Photo Story: This is Where We Are, Now

By Colin Lubner
Years after our planes stopped marking white x’s and asterisks across our blue sky (well, years after our sky stopped being blue at all) and years after our graves stopped staying graves ...

Under The Shells

By Kayleigh Shoen
After the bomb scare, the high school snapped transparent knapsacks to students’ backs like inside-out turtle shells.

Photo Story: The Locker

By Hoffi Munt
We rent locker space the way our parents rent houses. They are our sliver of space in this public world; a place to store, to fill, to hide.


By Alek Barkats
When I walk into the office an exotic bird’s at my desk, typing away. It lifts its talons off the keys, turns its green head. Coffee in the pot!

One Plus One Equals 3: A Couple Co-Writing as ‘Alvarado’

Jacqueline Doyle and Stephen D. Gutierrez are San Francisco Bay Area writers and professors, each with an impressive writing résumé. Additionally, the spouses co-write as the invented Alvarado O’Brien. This time around on 100 Words, learn about three flash aficionados at once!


By Jacqueline Doyle
He made his move in the planetarium. She’d been gazing up at the outlines of Cassiopeia in the night sky, squinting to see a queen on a throne.


By Stephen D. Gutierrez
Our neighbor Lil looked like a TV Indian, all sunbaked and leathery. She wandered the streets brokenly, ill dressed, barely attuned.

The White Album

By Lee Romer Kaplan
9,000 miles from their Galilean childhood, Amir drove North bearing gifts: white hydrangea from his seaside garden, and his version of the girl she’d been.

Your Wait Time Will Be a Figure Eight

By Todd Mercer
Should you die while stuck on Hold, your confused spirit can loop indefinitely within the phone tree. Hold music continues unabated? You’re already in Hell.


By Guinotte Wise
She lives in a stark house on flat prairie. No furniture. Her biplane is parked nearby. I don't think she has a self-preservation gene.

The Main Attraction

By Charles Wilson
The bluebird wore yellow rain-boots and carried a red umbrella. In the old days, you could find him on the roof of the goat-barn dancing a jig and wearing a thimble for a hat.

Every Love Story Is a Ghost Story

By David Joez Villaverde
You could say we tried. Got sober together. He was younger. I let him love me despite better judgement. He moved to Syracuse for me.