moments.
He felt calm.
He let the paper walls and bamboo matting of the simulation dissolve around him till only the cold metal remained. No more distractions.
He launched. A spear thrown from one tribe at another.
The enemy fleet fired counter-measures. Santos dodged decoys and weaved through clouds of flack. More than a simple smart-missile, he was sentient. He was a hero.
They were all heroes. Hundreds of missiles. Each a Santos seeking death and glory.
Author bio: John Xero makes his own personal blend of tea, it's a little different each time, so he can't guarantee the taste. He's also a big fan of Studio Ghibli films, including the Cat Returns.
Hopefully one day people will stop inventing new spears to throw at each other.
Blog | Twitter
Friday, 30 November 2012
Lunatic
by Robert Morschel
I stand under the moonlight, my long, sinewy arms outstretched, my hands splayed to catch her silvery rays. She is mine and I am hers: the Lady of the Night. I shiver as she smiles at me and caresses my naked body with cool, tender whispers. From deep within a howl emerges, rising to my lips, and slowly I lift my head to declare my love to the world.
A voice cries through the stillness of the night, interrupting.
“Honey, supper will be ready in 5 minutes.”
Reluctantly I turn from the maisonette window and draw the curtains.
Reality calls.
Author bio: Robert Morschel is a writer of software in London, and words at http://mulledvine.com.
Follow him on Twitter.
I stand under the moonlight, my long, sinewy arms outstretched, my hands splayed to catch her silvery rays. She is mine and I am hers: the Lady of the Night. I shiver as she smiles at me and caresses my naked body with cool, tender whispers. From deep within a howl emerges, rising to my lips, and slowly I lift my head to declare my love to the world.
A voice cries through the stillness of the night, interrupting.
“Honey, supper will be ready in 5 minutes.”
Reluctantly I turn from the maisonette window and draw the curtains.
Reality calls.
Author bio: Robert Morschel is a writer of software in London, and words at http://mulledvine.com.
Follow him on Twitter.
Wednesday, 28 November 2012
Mage
by John Xero
Shuka was a mage of subtle magics.
While her peers waged wars for various kings, she became a queen.
Other wizards challenged and fought and ranked each other. They wrestled with fire till infernos were theirs to command, forged armies from ice or reshaped the very land itself. They were so mighty and so proud.
But Shuka stayed silent, and no one knew the power that welled within her. She simply smiled shyly, spoke softly and practiced unseen spells.
Now it was widely known her king employed no mages. Yet any sent against him, mysteriously, came back broken, empty, weeping.
Author bio: John Xero believes there are as many kinds of writers and writing as there are of mages and magic, more even. And that words can be obvious, and they can be subtle, and both can be powerful.
blog | twitter
Shuka was a mage of subtle magics.
While her peers waged wars for various kings, she became a queen.
Other wizards challenged and fought and ranked each other. They wrestled with fire till infernos were theirs to command, forged armies from ice or reshaped the very land itself. They were so mighty and so proud.
But Shuka stayed silent, and no one knew the power that welled within her. She simply smiled shyly, spoke softly and practiced unseen spells.
Now it was widely known her king employed no mages. Yet any sent against him, mysteriously, came back broken, empty, weeping.
Author bio: John Xero believes there are as many kinds of writers and writing as there are of mages and magic, more even. And that words can be obvious, and they can be subtle, and both can be powerful.
blog | twitter
Friday, 23 November 2012
Bully
by Angel Zapata
The quarter sat face-up on the schoolyard ground. I squatted beside it, stared into Washington’s eye. I had expected to pick it up and be done with it, but then it spoke to me.
“I’ll make him stop hurting you,” it said.
I took it back inside the school; found Lucas alone in the second floor bathroom. He didn’t anticipate me turning the table, didn’t see me until I’d already pinned his shoulders down with my knees; pried open his mouth.
The newspapers printed his death as an ‘accidental choking’.
The coins in my pocket can barely contain their laughter.
Author bio: Angel Zapata knows money talks. His published and upcoming poetry and fiction can be found at Bewildering Stories, Devilfish Review, The 5-2: Crime Poetry Weekly, Microw, and Mused: Bellaonline Literary Review. Visit him at http://arageofangel.blogspot.com/
The quarter sat face-up on the schoolyard ground. I squatted beside it, stared into Washington’s eye. I had expected to pick it up and be done with it, but then it spoke to me.
“I’ll make him stop hurting you,” it said.
I took it back inside the school; found Lucas alone in the second floor bathroom. He didn’t anticipate me turning the table, didn’t see me until I’d already pinned his shoulders down with my knees; pried open his mouth.
The newspapers printed his death as an ‘accidental choking’.
The coins in my pocket can barely contain their laughter.
Author bio: Angel Zapata knows money talks. His published and upcoming poetry and fiction can be found at Bewildering Stories, Devilfish Review, The 5-2: Crime Poetry Weekly, Microw, and Mused: Bellaonline Literary Review. Visit him at http://arageofangel.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, 21 November 2012
Eternal
by John Xero
Padraig was a little goblin of a man, wizened and bitter, always preceded by the tap-tap of his cane. He was old - ancient - but his tongue was still spear-sharp and keen as his eyes. His pale, piercing gaze flickered from person to person, scrutinising, judging their heart and soul.
He seemed eternal. Younger folk grew old and died, while Padraig tap-tapped ever onwards.
And in the world beyond this one, there was Padraig, waiting. He would judge folk, and guide them. And sometimes the path wound lazily upwards to light, and sometimes it sloped down, down to lakes of fire.
Author bio: John Xero is not eternal. But that doesn't mean he won't be waiting for you on the other side... Be good.
Twitter | Blog
Padraig was a little goblin of a man, wizened and bitter, always preceded by the tap-tap of his cane. He was old - ancient - but his tongue was still spear-sharp and keen as his eyes. His pale, piercing gaze flickered from person to person, scrutinising, judging their heart and soul.
He seemed eternal. Younger folk grew old and died, while Padraig tap-tapped ever onwards.
And in the world beyond this one, there was Padraig, waiting. He would judge folk, and guide them. And sometimes the path wound lazily upwards to light, and sometimes it sloped down, down to lakes of fire.
Author bio: John Xero is not eternal. But that doesn't mean he won't be waiting for you on the other side... Be good.
Twitter | Blog
Friday, 16 November 2012
Cobblestones
by Chris White
I don't watch the news anymore, the same flickering images of riot shields and snarling police dogs, of explosions in cafés - the lightning strikes of revolution.
The world captured in moments of violence, the voice of civilisation drowned out by the screams of the people as flames lick at their feet.
It started with people marching in the streets, demanding to be heard.
It ended when our governments stopped pretending, when Trafalgar Square became Tiananmen, revisited.
I don't watch the news anymore, pretending to be surprised.
I watch the streets outside and all I see are cobblestones, slick with blood.
Author bio: Chris White is an author living in Brisbane, Australia, which he realises is on the other side of the world. He writes mainly dystopian SciFi and speculative fiction. More of his words can be found (almost) daily at http://chriswhitewrites.wordpress.com
I don't watch the news anymore, the same flickering images of riot shields and snarling police dogs, of explosions in cafés - the lightning strikes of revolution.
The world captured in moments of violence, the voice of civilisation drowned out by the screams of the people as flames lick at their feet.
It started with people marching in the streets, demanding to be heard.
It ended when our governments stopped pretending, when Trafalgar Square became Tiananmen, revisited.
I don't watch the news anymore, pretending to be surprised.
I watch the streets outside and all I see are cobblestones, slick with blood.
Author bio: Chris White is an author living in Brisbane, Australia, which he realises is on the other side of the world. He writes mainly dystopian SciFi and speculative fiction. More of his words can be found (almost) daily at http://chriswhitewrites.wordpress.com
Wednesday, 14 November 2012
Burglarised
by John Xero
A child's toy: a caricatured man: squat and broad, black trousers, black and white striped shirt, black domino mask, bulky bag labelled: SWAG.
What if the cause was the effect? Cause: effect.
Oh, the Earth is missing. Did I mention that?
Earth: missing.
A mishap, perhaps: misplaced. Or stolen, whole: thieved.
Burglarised or magicked? Stolen, or concealed.
Sleight of celestial event: "Look, supernova! Oh, where's you planet gone?"
Converted, maybe, to energy. Or thought: a conceptual theft.
Everyone in the world imagining a SWAG bag: the world in a SWAG bag in everyone's imagining.
Are you imagining it? Good. Bye.
Author bio: John Xero wants one of those sunlight lamps for the dark days ahead (otherwise known as winter). And not because someone's about to steal the sun. But if they do, it definitely wasn't him, no sir.
A child's toy: a caricatured man: squat and broad, black trousers, black and white striped shirt, black domino mask, bulky bag labelled: SWAG.
What if the cause was the effect? Cause: effect.
Oh, the Earth is missing. Did I mention that?
Earth: missing.
A mishap, perhaps: misplaced. Or stolen, whole: thieved.
Burglarised or magicked? Stolen, or concealed.
Sleight of celestial event: "Look, supernova! Oh, where's you planet gone?"
Converted, maybe, to energy. Or thought: a conceptual theft.
Everyone in the world imagining a SWAG bag: the world in a SWAG bag in everyone's imagining.
Are you imagining it? Good. Bye.
Author bio: John Xero wants one of those sunlight lamps for the dark days ahead (otherwise known as winter). And not because someone's about to steal the sun. But if they do, it definitely wasn't him, no sir.
Friday, 9 November 2012
Reformat
by Milo James Fowler
For days, the Effervescent Magnitude, star cruiser of the indomitable Captain Bartholomew Quasar, had been dead in the water, so to speak, with no systems functional.
Garbed in environmental suits, most of the crew had exhausted their O2 supply and were drifting off to sleep, never to awaken. Quasar punched the intercom on his deluxe-model captain's chair with what strength he still possessed and prepared to exhort all hands one last time-
Suddenly all systems, including life support, came back online. Quasar's console read: IMPROMPTU SURVIVAL TRAINING COMPLETE. WELL DONE!
The ship's computer could look forward to a complete reformatting.
Author bio: Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day, writer by night. Stop by anytime: http://www.milo-inmediasres.com/
For days, the Effervescent Magnitude, star cruiser of the indomitable Captain Bartholomew Quasar, had been dead in the water, so to speak, with no systems functional.
Garbed in environmental suits, most of the crew had exhausted their O2 supply and were drifting off to sleep, never to awaken. Quasar punched the intercom on his deluxe-model captain's chair with what strength he still possessed and prepared to exhort all hands one last time-
Suddenly all systems, including life support, came back online. Quasar's console read: IMPROMPTU SURVIVAL TRAINING COMPLETE. WELL DONE!
The ship's computer could look forward to a complete reformatting.
Author bio: Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day, writer by night. Stop by anytime: http://www.milo-inmediasres.com/
Wednesday, 7 November 2012
Farmboy
by John Xero
Gobbets of meat adorned the beast's barbed hide, like tufts of wool on a horrific hedgerow.
Harwen was on his knees, his crude sword hanging limply from a hand that a week ago had held a crook. Around him lay villagers and friends, armoured up and cut down.
The soldiers were gone to war but battle had come to Little Daleberry regardless, because Harwen had let his flock stray too near the caves.
The troll-thing, its rage sated, was shambling away.
Harwen tightened his grip, clenched his jaw and stood. He owed penance. He yelled and the beast turned back.
Gobbets of meat adorned the beast's barbed hide, like tufts of wool on a horrific hedgerow.
Harwen was on his knees, his crude sword hanging limply from a hand that a week ago had held a crook. Around him lay villagers and friends, armoured up and cut down.
The soldiers were gone to war but battle had come to Little Daleberry regardless, because Harwen had let his flock stray too near the caves.
The troll-thing, its rage sated, was shambling away.
Harwen tightened his grip, clenched his jaw and stood. He owed penance. He yelled and the beast turned back.
Friday, 2 November 2012
Circles
by Adam Lynn
The corn told a story none of the experts wanted to hear.
The boys from NASA stood by and scowled, repeated bad jokes and blamed the farmers.
The farmers stood by and scowled, bitched about the weather and blamed the teenagers.
The journalists stood by and scowled, talked to the NASA boys, farmers and teenagers, and blamed their editors.
Geometric shapes stamped into fields far from home tended to make people nervous and defensive.
So they hunted clues among the churned-up husks and clods of earth, failing, again, to imagine the truth just might be in the gleaming galaxies above.
Author bio: Adam Lynn writes nonfiction for a living but lives to write fiction. Follow him @spark1019.
The corn told a story none of the experts wanted to hear.
The boys from NASA stood by and scowled, repeated bad jokes and blamed the farmers.
The farmers stood by and scowled, bitched about the weather and blamed the teenagers.
The journalists stood by and scowled, talked to the NASA boys, farmers and teenagers, and blamed their editors.
Geometric shapes stamped into fields far from home tended to make people nervous and defensive.
So they hunted clues among the churned-up husks and clods of earth, failing, again, to imagine the truth just might be in the gleaming galaxies above.
Author bio: Adam Lynn writes nonfiction for a living but lives to write fiction. Follow him @spark1019.
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