My short story “Ship” has been published by 101Fiction. It’s the lead story in the September issue. The goal for the issue was to write a 100-word science fiction or fantasy story with a one-word title, using the themes of “autumn” and/or “phoenix.”
She never believed him. He owned a farm house, but someone else owned the barn and fields. His hands were huge and strong, but sensitive. A potter’s hands.
“You’re an artist,” she said. “Admit it.”
They were in bed, katydids singing through the window screens.
“Don’t call me that, girl.”
“I could call you worse.”
“Yes. An old artist.”
“No! I wouldn’t!”
His hands were on her, transforming her indignation, and they kissed.
Out beyond the barn and the fields that were not theirs, heat lightening flickered.
I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #345 at Velvet Verbosity.
Nan wanted a bough or two cut off the big silver maple in our backyard. So I hired a crew. Then she was hot to put in her garden and didn’t like having to wait.
“It’s too early to plant, anyway,” I said. [Read more…] about How Nan Got Her Maple Trimmed
A young lieutenant sat with his back against a stone wall and his shirt front soaked through with blood. He was bare-headed, and looked about fifteen. He stared up at Gunther. “Lights,” he whispered.
Something like that. [Read more…] about Lights
I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #342 at Velvet Verbosity.
Tony shuddered when the tinkling started. He sat in a sparsely populated corner of the hall, far from the head table, closer to the keg, drinking beer out of a plastic cup. As the tinkling grew in volume, Tony kept his eyes on the wet rings his cup had made in the paper tablecloth. A cheer arose. He knew she was kissing him, and the thought ate him alive. It’s your own damn fault, he told himself. You had your chance to speak. What is there to do now?
After a minute, he got up and headed for the door.
I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #341 at Velvet Verbosity.
A couple days from Cheyenne, out of food and luck, we follow the shallow river. In late afternoon, a lone, dappled horse grazes on the far bank.
“It’s a wild horse,” George says. “I’d eat horse.”
I have the rifle. It’s an easy shot.
“Go ahead,” George whispers. “Before he spooks.”
I take aim. The horse lifts its head and looks across the river at us. George and I stand still in the shadows, hardly breathing. I start to squeeze the trigger. It isn’t right. I know it isn’t right. We’re almost to Cheyenne, and a long way from starving.