100 Word Stories

Short short stories for my entertainment and (hopefully) yours.

I was introduced to micro fiction in the form of 100 word stories based on a photo prompt through Friday Fictioneers. Past entries in order from oldest to newest are below.

Mirror on the Wall

Little Lottie

Rotten Apple

A Dress for Any Occasion



Close Call


Holy Goat

An Odd Request

In The Eye of the Beholder

The Dance

Les Feuilles de Papier

In Nomini Patris

All That Glitters

Darling, It’s Better

One Woman’s Trash…

“The Cure For Anything”

Thicker Than Water

Don’t Be Koi

Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door

Role of a Lifetime

All The King’s Men

When, Oh, When



From a Land, From a Faraway Place

Eyes of Blue, Lips of Red

Time and Tide


Rolling Fields of Green

Can’t See the Forest for the Trees

In Sheep’s Clothing



That World

Internship at Wolfram & Hart

It’s Good to be King

While playing around with the 100 word limit, I came up with some other pieces outside of Fictioneers.


The ship nudges the dock, metal meeting the wood with a screech that rends the stillness. Waves kiss the bow, curl their tongues around the hawsers that trail in the water, lick the rust and rust colored stains. Her smokestacks are silent, her engines make no whisper. The breeze chills the sweat gathered in the rolls of the guard’s neck, under his arms. The smears catch his eye in the shaking circle of his flashlight. Five pointed, like red stars, or the turkey-hand drawings his children brought home last week. He never sees the figure that slips over the railing.

The Waking

She opens her eyes to blackness, sees for the first time the purples and reds that form the almost-dark. She hears the whirr of insect wings, the thumping of a small rodent’s heart as it skitters away. Currents of air caress her bare skin, carrying the smell of sweat, spices, and decay. She can see through the violet and burgundy now, pick out the dank dripping walls and the crescent of moonlight. She breathes in the smell of warmth; of rust and salt, pumping through veins not her own. She opens herself to the thirst that, like her, is immortal.


I could smell it, the spicy aroma that brought to mind hazy visions of Christmases and Thanksgivings past. Of pie crusts bursting with apples in all their crisp, autumnal sweetness. The flaking pastry clung to our lips and the syrup coated rosy, apple-round cheeks, crimsoned by cold. The face before me now was utterly devoid of color, these cheeks were dull, uncooked dough. Still a sweet scent lingered in the air as I reached out to stroke the softness of those pale crescents, descending to trace the tendons standing out in the trembling throat. To me, blood smells like cinnamon.

8 thoughts on “100 Word Stories

  1. Stephanie Meyer doesn’t know a damn thing about the sensuality of vampires, but you apparently do, darling. I enjoyed these as well!

    • Thank you, my dear! It’s funny how they all ended up being about vampires, actually…too much Vampire Diaries obviously!

      I enjoyed your post about Stephanie Meyer—hilarious!

  2. I have a link to a new flash fiction project where entries are published on a quarterly basis. If you are interested check out my post titled Flash in the Pan – Down.

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