Spirit Dance

Spirit Dance

The brilliant, golden light raked the cloud shadows over the prairie. Lianniaopi, prone, gazed across the dale singing an inaudible death song.

The white man’s rifle, resting on an iron stand, fired repeatedly, dropping buffalo.

Lianniaopi leapt on his pony. With a screech of the war song, he rode toward the white man, hoof thuds singing in his ears.

The white man’s bullet blew through the pony at the neck crumbling his forelegs, which drove Lianniaopi’s head into the dust.

The white man walked up to Lianniaopi’s twitching body, the neck having cracked on impact. “Crazy redskin, I’d ‘ave give meat.”

— Jeffrey A. Paolano

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Karate Dates

Karate Dates

“Good to see you. How’s things?”

“Great, thanks. You?”

Pleasantries over, the friends took a seat and began their first drink.

“So, heard you’ve got a date?”

“Yeah…” The older man nodded. “It’s been a while and I’m nervous, but looking forward to it.”

His friend took a careful, considered sip. “Does she like Karate?”

Later, Dave jumped from his seat, knocking popcorn over his startled companion. Facing the enemies on screen, he clenched his fists tight, unable to stop the Shaolin urge surging through him. With a scream, he launched himself at them, the Kung Fu force possessing him, entirely.

— Steve M

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Tom and Tim

Tom and Tim

Tom and Tim are brothers. Tom and Tim share everything. Tom and Tim share a secret and I think I am the only one who knows about it. Tom and Tim apparently got so confused by each other, that they forgot their morals. Tom and Tim started to peel their skins to place it above the other. Tom and Tim couldn’t place their skin above the other because above doesn’t exist anymore if there’s nothing below. Tom and Tim switched bodies and now they don’t know who’s Tom and who’s Tim. That’s why I refer them together as Tom and Tim.

Nur Costa

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Ancora

Ancora

Our finding each other in this quiet bookstore is beautifully chance.

An accident, I wander into your way. Our eyes meet as we pass by, holding long enough to drink each other in. I find myself drawn to everything I do not know about you, such ephemeral perfection.

Close proximity risks discovering you are as human as I. So, I walk away, in hopes of preserving all of you that captivates me.

In dreams, I will find your eyes on mine. I’ll ache until your warmth presses into my chest.

In this, I will long for you, in eternal wonder, forever.

David Delaney

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Sweet Insecurities

Sweet Insecurities

“Darling, how do I look?”

“How many times? Wear dresses that cover your knees!” Jimmy shouted.

Arabella went out regardless. She swirled the lemon twist in her fourth cocktail aimlessly as he laughed away with colleagues.

Jimmy often went out alone. Always returning drowned in the stench of perfumes not in her collection. At first she ignored it. Shrugged it off as being silly, another insecurity. Then one night she saw. He was dropped off by another woman. They kissed. Careless.

“Goodbye, hollow love,” Arabella spoke aloud. Because she knew where he kept the gun. And the bullets.

“This ends tonight.”

— Andrew Ough-Jones

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Book Giveaway – One Hundred Voices

Book Giveaway

Are you new here? No problem. Scroll down to get the skinny and join the fun!

To all the returning 101’ers…welcome back!

To those that didn’t win…keep trying! Your odds are better than you think.

It’s time for this week’s Book Giveaway. But first…let’s talk about last week.

Last Week’s Book – Little Write Lies by Taylor Eaton

This Week’s Book – One Hundred Voices

Sara Codair—a 101 author—is one of the authors in this anthology.

How Does the Book Giveaway Work?

Simple. We give away one book every single week.

Why? Because books are awesome and we love our 101’ers.

How? That is also simple:

  1. Make sure you are signed up to get our stories delivered to your inbox. Existing subscribers do not need to enter their e-mail again. That’s a relief!
  2. Now, sit back and read some stories! I know you like reading.
  3. Check your email every Friday for the Book Giveaway. That e-mail will guide you to a page just like this one. It’s sort of a loop!
  4. Read the book description. Are you Interested?
  5. The next day I will send you an email about the Book Giveaway. All you have to do is reply to that e-mail. Done!
  6. You have until Monday at 12PM PST to reply.

P.S. If you want stories delivered, I am happy to e-mail them to you.

Twister

Twister

She likes to keep her heart where she can see it. Shards scattered in her room: pieces in a puzzle.

She hides one in every satin slipper that rests on her shelve. Another in the red music box with its dancing ballerina.

One’s in the letter, on the desk, that says she’ll go to Juilliard.

The final shard is in the peach dress she’ll wear to prom.

The forecast is grim.

In her womb, cells are gathering—a storm shaping a tiny heart. Its beat is hushed thunder. But she’s deaf to whispers in the whirlwind, which sweep her shards away.

Sophie van Llewyn

P.S. If you want stories delivered, I am happy to e-mail them to you.

Burnt

Burnt

If my mistake hurts you, it hurts me too. It burns a hole in my ribcage, making it easier for you to lay your head on my chest, to see right through me.

You won’t leave me; I won’t leave you.

So we remain.

Waiting for a moment of pure ecstasy so that I can once again ruin it and you can dwell in the misery that you love so much. Craving that toxic sadness.

As I sabotage myself and you beg me for a pain that you can’t find anywhere else, I cry out. But you won’t let me go.

— Riley Sadlier

P.S. If you want stories delivered, I am happy to e-mail them to you.

Bald Reginald

Bald Reginald

Later, we hung out in the lounge bar, telling lies, slurping red wine. After a while, I skipped outside for fresh air.

Reginald was leaning on the railing, staring over London, puffing his meerschaum pipe.

Reginald, who’d sat through the conference like a stone, hated us squawking female romance writers, shrill with success.

Reginald remembers how it used to feel to have emotions. Like a man who’s lost his sense of taste may dimly recall the taste of raw garlic.

He writes about love.

Reginald is an archaeologist digging his own mind, exploring his past, and churning out blockbusters nobody reads.

— Bruce Costello

P.S. If you want stories delivered, I am happy to e-mail them to you.