Mica

By Rishee Batra
Everything changed when we started to role play. I dressed up as sunrise, you the wanderer staring east over the ocean.

Lightning

By Bronwen Griffiths
The lime green coat with piping. She loves the way the coat shines, the contrast of greens, the acid of the lime against the pine-coloured braids.

Announcing the 100 Word Story Anthology!

Each 100 word story is its own kind of special. Now you can read 117 of our favorites published over the past 6 years in "Nothing Short Of: Selected Tales from 100 Word Story."

Ranch House

By James Z. Schwartz
A garden-variety ranch house on a street full of garden-variety ranch houses. His tidy room’s a refuge from dirty dishes, unmade beds, soiled laundry.

Listening

By Charlie Stephens
Through the peeling wall I can hear you snap your bones one by one. Tiny pings of destruction. In the morning you start with your feet: tiny bones are easier.

Photo Story: The Cold Bullet

By David Drury
The story goes that when bank robber Wells Duluth was shot dead, the bullet came out the other side encased in ice.

Photo Story: The Liver

By Charlie Stephens
We called that bay “The Liver” then, for its brown thickness, for its shame. We had moved back in like roaches, once the wealthy foreigners abandoned us for someplace cleaner to enjoy themselves.

Roadkill

By Gary Duncan
She hasn’t been right since she hit the pheasant. It was a sign, she says. Of what, she doesn’t know, but it was definitely a sign.

Bronx

By Natasha Cooke
Our skin seeped into New York’s sod, roots drinking our veins. We tied ourselves over, and he licked my palms. His breath of onsen youth.

First Five Heartbreaks

By Serene Vannoy
My first heartbreak I heard through a wall in a Southern California suburb, after my father the sailor retired, after we thought we'd settled down,

Photo Story: Night Swimming

By Melinda McCamant
Wet footprints, dancing shadows along the edge of the pool. The turbid water glows like fireflies and in its dark center the moon, almost full, overhead.

Photo Story: A Lonely Washing

By Tony Press
“It’s a lonely washing that has no man’s shirt in it, Eileen, don’t you forget it.” That’s what my mother, quoting her mother, told me, and told me, and told me.