Last week’s challenge: “Stock Photo What-The-Palooza.”
(Once more, sorry this challenge is up late — vacation last week with poor Internet access had me unable to post the damn thing properly. But here it is! Don’t throw things!)
This week’s challenge is:
Write a story in 100 words. (Technical term: “drabble.”)
I don’t care what genre.
I want it to be a complete story. Beginning, middle, and end.
Not just a vignette — not just a snapshot of a scene.
And I want you to write with the explicit goal of making us feel something.
Joy, pain, fear, sorrow. Something. Some emotion.
In 100 words only.
You can write it at your blog, link back here — or, because the stories are short enough, feel free to write them write into the comment section below. (But do check your length. Again, stories of no more than 100 words.)
Crack the whip, word-herders.
189 responses to “Flash Fiction Challenge: 100-Word Stories”
Trying another one. Short forms are not my favorite, hence the need to force myself to do more of them. Let me know what you think.
Mine will be online in about half an hour – it’s called Timing!
[…] Today’s challenge was a complete story in 100 words. It had to have a start, middle and end. It had to make you feel some emotion. I don’t know whether this does, but it sprang straight into my head. Maybe our lunch conversation, discussing Rory McIlroy’s split from Caroline Wozniaki, had lingered. […]
[…] TerribleMinds is a blog run by Chuck Wendig – He is smart, talented, and very potty mouthed. But his advice for anyone who writes is superb. If you haven’t checked him out and you don’t mind a few a lot of curse words, then you should. Check him out that is. […]
Okay, I am getting this in last minute! Hope you guys enjoy!
[…] response to Chuck Wendig’s flash fiction challenge for this week: 100 word story. Share this:TwitterFacebookEmailGoogleLike this:Like […]
On my blog now
An amazing look at the way one’s beliefs and perspective can chance the innocent to the blasphemous. Loved this!
[…] week’s Flash Fiction Challenge is short and (hopefully) sweet — write a story evoking some sort of emotion, with a […]
Also found at http://wp.me/p3tdUw-OT along with, you know, other stuff.
LIVING IS NOT SIMPLY NOT DYING
He decided to run again after his kids visited and he couldn’t walk around the block. It was tough to realize how much he had fallen apart, but he decided he didn’t want to die like that.
Training was one of the toughest things he had ever done. Many mornings he was close to giving up. He didn’t. As time went on it got easier to get started and harder to keep up.
Years later, when he crossed the finish line in Boston, his kids ran at his side. Not only had he not died, but he had re-discovered life.
“Come on, just do it, they’ll think we’re pregnant!”
“Men don’t get pregnant”, I reminded her.
“Fine”. I put the bowling ball under my coat, and held it against my belly with one hand. We walked past the shoe counter and out onto Amsterdam Avenue. I’m almost certain the clerk noticed us.
“Wait for a red light at 110th”, she said. We waited.
I pulled the bowling ball out. “Don’t be impatient”, she hissed. “We need a string of greens, until the cabs are at about 112th, moving fast”.
She pulled her ball out. “Ah. Here we go. Ready?”
“Icepick, you do realize that, technically, this is profiteering?”
“They might hang us.”
“Well shit, they might shoot us too. Your point?”
We sped along the dried-out riverbed toward Pont-Jacques. We stopped once, to give ammo to some teenage girls. They were pretty. They’d need it. Their fires would keep them warm, but they’d also mark their location.
“Icepick”, I finally said. “We can mark-up the gas, but with the profit, we’ve gotta give the water away for free.”
He glowered at me. “I wanted a whore. Thin. Not too old.”
“They won’t charge much now.”
“Alright”, he said.
Sirens blared in Naomi’s ear. Váskga quieted them. Turbines yawned with the sputter of their last roar.
They floated, derelict in infinite silence, at the helm of Váskga’s tiny recon vessel.
Across Venus’ horizon were fireworks. Fleets of ships exploded in a hail of plasma fire. Behind them, the sun.
Humans could never touch a Phlemgite. ‘Why does it matter now?’ Naomi thought. Her suit fell to the floor.
She held her breath, a slimy tentacle in each hand. Váskga edged closer. Feminine lips and ‘squider’ beak met.
Pale skin became exquisite surrealist art.
Their world became light.
Can also be viewed here: http://ankhprophecy.wordpress.com/2014/05/30/alien-love/
Tis’ 100 words ON THE DOT. 🙂
My father died twice today. I had just finished breakfast when his mother—my grandmother—called to deliver the news. “Calvin passed away this morning.” My mother and I cried; my friends came by with condolences. Hours later my grandmother called back; they turned off the machines but he was still breathing. Hope—I was happy. I thought it was a miracle. Before bed that night, my grandmother called again: “He is gone. I’m so sorry, dear.” That night I dreamt of aliens buried alive, choking on dirt, stretching their bony hands up through the earth, begging me to save them.
[…] Last week’s challenge: 100-Word Stories. […]
My lifetime of blisters, sprains, and callouses lead me to this dance, the solo to start my dreams coming true. The curtain rose to a full audience, my heart beating faster than their applause despite my stillness. The music started and the theater shook, not with nerves, but a tremor. The quake intensified and the set collapsed beneath the swaying lights. Screams overtook what should have been my cheers as the stage crumbled beneath my feet. The doctors said I’m lucky to be alive, but death would be kinder than useless legs and destroyed dreams. I had no life left.
I am not in any sense of the word a nurturer I tend to act before I think, and seldom think before I speak. After all, what the hell can they do to me, send me to another hell hole? Been there, done that. Don’t really care.
“She’s the best.” I heard through the wall.
“I don’t care, I won’t have a female on this trip.”
There are many things and even more people I don’t care for; but bigotry pisses me off more than any other single item on my long shit list. I knocked on the door.
[…] This challenge says to communicate an emotion in just a hundred words. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn’t. […]
Er, oops. Forgot to upload. But technically (technically!) this post didn’t mention a time limit, so I’ll do it anyway. I would like to know if the emotion comes through.
Ray stared, then caught himself.
An exertion of will turned his eyes away from the window. She waited outside.
Gulping, Ray said, “I’m in.”
The others backed down. Wimps.
Jake meant it when he offered her. After Steve’s death, Jake was desperate.
The room grew warmer. Ray sipped his drink, ice chattering.
“Are you sure?” Jake bit his lip. A tell.
Ray glanced down at his cards. Low flush.
He put his quivering hand beneath the table and used the other to push two hundred large to the center. Jake tossed his keys atop the money.
Jake showed two pair.
I actually wrote 4 stories for this, but chose only one for entry. If you’re interested in the other three (which are sort of serialized together) and a debrief on the whole process, you can read all that here:
I call this “Chimera.”
“Stop talking to yourself!” It is not the second, nor the tenth time.
Gravel crunches. We pull to a stop.
Dad climbs out, orders my only friend from the car.
I clutch at him. “No! Please, Don’t leave Rickie!”
But Dad’s face brooks no nonsense.
I choke on my tears as my father climbs into the car and engages the turn signal, climb backward in the seat, press my nose to glass. Breath fogs the window.
Rickie doesn’t cry–only reaches out for me, pleading without words.
Dad pulls away. In the rearview mirror, all he sees is open road.
It’s not as though a hundred words haven’t done the trick before…..
Waiting for a girl who’s got curlers in her hair
Waiting for a girl she’s no money anywhere
We get buses everywhere
Waiting for a factory girl
Waiting for a girl, her knees are much too fat
Waiting for a girl who wears scarves instead of hats
Her zipper’s broken down the back
Waiting for a girl, she gets me into fights
Waiting for a girl we get drunk on Friday nights
She’s a sight for sore eyes
Waiting for a girl, she’s got stains all down her dress
Waiting for a girl, my feet are getting wet
She ain’t come out yet
Better late than never 🙂 Here’s “The Acceptance Letter”
The blue eyes of the young man shone with great pleasure as he read the letter. He could barely believe that his dream was coming true,that his perseverance had paid off.
It was his second time to apply to the school. Last year,the school had rejected him and he had been devastated. But he was a resilient individual with a singleness of purpose that bordered on the manic. So he applied again.
This time, his application was accepted.
He finished reading the letter then immediately began reading it again.
“From the Vienna Art Academy. 1908. Dear Adolf Hitler…”
Yes! At last I was a college freshman and totally on my own. Nobody was going to remind me when
to get up or go to bed, to get ready each morning, go to meals, or to attend my classes
Organization and self-discipline were yet to be learned. Although I made myself a class schedule for
my desk, I neglected to make one to carry with me.
Entering the room and taking a seat in my very first class, I exited soon after class began. I was in
the wrong class!
Never again would I repeat this particular mistake.