I pick up the grey stone.
The hail pelts us still.
They began pea sized, but they grow.
“Come with me.”
I grab the young woman’s hand.
To my house in the hill,
Slipping and sliding on the ice,
Till I push my door open,
And my house is filled,
And the cat.
The ice hits the door,
But we’re safe,
Behind dirt walls.
Her name is Clover.
“They bloomed the day of her birth.”
But they call her Chloe.
Mama is Rose.
They were not in bloom.
Her mother’s pain,
Like the stab of thorns.
This is a continuing story in 100 word increments. Read from the beginning by choosing StormWeaver category in the side bar of page.
Her blonde hair is shocked with electric blue streaks.
Her grey eyes are on her mother,
With pity and pain.
She wears baggy cotton overalls with a lacy tank top underneath.
“Excuse my mother,” she says. She comes over and takes the older woman’s hand.
“No trouble,” I say.
“It’s Adam. He has magic stones.”
“Of course he does.”
I squeeze the pouch in my hand and out pops the grey stone.
It falls to the ground.
Rain and hail blasts upon us.
“What is happening?”
The women cling to each other.
“We’re going to die!”
It may be true.
This is a continuing story in 100 word increments. Read the StormWeaver series from the start – Choose StormWeaver category from the home page.
I snatch the brown pebble from the ground,
my heart racing.
I don’t know why.
Coincidences happen all the time. Right?
“It’s that little stone you have isn’t it?”
The woman’s face is lit by the sun breaking through clouds.
“Put it back down again.”
“No,” I say. I slip it into the pouch with the rest.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I head away from her.
“I didn’t lose him,” she calls sharply. “He was taken.”
She grabs my arm. “It’s different when they are stolen.”
I’m about to speak, when a young woman calls out,
“Mama leave him alone.”
Binge read episodes 1 – 7 The continuing fantasy story told in 100 word increments. Choose “StormWeaver” in categories.
The woman wails.
Picking up the brown pebble my fingers brush up against,
a larger stone, mostly covered by earth.
But I see the outline of an unnatural square stone.
The woman stops crying,
She begins clawing at the tufts of grass encroaching on it until she lifts it upright.
Her face streaked with dirt and tears she asks, “Kind sir, what is your name?”
The pebble in my hand,
feels heavier by the minute.
Like I must put it down,
Close to the earth.
So I drop it,
In front of the square stone,
that says, “Adam”,
This is installment 7 in the Series “Storm Weaver”. Each installment is 100 words. Read the whole series by choosing “Storm Weaver” in categories.
100 Word Flash Fiction Series
Where has that last pebble gone?
I make the mistake of using the broom.
Did I hear a sound, the rattle of a pebble skipping across the floor,
Out the door?
Maggie springs after it, bats it further down the worn front path,
Now I’m chasing the cat,
Chasing the stone,
Till I come upon a weeping woman in the grass.
“I’m sorry to disturb you.”
These lowland meadows don’t usually include
Why is she here?
“The grave. It’s gone. There was a stone here for my baby.”
And then I see it, my brown pebble.
Read the StormWeaver series by searching under #StormWeaver category.
A Story Form
There are lots of things counted by one hundred. There are hundred-year storms, hundred-year floods, one hundred pennies in a dollar, one hundred “bottles of beer on the wall” according to the song and then there’s the one-hundred-word story. Not a child’s book, an actual story. I want to thank a recent visitor to my blog for introducing me to this amazing form of storytelling (check out her website at ladyjabberwocky.com).
My first thought was, “How can a story be told in just a hundred words?” How indeed. The same way any story is told, one careful word at a time. The challenge is energizing. I couldn’t resist. So, here’s my foray into the hundred-word story realm:
Isabella claimed the honor of ninety -seven years old although many heard her say over the last ten, she was ready. She said it with a smile and meant it to be a happy passing on. There were not too many flowers, not too many tears, just quiet reflection of the days with her in them. Goodbye came from those that knew her as auntie, as nana, as friend who always had a kind word, a prayer, a warm squeeze of the hand. The day ended. Pumpkin purred, sleeping on her bed with her picture turned toward his whiskered face.
Think you have a good super short story? Coming soon, a 100 word story contest.