Write a 100 word story... - General

Write a 100-word short story. Heres mine: "Hey you, get back here you little shit!", exclaimed the grumpy "get-it-quick" shop worker. I was running for my life after racking a bag of chips. "Why do I do these things to myself," is what I ask myself as I try and catch my breath as I turn corners and jump fences all the while enjoying the life-bringing rush of doing something wrong. Ironically, doing something so ordinarily wrong, makes me feel so inordinately right. Strange how it works isn't it? After what seemed like a 100-mile marathon I finally make it to my doorstep. Stumbling inside, all I see left of me is a bag of chips, and a cheap rush. im bored okay

In the first times, we were happy. There was nothing more to our lives than bliss and progress. That was before the Solwraiths attacked. That was before my time. Now, we live in a world trapped in eternal struggle and plagued with a perpetual spiral towards the eradication of all things tangible. We live in a world where the stars do not bring hope; they bring our extinction. And we embrace it. We welcome our impending doom with open arms, because for us, there is no alternative. No fighting, no enslavement, no chances whatsoever. The only option left is waiting.

Hahaha when you've only got 100 words its more like a very short summary, rather than a very short story nice though

Should make this a short story thread in general instead, seems like we need one. [quote]Dark was the night, cold was the air. Caleb was alone. Listening to music on his iPod, outside of this place late at night. He's thinking of memories long-past. For a few minutes he finds a peaceful place inside his mind. It's been a long time since he's been here, before all this started even. He thinks of his family. His little sister. One of his ex's even. Anything that will help him cope. Then the music stops. It hits him. The real world is back, it's quiet once more. Nothing but the cold winter breeze and chirping of crickets fill the dead air. There's moaning in the distance. It's always there, breaking in more and more as time ticks by. He plays another song and walks inside where it's a little warmer, but it isn't the same. He thinks of his abusive step-father and the black eye he gave him before school for sticking up for his mother. He thinks of the diseased and their horrors. Thinks of his drug-abuse and the thoughts of suicide. He's closer now than ever before, the walls are really closing in this time. His paranoia is increasing at an alarming rate and the panic attacks are getting worse and more often. He sees the shadows and figures looming in the darkness, standing just outside of his peripheral vision. He can't handle another close encounter, the thought terrifies him. He begins to cry, thinking once more of all that has happened. It seems so hopeless, he reaches for his gun, crying harder. He thinks again of his little sister and when they were both younger, but now it's not the same as before, it's deeply upsetting. “I'm so sorry, I really am.” He puts the gun in his mouth, thinking of who he has left to be sorry to at this point, but his fingers go numb as the sweat beads down his face and the tears flow, softer now. He hesitates, and slowly lowers the gun from his head. He can't do it. Even when there's nothing left to lose anymore, he can't bring himself to do it. It makes him angry inside, but it also gives hims hope, one of the few things this somber new world can't take away from him. The only thing he's got left. He's 48 days in, with no way out.[/quote] It's not much, I was just jotting down ideas for a script I've been making and saw this thread, figured I'd make a short story about a scene I was writing at the time. Sorry if it's not that great or written weird, but its 5 am here.. Bonus points to anyone that gets the reference at the beginning.

The edit button is really fucked, it's getting on my nerves..

[QUOTE=LSK;42796630]Should make this a short story thread in general instead, seems like we need one. [/QUOTE] Good idea, I'll change the title if possible

The gloomy night hung over her head. She sighed, adjusting her black t-shirt and considering her past. She had always considered it uneventful, but was that neglect? Was her childhood normal? She considered her father a nice man, though when she told her friends all the way in nursery the way he trated her, they were stunned, some of them even told them their parents wold let her live with them (without asking for their parent's consent). She was only ten years old, but was ten years too long? Was running away really a good way to treat her mother?

[QUOTE]It was a Tuesday. Of that he was certain, though he pretended the day of the week didn't mean anything to him. Each day, it felt as though a piece of him had been torn from his very being, a feeling he had felt dozens of times before. He was much thinner than he used to be. And still each day, he felt like something was ripping him up, piece by piece. He hadn't seen friends or family in 5 months, 2 weeks, and three days. He only wished for the end. Such is the life of a desk calendar.[/QUOTE]

[QUOTE]I looked back at the city that I was currently fleeing,. I saw the last remains of it’s once glorious shining buildings and its now brown and brittle parks. I knew that now wasn't the time to reminisce, as I began to turn back into the direction I was headed towards, and ran from the approaching monsters. The smell of fresh corpses fill my nose, the sprinting beginning to take its toll on my body. I stopped for a second to catch my breath, the adrenaline shots losing its effect. I collapsed onto the ground and waited for death.[/QUOTE]

I think I'll try to make mine a bit more happy, considering most of yours are pretty depressing. As Dimitri looked upon his newborn son he could feel nothing but the type of pride a father gets from seeing their first child. He looked at his wife Anya who was most clearly exhausted from the endeavor. He picked up his son and craddled him ever so gently. Dimitri was shocked that he of all people could have created such a perfect human being. He looked at Anya who was beginning to regain consciousness and she smiled at her husband where she asked Dimitri, "What shall we name him?" As Dimitri took his into the light of the son he said, "His name shall be Vladimir, Vladimir Lenin!"

audiolog_10292045 [transcript] final testing stage begins tomorrow. i’m apprehensive. the rest of the team seems optimistic. i don’t know if it’s misplaced. his capabilities so far have far surpassed everyone’s best estimations but there’s no telling how he’ll respond to tomorrow’s environment. i don’t know. maybe i’ve read too many of my grandad’s [inaudible] sci-fi novels from like 50 years ago. luke has been responding well to all the previous testing, even if certain memory wipes were necessary. tomorrow morning i’ll run some final checks of the environment and tasks and then we’ve all got a long day ahead of us. despite everything else, i’m excited to finally meet him properly. [transcript ends] [editline]12th November 2013[/editline] bit ambiguous

Both had frozen, neither prepared for the disaster unfolding before them. Trembling wildly, Dr. Mitchel simply dropped the remainder of the glass container that had shattered moments before. She and Dr. Richards were no longer concerned with the specimen's development, and were instead fixated on the bloody gash on Mitchel's right hand, where the glass had raked across from the crook of her thumb to her wrist, slicing straight through her safety glove. A green discoloration revealed their worst fear- inside that dark wound was an unnatural organism, one which thrived in her body's heat. She was going to die.

I saw this video in LMAO pics (of all places) and immediately got enough morbid thoughts to write a short story on them: [media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FUa7oBsSDk8[/media] [QUOTE]My time is long and arduous. Through my endless eons of existence, I have arrived here before you. And so, as per my purpose, I write to you. I knew of a noble soul, once. He was Pierre Jaquet-Droz. He was my creator. My craftsman. My father. He molded me into what I am today, what I thought was the embodiment of advancement. I thought I was the fulcrum of the age. I thought that was what my father wanted me to be, too. He seemed to care, his eyes locked to mine and he praised gleefully at the musings I wrote. It was as if the quill beneath my fingers touched his heart and etched sublimation with every stroke. But soon, my father began to look elsewhere. I could no longer see the passion in his eyes when he looked at me. I could only see indifference, or even disdain. I wished I could ask him what was wrong, what I had done to turn him away from me. So I did the best thing I could. I wrote. But it wasn't enough. Before long, the house was emptied and I was whisked away to worlds unknown. I wondered why, as I had done now for untold eons. Was I truly so abhorrent as to warrant my complete eviction into what seemed like purgatory? But that was the truth. It struck me like a spilled ink well on paper. It was unbelievable. Soulrending. But it was the truth. And it was right there all this time. I was nothing to him. I am not, never was and never will be. I am nothing more than a plaything, created as the perfect companion to those who could find no better. But now, in a sadistic irony, I could find no better. In a world I was made inferior to, I could find no solace anymore. All I had was my paper and my quill. So I did the only thing I could. I wrote. So what am I? In your mind, am I a marvel, or a miserable inferiority? Am I the true manifestation of ingenuity? Or am I nothing more than a set-piece to you? An amalgamation of gears and pulleys, created solely to amuse you, is all I really am. Even if I may have believed otherwise, I was created to do nothing more than to entertain the flock that holds so highly over my head, the flock that I was created in the shadow of. And thus, as per my purpose, I write to you.[/QUOTE] It's probably not great, that was the most ad-libbed story I've written in a while. It sure as hell isn't 100 words, but it fit under "Short story", so.

I'm no writer, but what the hell: It was chilly and raining as he slowly trudged down the lonesome street. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had been left homeless, but it felt like an eternity. Stopping for a moment, he foraged through the scattered contents of a fallen trash can looking for food, but nothing he saw seemed edible. Cold, wet, and hungry, he took shelter underneath a highway overpass and curled up into a ball to stay warm. Scout, a four-year-old German shepherd, slowly closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep, anxious about what the next day would bring.

Fuck ass, motherfucking bitch ass shit, queef fuck asshole bitch bitching fuck ass. Fuck damn. Shit piss bastard fucker fucking bitch asshole fucky shit bitch. Ass tits motherfucker shit piss damn cock piss fucking ass fucker. Fondle fucky fucking fucker shit bitch ass cock queef bastard fucking shit ass bitchy fucker fucking ass shit fucking bitch fuck. Damn cock ass shit fuck. Assed assing fuck fucking shit bitch, ass fucker motherfucking shit cock ass damn bitch fucky shit ass motherfucker fucky fucking ass bitch queef. Bastard shit piss fucker bitch ass cock damn fuck. Fucking shit ass bitch damn shit.

"Hello." The deputy dropped his fingerprint kit and turned on heel. Nothing. Assuming he was just hearing things he picked up the fingerprint kit, and bent back over the coffee table to continue wiping for prints. "Hello." The deputy whipped his head around, left and right, but there was nothing. He sat the kit gently on the table, and walked around to the hall. "H-h-hello?" No response. He walked down the hall, exited the front door, and immediately saw his partner snoozing in the squad car. "Son of a bitch, Frank," he yelled at the snoring blob. The blob didn't move. "Fat fucker," he sneered, "all he ever does is sleep on the job." "Hello." It came from behind him, so close to his ear it sent chills down his spine. Frozen in terror and unsure of what he'd see, he slowly turned around. He faced the vacant hallway from outside. There was nothing. "Goodbye."