Category: Stories

Deserted

The heat was on. Tiny movements made them sweat so they sat still as stone in the shade of their broken-down car, with the incongruous taste of antifreeze on their lips.

Another time they might have appreciated the irony. Later they would have laughed till they cried. But now their eyes only swept the horizon and beseeched that cruel, unwavering line to break and deliver up … oh, anything! … a truck, a camel, a cloud. The lizard raised one foot after another, as if to teach them his dance of life.

Shimmer, was it … over there?

Calm yourself. They didn’t notice.

 

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Image: Wallpapers

100 word story: Reading The Morning-After Review

Feast Your Eyes is a whole new concept in fine dining – no expense spared to create just the right gustatory ambience. The décor is adventurous, all swirling lines and irregular shapes to create a mood of organic hedonism. Plush couches and low tables evoke a mischievous spirit of orgy, encouraging purchase of many courses and much alcohol. Attractive serving-staff recruited from acting schools describe dishes in ways that make them sound irresistible. Well-rehearsed banter is employed to make you feel welcome, relaxed, even liked. The perfect night … “

The restaurateur whooped and read on.

” … if only the food had been Edible!”

 

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Image: keepcalmandposters.com

Time Flies

… and there, dripping bling and chillaxing on his big gold chair, only Henry the fricking Eighth!

OMG, thought Kylie, amazeballs! Dead gobsmacked – banter gone AWOL, brain in La La Land – she froze!

Henry scratched his moobs and yawned. Desperate, she groomed her silky hair. One green sleeve fell back to reveal a shapely wrist anddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd

 

McCauley Gibbon, putative chronicler of the past, shoved his laptop off the desk. His wild eyes drifted to the windowsill and its miscellaneous objects: bird-Quill, pen-knife, ink-pot …

 

‘Twas indeed the King, festooned in his finery, enthroned in languorous splendour. Poor Kate found herself speechless …

 

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Image: Farmers’ Almanac

100 word story: Full To Bursting

His problem, the would-be writer observed, was that anything really worthwhile could only be said if there were no constraints of word-length. One hundred words was scarcely enough to tell a simple story, let alone imply a whole world that could be communicated before it was understood.

Nothing for it, he concluded, but Scamper hell-for-leather toward completion in the hope that something significant would emerge before the dreaded cut-off point. The nearer he came, however, the harder it was to focus on his ending.

With ten words to go, out of the wild blue yonder floated the astonishing idea that …

 

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Image: Halogen Software

100 word story: Too Much To Dream Last Night?

You awake from a lucid dream with a sure-fire scheme: to rescue humankind from its hellish vortex of greed, conflict, prejudice, exploitation and inequality. You envisage taking to the airwaves, unfolding beauteous designs for a creative fusion of knowledge and empathy that can vanquish those hungry old ghosts and their howling black dogs forever.

But O, what if your words became a Magnet for the wrong kind of attention? How easy to imagine a secret cabal of dodgy financiers, armament vendors, people traffickers and rabid elitists eyeballing your head above that parapet!

Pull up the covers. Go back to sleep.

 

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Image: Ergoflex

100 word story: Roots Stew

“You not from round here, then?”

They surrounded him, their faces tight and closed. A truthful answer might be his death warrant.

“As a matter of fact, I was born in that house over there. Local boy, me! Well, I had to come back and see the old place once more before I … ”

Their eyes widened. He pressed on.

“Six weeks left, the doctors say. But standing here in Bafflesby beside you guys is a tonic all by itself. No place like home, eh, rubbing shoulders with your own kind? Gotta tell you, feels so good!”

“We in Dumbleton, fella …”

 

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Image: iStock

100 word story: Tower Block Blues

We look down on a city that doesn’t see us. Somewhere below is work, cash in hand, no questions asked. The notes slip through our fingers, a few groceries, the rest hush-money for a little snatched sleep in a sublet flat.

Folk keep to themselves up here where walls have ears and let in water. Out of the Loop we live for today with no thought of tomorrow, in a world apart, all corners cut and services slashed to the bone.

But now they’ve shrouded us in stylish cladding against the rain and cold. Small mercies. It cost us nothing.

 

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Image: The Sun