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101 Word Short Stories
By V Vaidehi
She was their self-appointed queen. Svelte, fair with lustrous hair. Impossibly glamorous, but appeared heartless. She was distant and treated them with contempt—made no attempts to blend in. She was an outsider and a recent arrival. Overrated, felt the outcasts. But how long could oppression last? The resistance began silently, and whispers soon gave way…
By Senay Tash
I seek out the colours of the rainbow when nervous. Red is first, and the easiest; it’s an aspect of my life. But now, driving down the empty countryside, there wasn’t a drop of the colour. I picked at my skin until crimson emerged from my flesh. Red. A lonely cone by the road. Orange.…
Gavelton, an old robot, was reconstructing a forgotten train in a museum. A journalist bot arrived with headlines of 15th September 2225: “Magazine lacks fibre for guts! The founder of Robotheism, first digital saint of Multan, India, redefined imperialism with AI brainwashing and turned waste into electricity through German garbage-eating fungi. Flying fish and city…
By Todd Epp
Len Gunderson wore oxblood loafers to the Hutchinson County Courthouse in April. First Dakota wanted forty-three cattle back, or the money Cal Wipf got selling them to buy hay. The parking lot had gone soft. Gunderson scraped one shoe, then the other, but still tracked mud across the tile. “If it pleases the court—” “It…
A clothed man walked into the desert in search of the meaning of life. In a hollow, he met a semi-naked old man squatting in the shade of an oasis. The old man welcomed him to his paradise and bade him sit beside him. They sat together, with only their humanity in common, communicating in…
Rain tapped the windows while Adam packed, trembling. I watched from the kitchen, clutching a cold mug and the last of my patience. For a year he had shared my bed, my life, and never once said he loved me. He apologized again, blaming a frosty family that never spoke affection. “You were always silent…
By Kristina Peterson
The padlock is warm. I press my ear to the wood and hear a low, rhythmic breathing. I tell myself: generator. Old pipes. The settling of things. I have the homeowner’s number, but I don’t call. Instead, I stand in the wet grass, counting the sounds. Seven. Eight. A pause. Then nine. On the kitchen…