Friday Fiction: 100 Word Challenge

Friday Fiction: 100 Word Challenge

Happy Friday and welcome to the first 100 Word Challenge here at Victory Girls. For almost a year I posted a friendly exercise in story crafting at Protein Wisdom. I would find and post a picture as inspiration and then a story — 100 words in length, no more no less. The challenge for you is to write your own 100 word story inspired by the image in the comments. I am happy to report that we got some great stories in response, both in the comments and from other blogs linking back.

Today I will share three of my past images and stories to illustrate that beyond using just 100 words to tell a story, there are no rules. Let your muse have free rein.

Ready? Let’s go …

The inspiration:

A story …

Pops had played the Orpheum Circuit. Dad, every casino in the world. He used to say he raised no fools, but I’m afraid I might be proving him wrong.

One job, Jones said, one spectacular con. If not for your country, then for a clean rap sheet and a new identity, they said.

With the city spread at my feet, and a mess of brains and blood spread on the wallpaper behind me, I sure hope that is Jones approaching. He thinks he knows me. He thinks he’s prepared for anything from me.

I decide when the con is over.

*********************************************

The inspiration:

A story …

Great-uncle Virgil never married after Ruby left. The other town girls tried to woo him, showing up at the house he had built for his erstwhile bride with covered dishes and no underwear. He turned them away, keeping a picture of Ruby in the foyer.

Packing up the house after the funeral, I lifted Ruby from the wall, meaning to put her in the trunk I discovered in the foyer closet. The inset held a locket of her hair, a yellowed blouse – I smiled at Virgil’s sentimentality.

Then I saw the pile of bones at the bottom of the trunk.

***********************************************

The inspiration:

A story …

There were broken lamps, muddy footprints, the endless parade of questions and kittens. She was a blur throughout the days, a whirling dervish of scabbed elbows and knobby knees. There were too many times I was exhausted and exasperated, thinking “Grow up! Grow up! Grow up!”

And suddenly, too quickly, when I wasn’t looking – she did.

The house fell quiet. I yearned to walk down the hall to discover muddy footprints. Too long too quiet.

Until I was given another chance. The mini-she, whirling through my home and heart.

This time I slow down, dancing through the mud with her.

**************************************************

Now, it’s your turn.

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6 Comments
  • Dan Dalton says:

    She had returned to this hellhole of a city with a single thought. She was going to find that bastard and put two in his head.

    She never wanted to come back, but he wouldn’t let go. He’d tried to ruin her new life. He failed. Now, it would end permanently.

    She stood high above the city, looking down at the bright lights and unfulfilled expectations, the big magnum heavy in her hand.

    “I’m coming, you asshole. You should have let me go. Tonight, it all ends. Permanently. In just 48 hours, you will be fucked, faded and forgotten.“

  • guinspen says:

    Woot!

    Good to see you, DC.

    Come Dancing

  • Sam Fletcher says:

    I knew him well, or not – not really. I thought I did. We would walk to the hardware store. I needed matches for my pipe, and he needed… well, he needed to walk somewhere.

    He walked with a limp. I asked him once, but he shook his head then talked about the weather.

    He kept a diary locked in his desk. We found it after, you know… after. He hadn’t been a big man, but nonetheless he stood up. They came for his brother and he wouldn’t back down. I guess that was the day he got his brother’s limp.

    • Sam Fletcher says:

      Oops, sorry.

      I thought the fireplace was a desk. I turned up the brightness on my monitor and now I see. Oh well, pretend that it’s a desk.

  • Brian brandt says:

    Ernest Hemingway was challenged to write a story in six words:

    For sale.
    Baby shoes.
    Never used.

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