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BWC Village

If he played his cards right, he’d be granted a fortune. That’s what hopeless bachelor Ben thought, after his grandmother fell ill. That last Sunday at the hospital, she raised herself slightly from the pillow and told Ben “Grateful to Nurse Mary. Money goes to her.” She winked and died. Ben was appalled. He visited his grandmother faithfully every day for years, twice a day at the hospital! But, being a pragmatic man, he invited Nurse Mary for dinner. They got married and were very happy. It was only many years later that Ben understood the meaning of that wink! 

100 Word Stories

Toxic

Betelgeuse 5

The ability to trace toxic particles was carefully developed. A whole generation of genetically modified humans with a heightened sense of smell prevented the end of civilization for a century. As their lives expired, one by one, society trusted toxic levels to be so low that there were no replacements. At the turn of the century, when the flow of time shifted unexplainably, humans became lost in a world of mutating units, as they were called, the ones who went outside. They had a vague recollection that there was a solution for the problem but they just couldn’t remember it. 

100 Word Stories (prompt: smell)

Understand

Kronbelt

"Preferably,” mumbled the foreigner, leaning against the SUV covered in dust.

Shariq didn’t speak English, but his job was not to understand; his job was to take the man to different locations, like this abandoned old house in a deserted area.

The foreigner checked his watch and shook his head.

Another SUV appeared from behind the house. A man stepped down. They talked for a few seconds.

The foreigner came back, muttering, “The devil’s waiting.”

As they drove away, there was a huge explosion and pieces of the other SUV flew in all directions. Shariq thought “The devil’s at work.”

100 Word Stories (prompt old)

Sunset

Storm

A few shy white clouds roam the sky with the sun hiding beneath, the last warm caresses of a day gone by. And we linger on, looking into the horizon, expecting the hours not to end, while the afternoon slips through our fingers faster and faster. We close our hands, but the evening marches on, paving the way to the night. Tomorrow a new sunset will emerge, its soft warm colors framing our day. However that is nothing but poor consolation. We linger on, looking into the horizon, expecting the darkness to go away.

Writer's Dash

Circumspect

Cours

The writer took a look at the final version of his book. He inspected the front cover, the back. He flipped through the pages, noticing the heading of each chapter. The circumspect look on his face made the owner of the printing company sink in his leathery chair.

“Anything wrong?”

The man took a look out the window and pulled the collar of his coat up, tugging it against his neck. He stood like this for a few minutes. The discomfort in the room was palpable.

“Have you ever written a book, Mr. Rourke?”

“No, sir. I only print them,” replied Mr. Rourke, a slight trace of enthusiasm in his voice, in a feeble attempt to change the somber mood. “But is there anything wrong?”

“It’s like a child. At some point, you must let it go.”

Mr. Rourke nodded gravely.

“So true.” It was getting late and Mr. Rourke still had two appointments till he could close his day and go back to Mrs. Rourke’s scrumptious dinner, the highlight of his day. He really didn’t have time for philosophical contemplations of a writer at the end of his career. He stood up. “So… Should we wrap it up and finalize the payment of the last installment?”

The writer took a step towards the window, opened it and jumped out.

Mr. Rourke was so shocked that he stood motionless looking at the open window, the curtains floating wildly. All he could think of was that he would never see that last installment and that this mess would be a never ending nightmare of police inquiries. Outside, people screamed and he could already hear the sirens approaching.

He grabbed a copy of the book and opened it. Inside, the inscription said “The End”.

Mr. Rourke found that a tad disturbing, considering the circumstances. He continued to the index and that’s when he realized that each chapter was a farewell letter to people the writer knew. One was even addressed to him!

“If you are reading this with me standing by your side that means you saved my life. You read this before our meeting and you talked to me about my life. Thank you.”

Mr. Rourke sank heavily in his leathery chair and started to weep.

Writer's Dash

Aha

Les Reves

Welcome!

This is a table set for tea.

Chocolate biscuits and bunny chairs,

A child and a bee.

A bit of jam, a bit of ham,

Blue, yellow, and red,

Hanging from a tree.

Grab a seat,

Rest your feet.

And feel, just feel, so free,

Because this is a table set for tea! 
Writer's Dash

Blank Humans

Retropolis

“This is a nightmare,” the man sighed. “We all died. Some of us came back. So what?”

The woman sat in silence.

“Who’s your government source?” she asked, scratching the paint off the table.

“Frank.”

“A fool.”

“I’m afraid we are past that.”

“Just type it, then. Some of us will die again.
No one will come back. There aren’t many of us left.”

“They’re…”

“Producing them, I know.”

He started typing – Project for Sector X75: Production of Artificial Humans – Top Secret.

“Were we ever really humans once?”

“Life’s not fair,” she said, the word “Alive” on the rusted table. 
100 Word Stories

Brobdingnagian

Montlepierre

The building was quite overwhelming, they thought, unsure of the direction to take. Most of its surroundings were covered in green grass, the beginnings of a garden dawning timidly. The new building was the talk of the town and most people felt irresistibly and inexplicably drawn to the place.

A lean, stern-looking middle-aged man peered through the window from the top floor. “The populace, here they are, like busy bees,” he said to himself.

The little bees didn’t know it yet, but as in every town before this, he would draw the life out of them and move on. Well, he would be kicked out of town, to be more precise, with threats of being impaled and burnt in the fire.

He didn’t mind. He always left a thank you behind, a palace of brobdingnagian dimensions.

Writer's Dash

Homily

Rust by Cica Ghost - LEA 13 (2013)

Chained, preach.

A word

Of a tree chained,

Of a leaf.

Train of thoughts

For deaf ears,

Unwanted certainties.

The clouds, black and red,

Travel fast above.

The sky, not blue,

Chained away from Life.

Writer's Dash