#100WW - Oct 2, 2024
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!
3 thoughts on “#100WW – Oct 2, 2024”
Daddy
When my therapist said you were a terrible father, you flared up, almost cascaded out of my mouth… Most of the time now, I don’t scurry around in dim corners. I don’t juggle sarcastic comebacks, throw I’ll-get-you-first daggers, leave. I don’t spin recluse spider webs around myself. Still, sometimes the fault lines crack open, and there you are, looking at me like you opened up a Tupperware from the back of the fridge and saw something disgusting. But now, Daddy, look into the Tupperware of you: Festering, slimy. Rancid. Guess what? The defective one, the unlovable, it was never me.
Keeping Him Alive
I remember him this way: walking with me toward the shore. He was always a step behind me and to my left with his right hand pressed against the small of my back; reciting Keats or Rilke as if their words directed the waves.
When he died, I started taking the walk alone. With my hand pressed against the small of my back, I would stand at the ocean’s edge, recounting the poems he had loved while the frigid waves swelled and crashed at my feet.
We kept him alive without effort or guise: the poets, the ocean, and me.
Bad Timing
She pushed away from the mattress and climbed into her underwear.
“I’m going.” The pronouncement was superfluous. Her intent was obvious.
He rested his head on an elbow. “Will you be back?”
She flashed him a coy smile. “You’ll see.”
She came and went as she pleased. He never knew when she’d show up.
After the door closed, his phone rang. He let it go to voicemail. Probably his wife. She had an intuition about his trysts.
Or it might be another solar panel salesperson. You couldn’t be too careful nowadays.
He never found out that he’d won the lottery.
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