100-Word Stories

History Repeats

Droning on the airwaves, “History repeats itself.” I turn the knob and it clicks off. My hands press down on the armrests to heave myself up. No timer. No alarm. The shade of the setting sun my guide. Rows of plastic bottles line the counter—castanets from a lifetime of mishandling. One-by-one, downed with a sip of vodka to help mend what’s broken. Dilute a past of lies. I am a soldier living in enemy territory. By the bedside, I pick up the butt, pack the chamber, a flash of fire ignites. Smoke curls, hovers, and then drifts towards hell.

The Dress

She wears a form-fitting black polka dot dress with a black patent leather belt cinched at her slim waist. The neckline dips low to tantalize admirers. Black platform heels adorn her feet. Who would wear such an outfit? There he is next to her, admiring her dark curls, red crinkled lips that only exacerbate her sallow skin. His nicotine stained teeth and calloused fingers folded in front of him. Does he have no shame? This is wrong. I can’t bear to approach. She would have never chosen such an outfit for this occasion. Or the coffin in which she lays.

Photo by Skitterphoto


Some cents—

Collecting at the bottom of a torn paper cup.
Dirty faces, grimy clothes, leave marks on hands
that pull back and then go.

Some change.
Change indeed.

The rich need to sweep up the country—protect our souls.
Recycle what’s worth saving, and toss the rest away.
Street corners and alleys cleared of this menacing mess.

Change the image of a prosperous country.
Don’t let rubble represent the stars on our flag.

Keeping the change
will alleviate the mistakes of our land.

Change the need.
Change indeed.

Put the change in the cup, because nothing is free.

Have you ever tried a 100-word story or poem?

An Idea and Flight,
Denise ?