Full-Length Mirror

By Paul Strohm
Claire has been wanting a full-length mirror in our New York apartment. How come, I want to know. You can look at your top half in the bathroom and you see your feet any time in the shoestore.

Photo Story: Winter Birds

By Kris Faatz
Every winter, thinner ice on the lake, rotting and fragile. Soon the birds will go farther north, chasing the last crystal cold.

Waiting

By Kathy Steblen
Fourteen days holed up here with peels of wallpaper, like streamers, looping in mock festivity above my head.

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.

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,

Guilt

By Ruben Adkins
when the fish swallows the hook, the night falls, dragging purple down into the belly of the sea.

PTSD

By Ron Riekki
My girlfriend wipes her makeup off. We just fought. She wipes her face off, skin flapping.

Apocalyptic River

By Fred Muratori
We picnicked by the sullen river, its water brown, opaque and dense enough for starving frogs to flop across.

The White Devil

By Shara Concepción
We watch each other in the blue glow of predawn, limbs entwined. We speak with our eyes: "I grow hair on my back now," I say...

The night before the Fourth of July

By Susan Roney-O’Brien
when I am tossing the neon pink tennis ball the dog found under the porch, the man in the next yard hammers in staccato flurries...

Night Music

By Maureen Traverse
All summer we stayed with Mazie’s mother, who smelled of lavender and gin. We strolled the boardwalk every day, pretend ladies in tattered lace...

Tattered Little Father

By Taylor Oren
I keep a photo of a stranger. I rescued him out of an estate sale cigar box. He looked the most like me.

An Honest Mistake

By Michael Somes
I walked into the wrong apartment coming back from work, and someone else’s wife embraced me.