Tag Archives: 100 words

Dust Bowl Road Rage

Britches dusted with topsoil, shotgun barrels dusted with unburned gunpowder, and faces dusted with frowns. These ole boys were clearly in no mood to be friendly.

“He’s a worthless GMOkie,” sneered the bearded one with the double-barreled twelve gauge. “Turn that rig around and you git on home, boy. We don’t need any more hobos in this here county.”

The little one just spat. The axe handle he was tapping against his palm spoke volumes.

Wretchedly, I turned and departed.

Attempting the gauntlet, the owner of the next vehicle was torn apart by the twenty-first century California coyote pack.

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100 words. Inspired by this week’s Micro Bookends prompt.


I saw the kid standing in front of the mine elevator.

He was a dirty miner kid, maybe ten years old, and he was just standing there staring solemnly at me. He wore plain clothes, a coal-dust smudged shirt which was clearly too large for him, simple linen pants, and a miner’s hat with an oil-wicked lamp. That kind of mining cap disappeared from this country around 1915.

He just gravely held my gaze and slowly shook his head.

Seven hours later, an earthquake killed thirty West Virginia miners in a coalmine collapse. My crew didn’t go down there today.

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100 words. Inspired by this week’s Warmup Wednesday prompt:

Let Me Look That Up, Sir

The scrawl on the index card on the end of the mobile filing case reads—“Pittsburgh, 15201 to 15232, 1979 to 1983.”

Each of these cases holds the records of tens of thousands of men. All cross-referenced, sorted by date and location. The filing cases recede into infinity, perspective vanishing point at the limits of vision.

Most file clerks have a nervous breakdown the first time they see this filing system. Is this Satan’s own record keeping, are the earliest entries scratched Sumerian logographs on hardened clay tablets?

No, but that’s close. These belong to the V. A. Hospital.

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100 words. Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:

PHOTO PROMPT – © Claire Fuller


Left it right here, I swear

Every time I go back to the apartment, I feel like someone’s watching me.

My husband tells me it’s just paranoia, but when the sunset lengthens the shadows, my skin always begins to crawl. I can feel them, over that way, watching and waiting for something.

All in my head, my husband insists. The only thing “out there” is the Pacific Ocean, uninterrupted for at least five thousand miles. Who do you think is watching, exactly?


The whales had been watching humans develop in downtown San Francisco just before the tsunami arrived.

…It was there just a moment ago…

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100 words. Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:


Die in a Fire

As I sit and watch in the dark, the moths are fluttering. Into and out of the light from my computer screen they spin. They bang against the LCD screen, attracted to the bright light from a browser page that I left open.

I contemplate for a moment how alike we are. A blank page fascinates me as well. I flit and hover ever closer, waiting for the bug-zapper of inspiration to strike or the crash against the glass that warns me to change directions.

Immolation is my distant fluttering hope, to burn in the bright, hot fire of recognition.

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100 words. Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:

PHOTO PROMPT – © Madison Woods

Tear it Down and Start Over

God took up residence in the singularity that created GRB 09042, in the constellation of Leo, a hair over 13 billion years ago.

He’s not the Judeo-Christian God, but with eons of technological advances behind him, Clarke’s Third Law applies. Primitives like us can’t tell the difference.

His data collection and storage systems are godlike (by definition). He’s aware of us even at a range of 13 billion light years. It is well within his capabilities to collapse the big bang.

He detests us. Our weakness and helplessness revolts him.

On the last day God said, “Let there be Darkness.”

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Clarke’s Third Law:Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

100 words. Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:

PHOTO PROMPT -© Madison Woods



Pizza Tonight, Not Chicken

It’s Collin again. Yes, I still schlep pizzas for Cosmic Stan’s Any Time Any Place Pizza and Catering. (Here, have a menu.) We deliver anywhere in space-time, causation is optional.

The problem with tonight’s invoice is the delivery address, which keeps getting lost. Not like “not on file in the computer” lost. The destination is actually unreliable, never in the same place twice.

Mockingbird Lane is the usual place to start looking. I watch sun and moon flickering while my reality-hopper searches up and down the space-timelines. Whoa, got it—the witch’s hut, strolling slowly along on its chicken legs.

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Inspired by the Warmup Wednesday prompt (well, the challenge part anyway, “Include a lost thing or person.”) at Flash! Friday.

A sequel to a previous tale, Cosmic Stan’s.

Confused? Meet Baba Yaga.

Declining Yore Kind Offah

We keep grandpa’s soul in that red jar.

Most of the family is here, actually, going back at least three gen’rations. Emily says when the sun hits ‘em right, you can see smoky shapes in the jars, sometimes little eyes. I ain’t never seen none o’ that stuff, but I believe her cause most all of the girls have the Sight.

Grandma had it too. We don’t have a jar for ‘er. She run orft the day ‘fore grandpa got hit by that truck.

Emily says I should quit yammerin’, and not ride home in yore car tonight.

Sorry, mister.

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100 words. Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:

PHOTO PROMPT © G.L. MacMillan.

Is That a Dragon or a Sheep?

Dr. Thompkins waved goodbye to Billy at the lab door, and typed the four-digit access code into the Time Machine hatch. It was time to inspect the Pueblo cave walls for changes.

The petroglyphs told the story of an unusual event, in the American southwest of the remote past! Thompkins was excited. He may have finally discovered the earliest cavern artist, when the petroglyphs had first appeared, years earlier than previously believed!

Tap. Tap. Chink.

Camera in hand, Thompkins crept toward the tiny sound. The flash froze the alpha petroglyph artist swinging a hammer at his screwdriver: His son, Billy.

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100 words. In response to this week’s Mondays Finish the Story prompt:

Trick or Treat

“Just watch,” Jack said.

A bicycle messenger approached the door at the end of the lane. He pulled a package from his satchel, reached for the doorknocker—and vanished.

“Where did he go?” Ben blinked twice and rubbed his eyes.

“I don’t know, but that’s the third visitor this week.” Jack’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, “They never come back.”


“Give me your lunch money, ladies.” Rufus loomed.

“Sure!” Jack handed their money over in great haste. “Say, Rufus, did you hear the folks at the end of the lane are giving away gobs of leftover Halloween candy?”

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100 words. Inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:

PHOTO PROMPT- © Sandra Crook