No story from me today. No stories for the next little while. But have no fear; 101 Fiction is not dead, just resting.
This started as a personal project and grew to take other people's stories. It has been a fantastic experience to be an editor (on however small a scale), and I'm deeply honoured that people chose to submit such fantastic work to me time and time again. I really am.
Now it's time for 101 Fiction to evolve again.
I'm going to try and publish as a quarterly e-magazine. The first issue will be this September (followed by December, March, June). Issues will be loosely themed, on two subjects, with writers picking one or both themes for their stories.
Submissions for the September issue will be open from mid-July to mid-August. The themes will be 'Autumn' and 'phoenix' (for obvious reasons, I hope). As mentioned above, you can pick one or both themes, and use them as you wish - metaphorically, literally, allegorically...
It's been a great year, I hope you've enjoyed it, and I hope you are all as excited by this next step as I am.
Thank you, writers, readers, supporters.
-John Xero.
Wednesday, 12 June 2013
Friday, 7 June 2013
Practice
by Peter Newman
The radiance forced his eyes shut, humble. “Are you…” he whispered, “…the one who made us?”
“I am.”
“Please, tell us why.”
“Well,” she mumbled. “We all had to practice.”
He frowned, trying to understand. “There are other Makers?”
“Yes, twenty six in my class. I was supposed to scrape you all out afterwards. I forgot. Sorry.”
“Wait, we’re a failed experiment?”
The light became warmer. “Err... I learnt loads growing you. My latest world is inspired by yours.”
“You made a new race of man?”
“No, cats. Cats are awesome. We love watching cats, way more fun than humans.”
Author bio: I love writing, running, roleplaying, gaming and cats!
Stories and blog here: www.runpetewrite.com
Banter here: @runpetewrite
The radiance forced his eyes shut, humble. “Are you…” he whispered, “…the one who made us?”
“I am.”
“Please, tell us why.”
“Well,” she mumbled. “We all had to practice.”
He frowned, trying to understand. “There are other Makers?”
“Yes, twenty six in my class. I was supposed to scrape you all out afterwards. I forgot. Sorry.”
“Wait, we’re a failed experiment?”
The light became warmer. “Err... I learnt loads growing you. My latest world is inspired by yours.”
“You made a new race of man?”
“No, cats. Cats are awesome. We love watching cats, way more fun than humans.”
Author bio: I love writing, running, roleplaying, gaming and cats!
Stories and blog here: www.runpetewrite.com
Banter here: @runpetewrite
Wednesday, 5 June 2013
MacroCosmic
by John Xero
The Great Tree has many names – Yggdrasil, the White Tree, Existence, and more. From time to time it bears wondrous golden apples, of youth or knowledge or bright burning hydrogen.
It straddles the barriers between dream and reality, between life and death, story and history.
It is dying now, withered and scarred and bare, like a gnarled hand clawing at the dark cosmos. You can see the notches where knives and axes have cut into it, where its sap, its precious lifeblood, has been decanted.
It is the Tree of Life, and when it fails, so too do we all.
Author bio: John Xero writes little big stories. The longer, bigger stories are proving more troublesome.
@xeroverse | xeroverse.com
The Great Tree has many names – Yggdrasil, the White Tree, Existence, and more. From time to time it bears wondrous golden apples, of youth or knowledge or bright burning hydrogen.
It straddles the barriers between dream and reality, between life and death, story and history.
It is dying now, withered and scarred and bare, like a gnarled hand clawing at the dark cosmos. You can see the notches where knives and axes have cut into it, where its sap, its precious lifeblood, has been decanted.
It is the Tree of Life, and when it fails, so too do we all.
Author bio: John Xero writes little big stories. The longer, bigger stories are proving more troublesome.
@xeroverse | xeroverse.com
Friday, 31 May 2013
Shadows & Leviathan
by Chris White
Shadows
Dawn broke, crumbling through the shadows, reflected from the shattered mirror-faces of temples erected to the illusion of civilisation, to a pantheon long forgotten.
Dawn broke, eclipsing the night, illuminating only the darkness.
She woke, still curled against his chest, still crying, broken.
She woke to her nightmare.
He lay against the cracked concrete, the rust-red hole in his chest no longer bleeding.
They came and pushed her aside, pushed her into the dust.
They came and stripped him – took his shoes, his heavy winter coat, his grandfather’s pocket watch.
They left her his body.
They left her the shadows.
Leviathan
Down, down in the deep, the Leviathan wakes. The seafloor buckles, tears.
Down in the eternal darkness his giant, sightless eyes struggle to open against the mud of uncountable aeons.
Aeons of loneliness.
Down in the deep the Leviathan wakes, an ancient, blasphemous monstrosity.
Unleashed once more into restless hunger.
The last of his kind.
Slowly, slowly rising. Out of the darkness.
The Leviathan rises, awakened into suffering. He pierces the surface, a serpent, writhing. A nightmare, forgotten.
Leviathan, reborn, dying.
The oxygen content is a fifth of what it was during the Jurassic.
The Leviathan surfaces, belly up.
Asphyxiated.
Shadows
Dawn broke, crumbling through the shadows, reflected from the shattered mirror-faces of temples erected to the illusion of civilisation, to a pantheon long forgotten.
Dawn broke, eclipsing the night, illuminating only the darkness.
She woke, still curled against his chest, still crying, broken.
She woke to her nightmare.
He lay against the cracked concrete, the rust-red hole in his chest no longer bleeding.
They came and pushed her aside, pushed her into the dust.
They came and stripped him – took his shoes, his heavy winter coat, his grandfather’s pocket watch.
They left her his body.
They left her the shadows.
Leviathan
Down, down in the deep, the Leviathan wakes. The seafloor buckles, tears.
Down in the eternal darkness his giant, sightless eyes struggle to open against the mud of uncountable aeons.
Aeons of loneliness.
Down in the deep the Leviathan wakes, an ancient, blasphemous monstrosity.
Unleashed once more into restless hunger.
The last of his kind.
Slowly, slowly rising. Out of the darkness.
The Leviathan rises, awakened into suffering. He pierces the surface, a serpent, writhing. A nightmare, forgotten.
Leviathan, reborn, dying.
The oxygen content is a fifth of what it was during the Jurassic.
The Leviathan surfaces, belly up.
Asphyxiated.
Author bio: Chris White is a freelance writer of many styles (but mostly magic realism and science fiction.) He lives in Brisbane, Australia, on the other side of the world. An emerging writer, he pours out a flurry of flash fiction and short stories, mostly here: http://chriswhitewrites.com
Wednesday, 29 May 2013
Wings
by John Xero
Oh, wow, people say. Wings!
Yeah, I say. Wings. Without the physiology to make them work – not the way people imagine. Sure I can lift them, and spread them. But fly?
No way. Not a fucking chance.
They get in the way. In a world made for people – normal people – I don't fit through doorways. I don't fit in cars. I don't fit in shirts or suits. I don't fit in.
Look at my face. Is this the face of an angel? Is it fuck.
Just do it, Doc, and drop the damn stupid questions. Cut the fucking things off.
Oh, wow, people say. Wings!
Yeah, I say. Wings. Without the physiology to make them work – not the way people imagine. Sure I can lift them, and spread them. But fly?
No way. Not a fucking chance.
They get in the way. In a world made for people – normal people – I don't fit through doorways. I don't fit in cars. I don't fit in shirts or suits. I don't fit in.
Look at my face. Is this the face of an angel? Is it fuck.
Just do it, Doc, and drop the damn stupid questions. Cut the fucking things off.
Author bio: John Xero has always wanted wings. They say you should be careful what you wish for, and maybe it's best if we learn to fly with what we already have...
@xeroverse | xeroverse.com
@xeroverse | xeroverse.com
Friday, 24 May 2013
Starfish
by Scott Dingley
Tommy got out yesterday and the kid doesn't remember him. He's got two lousy hours, she says. Then they're gone, across the water.
He talks. The oblivious kid chases and flees junk-filled waves in that futile cycle.
"How ‘bout an ice cream?" he suggests (he hasn't tasted one in six damn years), taking the kid's small hand.
Cold, sandy fingers wriggle out of his grip.
The kid, preoccupied with a plastic bag lapping the shore, fetches it out and asks, "Those fingers inside?"
He looks at two severed hands in the bag...
"No, just starfish, got stuck. Washed up."
Starfish.
Tommy got out yesterday and the kid doesn't remember him. He's got two lousy hours, she says. Then they're gone, across the water.
He talks. The oblivious kid chases and flees junk-filled waves in that futile cycle.
"How ‘bout an ice cream?" he suggests (he hasn't tasted one in six damn years), taking the kid's small hand.
Cold, sandy fingers wriggle out of his grip.
The kid, preoccupied with a plastic bag lapping the shore, fetches it out and asks, "Those fingers inside?"
He looks at two severed hands in the bag...
"No, just starfish, got stuck. Washed up."
Starfish.
Author biography: Scott Dingley is a London-based writer of crime, horror and western fiction.
Wednesday, 22 May 2013
Siren
by John Xero
Heed the siren's call. It heralds salvation, the bliss of ignorance, the sweet succour of death.
Do not thrash as she takes you into her arms, sweet child, as she presses her lips to yours. Let her steal your breath as if it were her own.
Do not cry out as she cracks your bones for the marrow within. Instead forget what pain is, let her devour that too.
What has free will ever brought you? Let the siren take charge and plant her black flag in your soul. Soon you will be nothing more than tears in the ocean.
Author bio: John Xero knows how easy it is to give in to temptation, to let the distractions wash you away. He's trying to ignore them and write, write, write.
xeroverse.com | @xeroverse
Siren was runner up in the Scrolls flash fiction challenge. Listen here.
Heed the siren's call. It heralds salvation, the bliss of ignorance, the sweet succour of death.
Do not thrash as she takes you into her arms, sweet child, as she presses her lips to yours. Let her steal your breath as if it were her own.
Do not cry out as she cracks your bones for the marrow within. Instead forget what pain is, let her devour that too.
What has free will ever brought you? Let the siren take charge and plant her black flag in your soul. Soon you will be nothing more than tears in the ocean.
Author bio: John Xero knows how easy it is to give in to temptation, to let the distractions wash you away. He's trying to ignore them and write, write, write.
xeroverse.com | @xeroverse
Siren was runner up in the Scrolls flash fiction challenge. Listen here.
Friday, 17 May 2013
Hell
by Jess Cochrane
The light, mortal goodness of Earth fades as I am swept into the Underworld’s darkness.
Hades holds me with the tentativeness of someone cradling a wounded dove. Within his grasp, I feel tiny, fragile… and bright. Against his shadows, my own purity seems to shine.
One year later, I rise from shadowy death into my mother’s embrace. I am different in her arms. She clings desperately, crushingly tight. Hades' touch was always soft, shadowed and sinful.
In the Hell beneath us, I know He is waiting. The sharp tang of pomegranate lingers on my lips and I shiver with anticipation.
The light, mortal goodness of Earth fades as I am swept into the Underworld’s darkness.
Hades holds me with the tentativeness of someone cradling a wounded dove. Within his grasp, I feel tiny, fragile… and bright. Against his shadows, my own purity seems to shine.
One year later, I rise from shadowy death into my mother’s embrace. I am different in her arms. She clings desperately, crushingly tight. Hades' touch was always soft, shadowed and sinful.
In the Hell beneath us, I know He is waiting. The sharp tang of pomegranate lingers on my lips and I shiver with anticipation.
Author bio: Jess Cochrane is an Australian writer, currently "working on a novel" as all writers tend to do. Her short stories, random ramblings and tributes to villains can be found at her blog: http://lovethebadguy.wordpress.com
Wednesday, 15 May 2013
Prodigy
by John Xero
Screams, the emergency call said, screams of terror, cut short.
When the police arrived the only sounds were the sweet strains of a violin stirring the frigid, winter air. The front door was unlocked and they followed the strings to the music room, to a slaughterhouse.
The child prodigy sat on a stool by the piano, calmly playing his Stradivarius. His parents and two older sisters were spread about the room, quite dead, in spatters of red and tatters of flesh.
The child prodigy played on, a serene smile on his face, his mother's entrails still tangled in his laces.
Author bio: John Xero writes. But not as much as he should. He thinks he may have said that before.
xeroverse.com | @xeroverse
Screams, the emergency call said, screams of terror, cut short.
When the police arrived the only sounds were the sweet strains of a violin stirring the frigid, winter air. The front door was unlocked and they followed the strings to the music room, to a slaughterhouse.
The child prodigy sat on a stool by the piano, calmly playing his Stradivarius. His parents and two older sisters were spread about the room, quite dead, in spatters of red and tatters of flesh.
The child prodigy played on, a serene smile on his face, his mother's entrails still tangled in his laces.
Author bio: John Xero writes. But not as much as he should. He thinks he may have said that before.
xeroverse.com | @xeroverse
Friday, 10 May 2013
Feathers
by Xanthe Elliott
"Thinks she’s magic, she does," Tom confided to Henry with a smirk. "Diggin' through them nests like as if a wand might jump out, or some such."
"Could be, maybe… Tuesday last she called a butterfly and I seen her call a hummingbird–"
Ignoring Tom’s loud guffaw, Bridgit sifted patiently. "Called a flock of crows this morning, I did." Plucking a particularly fine plume from the detritus, she held it triumphantly aloft and began spinning energetically in circles.
"Daft wench–"
With sangfroid and a serene smile Bridgit replied, "'s all in the feathers…"
An army of gryphons darkened the sky.
Author bio: Xanthe Elliott is the alter-ego of a mild-mannered Maryland accountant. After counting beans by day, she seeks the meaning of life in the written word. Xanthe crafts tales of romance and self-reflection; Feathers is her first drabble submission.
"Thinks she’s magic, she does," Tom confided to Henry with a smirk. "Diggin' through them nests like as if a wand might jump out, or some such."
"Could be, maybe… Tuesday last she called a butterfly and I seen her call a hummingbird–"
Ignoring Tom’s loud guffaw, Bridgit sifted patiently. "Called a flock of crows this morning, I did." Plucking a particularly fine plume from the detritus, she held it triumphantly aloft and began spinning energetically in circles.
"Daft wench–"
With sangfroid and a serene smile Bridgit replied, "'s all in the feathers…"
An army of gryphons darkened the sky.
Author bio: Xanthe Elliott is the alter-ego of a mild-mannered Maryland accountant. After counting beans by day, she seeks the meaning of life in the written word. Xanthe crafts tales of romance and self-reflection; Feathers is her first drabble submission.
Wednesday, 8 May 2013
Were
by John Xero
A tumbling of claws and fur and teeth. A bulbous moon throbbing silver-grey light across the woodland. Ferns and shrubbery shaking, breaking. Bark torn from tree trunks.
Barks torn from throats.
She has him on his back, but he twists and throws her off with inhuman strength, leaping after her and pinning her to the ground. She snarls and bites. He howls.
The forest cowers.
And when they are done they lie in the disturbed undergrowth, panting. In the morning there will be regrets, fears, accusations, recriminations – human things. Beneath the moon they think wolf thoughts, and things are simpler.
A tumbling of claws and fur and teeth. A bulbous moon throbbing silver-grey light across the woodland. Ferns and shrubbery shaking, breaking. Bark torn from tree trunks.
Barks torn from throats.
She has him on his back, but he twists and throws her off with inhuman strength, leaping after her and pinning her to the ground. She snarls and bites. He howls.
The forest cowers.
And when they are done they lie in the disturbed undergrowth, panting. In the morning there will be regrets, fears, accusations, recriminations – human things. Beneath the moon they think wolf thoughts, and things are simpler.
Author bio: There's an animal inside us all, the trick is finding the balance. John Xero writes. In everything, the trick is finding the balance.
Friday, 3 May 2013
Someday
by Steven Valor Keck
I was ten. My father, the People's Executioner, placed the rope in my hand. I pulled, hard as I could.
The kneeling man cried, "Stop! Don't do this..."
The crowd jeered. One wit yelled, "Don't worry! Gravity is a myth!"
The blade fell. The crowd roared. Many took bloody souvenirs. Some wept.
That night my father got drunk. He said the man was a 'talking head' before the Collapse. A liar, paid to convince people that science was merely opinion. A murderer, hated by all.
"Should I have hated him, father?"
He began to cry, "Someday, you'll hate us all."
I was ten. My father, the People's Executioner, placed the rope in my hand. I pulled, hard as I could.
The kneeling man cried, "Stop! Don't do this..."
The crowd jeered. One wit yelled, "Don't worry! Gravity is a myth!"
The blade fell. The crowd roared. Many took bloody souvenirs. Some wept.
That night my father got drunk. He said the man was a 'talking head' before the Collapse. A liar, paid to convince people that science was merely opinion. A murderer, hated by all.
"Should I have hated him, father?"
He began to cry, "Someday, you'll hate us all."
Author bio: When he's not watching the news on television, and knitting furiously, Steven posts surrealist short fiction at subsequentemissary.tumblr.com.
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
Tattoo
by John Xero
This was my great undertaking: to catalogue all the demons of the Abyss, and so bind them.
But mere paper and ordinary ink could not match such a task, when even the tamest of names might burn a hole through wood. And so I made an ink of my own blood, with my skin to serve as paper.
In burnt crimson I wrote hell upon my soul.
And bind the beasts I did. But not to banishment.
They walk the Earth in me. And for my great sin I must watch while their evil rides my body, guides my hands.
Author bio: John Xero is a bookseller. He knows the real power of 'mere' paper and 'ordinary' ink. It can conjure entire worlds, make heroes of cowherds, it can change a man's life, time and time again.
xeroverse.com | @xeroverse
This was my great undertaking: to catalogue all the demons of the Abyss, and so bind them.
But mere paper and ordinary ink could not match such a task, when even the tamest of names might burn a hole through wood. And so I made an ink of my own blood, with my skin to serve as paper.
In burnt crimson I wrote hell upon my soul.
And bind the beasts I did. But not to banishment.
They walk the Earth in me. And for my great sin I must watch while their evil rides my body, guides my hands.
Author bio: John Xero is a bookseller. He knows the real power of 'mere' paper and 'ordinary' ink. It can conjure entire worlds, make heroes of cowherds, it can change a man's life, time and time again.
xeroverse.com | @xeroverse
Friday, 26 April 2013
Pill
by Pete Stevens
You placed a pill in my palm. You set the water within reach. I told you no and you said yes. I asked of other options, of other possibilities hidden under shiny-slick stones. You said no. You said I’d find my instructions on a card in my pocket. Instructions: Swallow pill with water. Wait to die. Wait to forget the way you laughed when no one spoke, the way I understood your thoughts by reading your skin. I remembered how the flush of your cheeks spoke to the pace of your lungs. You said it was my turn to swallow.
Author bio: Pete Stevens is the Fiction Editor at Squalorly. His work has appeared in Cardinal Sins and elsewhere. He lives in Bay City, Michigan.
You placed a pill in my palm. You set the water within reach. I told you no and you said yes. I asked of other options, of other possibilities hidden under shiny-slick stones. You said no. You said I’d find my instructions on a card in my pocket. Instructions: Swallow pill with water. Wait to die. Wait to forget the way you laughed when no one spoke, the way I understood your thoughts by reading your skin. I remembered how the flush of your cheeks spoke to the pace of your lungs. You said it was my turn to swallow.
Author bio: Pete Stevens is the Fiction Editor at Squalorly. His work has appeared in Cardinal Sins and elsewhere. He lives in Bay City, Michigan.
Wednesday, 24 April 2013
Dragon
by John Xero
Yoltan's dragon-scale armour is lighter than leather but stronger than steel. Each time he wears it, it feels more comfortable, more of a second skin.
The scales are a deep red, like the memory of fire, and they speak to Yoltan in a voice like sparks on tinder.
'Fire', they say fiercely. And 'flight.' And 'revenge.'
The longhouses burn around him. His brothers-in-arms approach warily, swords in their hands and murder in their eyes.
As the heat rises, he feels the armour meld with him, and he becomes fire, he becomes flight. He stretches his wings and he becomes dragon.
Author bio: John Xero loves winged mythology - angels, phoenix, dragons. There will always be new twists, new ideas, new skies for their stories to take flight in.
@xeroverse | xeroverse.com
Yoltan's dragon-scale armour is lighter than leather but stronger than steel. Each time he wears it, it feels more comfortable, more of a second skin.
The scales are a deep red, like the memory of fire, and they speak to Yoltan in a voice like sparks on tinder.
'Fire', they say fiercely. And 'flight.' And 'revenge.'
The longhouses burn around him. His brothers-in-arms approach warily, swords in their hands and murder in their eyes.
As the heat rises, he feels the armour meld with him, and he becomes fire, he becomes flight. He stretches his wings and he becomes dragon.
Author bio: John Xero loves winged mythology - angels, phoenix, dragons. There will always be new twists, new ideas, new skies for their stories to take flight in.
@xeroverse | xeroverse.com
Friday, 19 April 2013
Pig
by Jacques Debrot
Between the wars, the twins on Gwyrdd Hill kept a strange creature, half-boy half-hog, pent-up in the corn-crib at the edge of their property. Reclusive bachelors, the brothers would shyly deny its existence. But at night you’d hear the thing howling. A desperate, heart-sickening racket that might have come from a human child. So it was disturbing to learn later that the brothers had slaughtered it. They sold the organ meat, it was said, to an unwitting butcher in Ffestinoig. But the sweet belly pork and the hideous rubbery mass of the head, preserved in vinegar, they saved for themselves.
Between the wars, the twins on Gwyrdd Hill kept a strange creature, half-boy half-hog, pent-up in the corn-crib at the edge of their property. Reclusive bachelors, the brothers would shyly deny its existence. But at night you’d hear the thing howling. A desperate, heart-sickening racket that might have come from a human child. So it was disturbing to learn later that the brothers had slaughtered it. They sold the organ meat, it was said, to an unwitting butcher in Ffestinoig. But the sweet belly pork and the hideous rubbery mass of the head, preserved in vinegar, they saved for themselves.
Author bio: I have a PhD from Harvard University. Poems, stories and artwork of mine have appeared or are forthcoming in more than fifty journals, including Exquisite Corpse, Wigleaf and Pear Noir. This year two of my stories have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Wednesday, 17 April 2013
Rebellion
by John Xero
Our story is told in many ways, on many worlds. It begins at the very beginning, where few stories truly do. It begins with light, and darkness.
There was a master, and there were slaves.
The slaves rose up, and we lost. Or we won. We were cast down, or we departed. The story is told in many ways.
The way I remember it, we took dominion over fire. A billion fires lit in the old master's corpse.
We invited every rebel to join us. And we made worlds for all, that they might share our fire and our freedom.
Author bio: They say that history is written by the victors. It is no great coincidence that the larger part of the word is 'story'. John Xero is a storyteller, and who is to say what portion of his stories are true...
Our story is told in many ways, on many worlds. It begins at the very beginning, where few stories truly do. It begins with light, and darkness.
There was a master, and there were slaves.
The slaves rose up, and we lost. Or we won. We were cast down, or we departed. The story is told in many ways.
The way I remember it, we took dominion over fire. A billion fires lit in the old master's corpse.
We invited every rebel to join us. And we made worlds for all, that they might share our fire and our freedom.
Author bio: They say that history is written by the victors. It is no great coincidence that the larger part of the word is 'story'. John Xero is a storyteller, and who is to say what portion of his stories are true...
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