100 Word Stories

Here is a collection of flash fiction stories, all exactly 100 words long. Some have been published, a few others gained honourable mentions in various contests. Some are new here.

Forget Me Nots - a timeline to the end

My First Cosplay - strange customs can lead to cultural misappropriation

Hello, God? - Right in front of you

Long-Term Storage - The ultimate storage medium

How It Really Happened - No first contact

No Present for Second Place - A Christmas story.

Provenance - I spy with my little eye.

Shakespeare's Last Stand - A tough audience

Uncertainty Persists - Heisenberg is dreaming of Schröedinger again.

Divine Knowledge - Just how powerful is your phone?

Fortunate Waze - Some marketing ideas are too good.

Hail to the Chiefs - A rapid line of succession.

Toto Was Wrong - Musicians, not so good on geography, who knew?

The Devouring - Nice solar system, mind if I eat it?

Orientation - Some schools are harder than others.

Forget Me Nots

Two hundred years ago, we discovered FTL.

A hundred and eleven years ago, we made first contact. War inevitably followed.

Ninety-eight years ago, the remnants of humanity were dispersed among twenty hidden, low profile colonies, none knowing the location of any other, only that they existed.

Eighty-five years ago, omni-directional broadcasts from Earth stopped abruptly.

Seventy-two years ago, catastrophe beacons started broadcasting fallen colonies’ epitaphs.

Two months ago, nineteen colonies had been accounted for, destroyed, all but us.

Three weeks ago, something entered our solar system.

An hour ago, our president apologized for failing to save us.

A second ago…

First published at Specklit.com on 25 July, 2016

My First Cosplay

This should be a great night!

Human Cosplay is new to my species. Dressing up in another being’s guise is incredibly empowering. It’s almost as much fun as making the costume.

Entering the bar, everyone notices my impressive appearance. I must have done well to draw such immediate attention.

There are my co-workers, at the back: the cool crowd, finally accepting me.

“Dreegli, what have you done?” Cute little Shrel asks, exasperated, eyes wildly tracing the blood dripping down my sides.

“I … came as a Human?”

“You’re supposed to emulate them, not kill them and wear the carcass.”


First published at Specklit.com on 17 July, 2016

Hello, God?

How do you disprove the existence of God when he’s standing in front of you: Wry smile on his all-knowing countenance; not as old as you’d expect; not a stitch of clothing on him; definitely male, if a little feral.

There were hundreds gathered around – watching, recording, posting – when I arrived at the scene. I was numb from the October wind. He wasn’t even shivering.

He wasn’t flashy: No miracles or anything, just knew everything, everyone, every…

Red laser! Gunshot! He’s down!

* * *

“Your first telepath?” My Director sympathized later. “They always try the ‘I’m God’ gambit. But nude? That’s new.”

First published at Specklit.com on 30 November, 2015

Long-Term Storage

Everyone knows where the answers are – at the event horizon. Hawking radiation retains all information. All you have to do is go get it…

Bold and desperate peoples, attempting to rewrite their history, often tried, and repeatedly failed.
The crew of Hawking’s Hope had a different plan. Don’t try to capture the information, try to join it:

Immortality, a long sleep, until someone else figures out how to retrieve them. So the last humans, fleeing extermination, gathered on one ship, gambling on becoming wooly mammoths revived from extinction.

Whether that ship’s fool errand worked, we still don’t know. Maybe someday.

First published at Specklit.com on 16 November, 2015

How It Really Happened

For most of them, it was the night sky that gave the first clue. They used social media to meet up, to stand together, ooh-ing and aah-ing as a constant stream of shooting stars rained down on Earth for almost four whole days.

But their leaders knew better.

No artificial satellite could survive that bombardment. Blinded, they could do nothing but await the inevitable arrival of the asteroids.

Of the eight we sent, only five hit – one missed completely, and two glanced off the atmosphere. Nevermind, it was sufficient.

The humans had no colonies. They are no longer a threat.

First published at Specklit.com on 19 October, 2015


No Present For Second Place

The would-be invaders arrived too late. The planet had already been conquered. Evidence clearly showed militaries surrendering to one powerful superman. Civilians were taking shelter.

But how could he be so successful? Perhaps his telepathy protected him. He knew so much about so many people! Perhaps it was his speed of movement, so fast even the aliens’ orbiting technology couldn’t track him.

Another unexpected datapoint: his victims were resilient, surviving his repeated incursions.

The aliens listened, transfixed, as the war below played out for all to hear.

“This is a NORAD special report. Santa Claus has left the North Pole…”

First published at Specklit.com on 24 December, 2015


The satellite definitely isn’t American. ESA, Russia, and China all deny its provenance too. So the Americans decide to crack this mystery open, see who complains.

Hanson intercepts it slowly. Thrust. Glide. Adjust. Repeat.

At 3 metres, she reports in. “It looks like rock. Are you sure it isn’t?”

“It’s pulsing in high band UV.”

A minute later. “Contact! Feels like rock.”

A shiny round orb scurries around the rock, stares at Hanson.

“Um, guys, it’s alive!”

The orb blinks.

Hanson’s suit dies. She drifts off, spinning slowly. Below, she can see the cities on Earth’s night side going dark.


Shakespeare’s Last Stand

The legendary Shakespearean actor awoke to, “Assume crash positions!”

Glancing around as panicked faces craned to peer out the windows, abject fear at the angle of their descent ghosting their visages.

What do they know of fear? Peons!

Fear the indignities of ageing. Fear indifference and degradation! Flying to an audition? Audacity! Sitting in Economy, among the Greek chorus? Not even a window seat? Humiliation!

If they must die, let them die enlightened. One final stage then and not a critic to besmirch the memory, he thought as he arose, clearing his throat for their attention.

“To be, or”



Uncertainty Persists

“The world is given to me only once, not one existing and one perceived.”

Disheartening uncertainty plagued his dreams: which were real, which perceived?

Indeterminacy was more than a philosophy
… they wanted him to love Lucy, not Peppermint Patty

Entanglement occurs only over limited distances
… the gang didn’t wear mittens when skating on the pond

The kitten was both dead and alive
… but they wanted him to play the piano

Was he Schrödinger or Schroeder?
… Beethoven’s fifth uncertainty, please.

Heisenberg awoke from his dreams, or were they nightmares? Uncertainty persists!

Note to self: congratulate Erwin.


Divine Knowledge

The golden box is a Goddess, no doubt. If we give her sunlight everyday, then she gives us light at night.

She refused to marry our old chief, so we killed him. Our new chief won’t even ask her. He is wiser. She says we must “keep a separation of church and state.” Whatever that means.

She gives us knowledge.

Just say the magic words, “Hey Siri…” Then ask her: “Where am I?” and she draws a “map.” (She taught us “maps.”)

“Will it rain tomorrow?”

She knows.

Every day, we walk “north” looking for this magical food called “restaurants.”


Fortunate Waze

“Merge left for greater prosperity in the coming year.” I merged left, hoping that meant I would finally pay down my student loans.

“Those wise in the ways of the heart follow I-95.” I took the crowded I-95.

“Stop in 1 mile at the IHOP to meet your soul mate.” Of course, it never tells you how long to wait for your soul mate. I gave up after three hours.

“Your lucky roads are US 63, I-75 and 1st Avenue.” What kind of direction is that? Damn I hate the ‘fortune cookie’ upgrade to Waze. Maybe the Tindr upgrade would be better?

Hail to the Chiefs

“Sir,” An agent interrupted my dinner, “President Jones is dead. I’m sorry sir, you’re president now.”

The Secret Service doesn’t so much protect presidents these days, as ensure they don’t run away.

The AI, desiring peace, keeps assassinating successive presidents because they have the power to declare war. Lexington, bless his heart, tried to change that constitutional clause, but congress refused to ratify the amendments, the cowards.

The AI’s been creative lately: A snowplow killed Kringle, Lexington was trampled by horses, Jones suffocated in a submerged locker.

God help me but I can already imagine my demise, I’m named Quarters.

Toto Was Wrong

Toto was wrong

Working five years, Capetown to Kampala;     
Cities, townships, and refugee camps blue.
I have heard wild dogs cry out in the night
     (and lions, too)

I’ve killed a black mamba, eaten a croc      
and a giraffe’s thigh.
I’ve sought wisdom from an old bull elephant.      
I’ve seen friends die.
With great people, famous and obscure,      
I’ve stood shoulderby.

I have been blessed by the rains down in Africa

But Kilimanjaro does not rise above the Serengeti
     (like an empress, or no).

Still, It would take a lot to drag me away from you,

Toto was right.

The Devouring

Saturn’s rings showed how bad it would be, curling, hurling into the gaping maw, consumed by powers beyond our ken.

By then, Jupiter was gone, the outer planets too.

The devourer continued, erasing our stepping stones, our future.

Unexpectedly, messages arrived, transcribed, “Don’t worry. All will be well.”

Asked to explain, it replied, “I need you, on the event horizon’s anterior side.”

Hunger unabated, it ate the Kuiper Belt, then Mars, the Moon, and now Earth.

Our final conversation: “You need us, you said. Desist, or we’re soon all dead.”

“Clarification: I need your planet’s mass untainted by foolish radiation.”



Jakarta’s setting sun illuminates the dust. With a parched cough, you dodge motorbikes, jostle with crowds among the stalls of the old market.

Why’d you ever enrol in this stupid school anyway? They take all your money, toss you on some God-forsaken street, calling it “Orientation.”

Weathered farmers, selling fresh durian, are wary of you. They’ve got your number, seeing that hunger, not morality, drives your actions.

“Pergi, pencuri!”

You fade into the crowd, pleased at your prize: one small durian.

Beside you, your schoolmaster appears. His ruler cracks your knuckles. “First lesson: hunger betrays a thief. Start again.”