Friday, 28 December 2012


by Robin Dunn

I would have your joy. It is the hardest to sell. The hardest to acquire. It is a beautiful thing, joy. Something I have worked hard here in Los Angeles to make marketable, to make translatable into media my buyers can perceive and understand.

People of Earth, listen. The time we know is only now. It’s now; here we are, seconds ticking by. Why not make an investment? In your future. In the trade routes we have only begun to establish here in your region.

Your joy is so beautiful. Log in to Facebook and click ‘Like’ on “Joy Sell.”

Author bio: Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in The Town of the Queen of the Angels, El Pueblo de la Reina de Los Angeles, in Echo Park. He is 33 years old.

Wednesday, 26 December 2012

Editorial - 2012

No story from me this Wednesday. Instead I want to say thank you to everyone for reading and contributing to 101 Fiction this year.

We've had six months of fantastic contributor drabbles, beginning with Peter Newman's excellent Dismissed, and ending 2012 with Robin Dunn's Joy this coming Friday. We've already got some great stories lined up for the first few months of 2013 too. I can't wait for you to read them.

Since August there's been a 101 Fiction Tumblr as well, if you like your tiny fiction delivered that way. And I added a little page on drabbles a few weeks ago.

I've been looking back through the past six months' 101s, and it's really difficult to pick favourites without providing links to almost every single piece. I kinda think that's a pretty good sign (even if it's a bit of a cop-out too ;) ). I don't accept all the pieces I'm sent, and I'm really happy with every one I've let through.

So, thank you. =)

Merry Christmas, and a happy New Year.

John Xero.

Friday, 21 December 2012


by Jessie Woods

We stood in a circle of make-believe stones, waiting for the man we built from mud and twigs to rise. He'd turn us into zombies, replace tooth fairies with shrunken heads. We'd find fingers in gumbo soup. We called it a day. We found him in mirrors. Our dreams turned to rancid butter. We hunted the darkness in packs of scavenger sevens. Telephone wires spilled scratchy voices. We whispered the names of ghost towns to our sickly grandmothers. They crossed themselves and died. When the great storm hit, we locked ourselves in our rooms. We grew bigger than our shadows.

Author bio: Jessie Woods lives in New Jersey. He has been published in Veil, Short-Story.Me and elsewhere.

Wednesday, 19 December 2012


by John Xero

Gerry drifted through space, slowly spinning, one more piece of debris in an expanding cluster. Karl floated nearby.

"Brilliant plan, Karl. Fucking brilliant."

Karl said nothing.

Gerry flexed the stiff joints of his spacesuit, old habit, staving off the muscle atrophy that set in under zero-G. Not that it mattered anymore. No one knew where they were - one of the many joyous hazards of unlicensed prospecting.

Karl had been safely inside the ship, unsuited. Dead now, of course.

Gerry checked his air. Two days.

He wondered which was worse, to die in a flash of terror, or in drawn-out anticipation.

Author bio: Life is, of course, dying in drawn-out anticipation. John Xero is a realistic optimist, he likes to believe the best will happen, but knows it probably won't. ;)
Twitter, and occasional blog.

Friday, 14 December 2012


by Milo James Fowler

The hideous alien on the viewscreen bared its white teeth in some sort of bizarre greeting ritual. "I am Captain Bartholomew Quasar of the Effervescent Magnitude," it said.

Gorthrexx the Goobalob Sector Twelve toll collector scowled with most of his eyes - and he had a myriad of them, located all over his gelatinous body. "Prepare to be boarded," he droned.

The alien blinked its measly pair. "I don't understand-"

"You have trespassed into our space and will be enslaved."

"Is there a second option?"

Gorthrexx sighed. "You pay the toll."

Captain Quasar checked his credit. His shoulders slumped. "Welcome aboard."

Author bio: Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day and a speculative fictioneer by night. Stop by anytime:

Wednesday, 12 December 2012


by John Xero

There's a place, down in South Carolina, where they farm hatred. Shipped and sold to markets you know nothing about. A trade in things to turn your skin. The secret economies of the world.

Tumours ripple and shimmer as they swell through the children's skin, and when the growths begin to seep they are ready to harvest.

The smell of hate is bilious and sour.

The cattle are bred for purpose, a different species, a line centuries deep, Homo Domesticus. Sometimes they learn words from the workers but they have no rational thoughts - we promise ourselves that, trying to believe.

Author bio: John Xero believes in secret histories and hidden conspiracies. Nothing specific, mind you; maybe everything is true, and maybe nothing is. Trust no one. ;)

Friday, 7 December 2012


by Steven Valor Keck

3 While XxXLordDiabloXxX wrote, "fuck every fuckin thing in this fucked. life love the fucking ACRAXIX metal. BEST! LMAO when the world end 2012, and ALL WHO HAVE EVER LIVE will bow in HELL to blow acraxix 4EVER 3:D Jajaja:3 ACRAXIX RULES!!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!!!!!!♥," it is clear that in the idiom of his day he certainly did not mean to include Acraxix themselves amongst those to be fucked, nor to suggest an eschatology wherein the band would spend eternity engaged in autofellatio, as bitchplzzzz erroneously concluded in his History of YouTube Commentary, the First Century. See drjanepnewton21, 103, see also brown*pwnzor, 233.

Author bio: Steven apologizes for the profanity, but he felt it was integral to the plot. He considers this story a dire warning, of a future internet that need not be. He posts surrealist short fiction at

Wednesday, 5 December 2012


by John Xero

Santos sat in his chamber sipping tea. His own blend - black teas, with the tiniest pinch of gunpowder green - perfect for his final moments.

He felt calm.

He let the paper walls and bamboo matting of the simulation dissolve around him till only the cold metal remained. No more distractions.

He launched. A spear thrown from one tribe at another.

The enemy fleet fired counter-measures. Santos dodged decoys and weaved through clouds of flack. More than a simple smart-missile, he was sentient. He was a hero.

They were all heroes. Hundreds of missiles. Each a Santos seeking death and glory.

Author bio: John Xero makes his own personal blend of tea, it's a little different each time, so he can't guarantee the taste. He's also a big fan of Studio Ghibli films, including the Cat Returns.
Hopefully one day people will stop inventing new spears to throw at each other.
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