The Drabble has published my 100-word flash fiction piece "In That Unending Sea".
Tag: 100WC
The Fence
Years later, looking back, only the oldest would remember a time before the fence.
100WC – At The Place Where The Hard Sand Softened
Madame Sable was almost 150 years old when she died, though she looked no older than sixteen.
100WC – The Ghostichord
Introducing the new GHOSTICHORD™ from Spookmann - now YOU TOO can play like Rachmaninoff!
100WC – The Broadwell Steps
They started renovating the Broadwell Steps on the day we met. The old steps had been as smooth as glass, and when it rained they were like ice. Eventually an old woman slipped and broke her hip. Turned out she was the mayor's aunt. I swear, less than a week later they were out there pouring concrete.
100WC – Horse Air
It was only once we were airborne that we learned that our pilot was a horse.
100WC – Zoom Out
A perfect globe, precious and fragile. The only one of its kind. Zoom out: crooked trees with leaves like wax, grasses little more than wires clinging to the ground. Zoom out: a rash of tin roofs overtaken by sand, only dust moving now in empty veins. Zoom out: an iron-hard land, baked and cracked by… Continue reading 100WC – Zoom Out
Derelict – SmallTales
His body is cracked and bowed, his clothes stiff with dirt. His day is a doorway and an upturned cap, cans of cider, corrugated cardboard. His nights are darkness blotting like ink and the bitter howls of the ghosts of his past.
Body – SmallTales
Joseph Monroe started building the sarcophagus on the day his father fell under a bus. “Fall under a bus?” he said, “No sir. A nice peaceful death, that’s what I want.” It took him six weeks, and when he’d finished he lay inside and announced that he’d remain there until his dying day. He fixed… Continue reading Body – SmallTales
Shade – SmallTales
The shadow that the sun prints on the parched sand is as sharp as pressed metal, and its edge creeps towards him like a curse. He huddles into the shrinking panel of shade. An hour until the second sun rises. Maybe less. He rubs the visor of the envirosuit and wishes again that it wasn’t… Continue reading Shade – SmallTales
Simon John Cox 