#100WW - Feb 12, 2025
photo prompt
100 word story
Write something that moves us in exactly 100 words, inspired by the photo above!
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Rules Are Simple
- Precisely 100 words (title excluded)
- Give it a Title
- Submit Story in Comment Box
- Include your X (Twitter) handle
- One entry (per person) per week
when
New prompts appear each Wednesday on the blog at 12 am EDT.
where
Post your entries in the comment box of the current week's prompt.
why
Foster connections and healthy habits of creativity.
100 Word Wednesday
Write something that moves us, and tell an entire story with only 100 words. Most importantly, share a story that begs to be read and reread!
#100WW Use hashtags and share on social! #comelaydownink
We nominate for awards, including Best of The Net. All submissions are considered for publication online and in our print mag.
Alternatively, we also have a New Submission Form for 100 Word Stories. With this in mind, submit only one story per month via the form. However, we encourage you to participate weekly on our blog in addition to one monthly submission.
On the first Wednesday of each month, we publish 2 selected 100 Word Stories (1 from submissions and 1 entry from the 100 Word Wednesday weekly prompts on the blog.)
Read other entries and comment on others. Lastly, this is a positive forum for feedback!
7 thoughts on “#100WW – Feb 12, 2025”
We Were Almost an Ending
This is not a love poem, but if it were…
— pulses would quicken as his fingers ghost over her skin, tracing paths already traveled, memorizing what will soon be lost.
— there would be flowery metaphors about her beauty, her grace, her otherworldly perfection.
— their love would conquer all obstacles.
— we’d watch the hero reach for her, promise forever, vow devotion as their bodies press together once more in a final act of surrender.
— the camera would pan away tastefully.
— morning would find them renewed, reborn in each other’s arms.
— fate would intervene to keep them together.
— this would end differently.
@proliffany (X)
How I find you in the dark
There is a moment before I approach the bed. It is punctuated with soundless steps of my feet. I wait and watch her. She is asleep; exhausted, spent, and sated. It seems cruel, sometimes, to not let her stay lost in slumber and dreamy reverie. But looking at her like that I cannot hold back. Often, I lean close to her face listening to her even breath although some days it is replete with her snoring. But there are days when I feel she might be dead and, with a graceful leap onto her back, I startle her awake. Meow.
Asleep
Some things just can’t be forced. Love, words, sleep. Mabel was always a terrible sleeper. She learned how to wander at a young age; at first just roaming the house at night, sneaking into the darkened rooms, watching her family sleep. She always went to Rory’s room last, curled up in a corner and watched him dream. She could taste the sweetness of his good dreams, hear the terror of his nightmares. You know what they say about twins. It’s like they share one mind, one mind that’s been cleaved in two. Mabel always insisted Rory wasn’t dead, just asleep.
shadesofgreen@blusky
Allergic To Love
She presented her back, and he responded reflexively. Her beckoning nape. He never could resist. Kneading the carotid, the traps, in warming balm. Invariably his hands would wander. She’d tired of his eggshell-thin fragility. His vulnerability. What real man can be incapacitated by a lonesome legume. It was emblematic. She wasn’t confusing kindness for weakness. She clearly recognized them both. And one portion of each was too much. She relaxed hoping, knowing, soon she would feel a stronger, calloused, unmanicured touch. For now, why not enjoy it? The peanut oil she’d substituted felt just as good on her salty shoulders.
Soundlessly
The pale sun leaked through the unlatched shutters, painting her waxy skin and brushing her tousled hair. Dust danced fitfully in the sun’s beams, waiting for a disruption in the air so it could settle on a surface, any surface, and rest. I hovered in the doorway, watching and waiting for her chest to rise and fall. She’s always slept soundly, soundlessly, and still. I used to wake up beside her, worrying that she’d died in her sleep. I preceded her in that. But I still come to watch her until she wakes. Occasionally, she calls for me, soundless, still.
Supper Club
All the tables were full, but it was calm until the band started to play. Then the drinks couldn’t be delivered fast enough. Facades of gentility morphed into drunks dancing on tables. I’m surprised they held, that no legs broke, that no one can sue.
We ran out of cream because my table of three kept ordering White Russians. Two women and that skinny professor with the corduroys and Einstein hair. I thought for sure they’d stiff me. The women did. But at the end of the night, Einstein winked and slipped me a fifty.
I slept for eleven hours.
@meeshmeyerwrites (IG)
On Naugahyde
Splayed backward against the couchback,
her back arched against fatigue
her prayers thrum mumbled against naugahyde,
thrums of sorrow woven with regret,
breaths woven into polyester fill.
A single heaved sob fills shadows in the den,
among her thoughts a resignation singles out.
She feels a sad resign to how things are,
to how things were before this now.
The naugahyde is wet now, salty lines and streaks
will testify this now of her moment,
this test of her resolve,
this sob of her surrender as
God surrenders,
sits down beside her sadness
on this couch,
and cries with her.
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