Sunday, 6 December 2015

December 2015. Issue 10.

Ten issues! 101 Fiction hits double figures, and we are on fire. From inner hells to outer space, through mindscapes and metaphor, the flicker-lick of flames plays over it all.

Come closer, warm your hands, stay awhile and listen. Inside issue ten are fifteen tiny tales to tantalise, terrorise, and transport you to other places, other times. Fifteen sparks to ignite your imagination.

I’m excited about this issue. We always try to capture a breadth of style and species of story, and I think we generally succeed (if the leaning is, often, towards horror, but that is a fair reflection of the submissions). This issue really showcases that range, and across all the various genres and differing tones, amongst some great writing, inspired storytelling and incredible imagery, all of these stories have such great spirit for such small word counts. They are all so alive.

It’s an issue I look forward to revisiting in the future. I hope you will too.

It may be chill outside, but in here amongst the words, things are heating up.

Read. Absorb. Enjoy.


Keep scrolling down for the stories, or bring up the whole issue here.

As always, each issue is available as a free downloadable .pdf for your easy-tablet-phone-laptop-reading delight. And you can download issue 10 right here (right click, save as, you know...)


by William Swain

When people spoke of Yueying, they called her “Huang Chengyan’s ugliest daughter.” But the strategist Zhuge Liang, withdrawing Yueying’s veil, holding up a soft lantern, said, “Exaggeration is the greatest strength of men.”

That is why… thinks Yueying, lighting the signal-fires, that is why my strategy is perfect. Zhuge Liang lies stuck to his bed with illness, his armies Yueying’s, on the precipice of defeat or victory.

I fight that victory might rekindle Zhuge Liang’s heart, restoring warmth to his skin, white like ice.

“Fight for your wishes,” says Yueying to her officers, “and you will fight for the world.”

Author bio: I am William Swain, with no accolades or credentials to my name, besides that I am guitarist of the band Mediseasin:

Advancing is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by Kit Hamada

I am the Iron Soldier. When I roll up my sleeves, everyone knows who I am. They know me by my marks – twin serpents on my forearms, the scars red and raised. Six years ago, I cleaved the Serpent King in two. I saved our people.

Before the ritual they warned me: if I moved, it would be for naught. I lay still. I did.

Some nights, I still feel the brands searing my flesh, the memory of agony rushing through me, piercing me anew. My arms ache with the iron spirits, twisting beneath my skin.

Soon, they hiss. Sssssssoon.

Author bio: Kit Hamada spends most of her time writing love letters to computers, and occasionally to other people.

Forged is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by John Xero

Teeth the size of mountains, and they aren’t the worst. What comes next is. Hell. In the cavernous mouth a flicker, sparking a raging torrent of hot hungry flood waters. Flames that roil and lash and consume. A living volcano.

They call her Dragon.

Her kiss spills round me, stripping the ground down to rock as it takes my flesh from me. Turning my home and my bones to ash. Setting me free.

They call me Angel.

I thank her with a kiss of my own. And when it is done I bathe in the cool sweetness of her soul.

Author bio: John Xero is an elemental of ink and imagination waiting on the fire to set him free.
Few words: @xeroverse
More words:

Kissed is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by Wendy Steele

Sit beside your warm hearth and think of me. Bound to this rock, the acuate beaks of time pierce my fragile flesh, while you delight in primitive light.

The kindled spark of life, I gave to you.

As the mellow flame beats within your breast, set the world alight with your creativity and passion. Embrace your imperfect world and indulge your mind and heart. Ignite beacons on the hill tops with your lust for literature and art. Love without restraint and walk your path with joy. Waste nothing, appreciate all.

Too soon the snuffer falls, and fire turns to ash.

Author bio: Wendy Steele lives on a hillside in Wales with her partner and cats. Following training in belly dance and writing, she has published novels and novellas in the magical realism genre and teaches ATS® Belly Dance. Renovating her Grade II listed farmhouse and reading fill the rest of her time.

Life is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by Brigitte Winter

They crowd around the Storyteller’s fire, as if stories will soothe their aching bellies, fill their sunken cheeks. I’m hungry, too. So I join them.

“Not the creature story again,” a girl whimpers.

“You’re safe,” says the Storyteller. “Everyone knows the creature fears flames.”

“What’s it look like?” I ask.

“Hungry. All teeth and fur and foul breath.”

I transform, and the Storyteller’s eyes get big. The fire glints off the white parts. “You got it right,” I say. “Mostly.”

Then I eat him. I eat all of them, except the girl.

“Dangerous to believe in stories,” I tell her.

Author bio: Brigitte Winter is a storyteller, a jewellery-maker, a convener of artists and art-lovers, and the Executive Director of Young Playwrights’ Theater (, a Washington, DC nonprofit that inspires young people to realize the power of their voices through creative writing. Brigitte’s short fiction is featured in Columbia Writers’ 2014 anthology, Trapped Tales (, and the upcoming October 2016 City of Weird: 30 Otherworldly Portland Tales anthology by Forest Avenue Press. Her micro fiction has been published in 101Fiction, Nail Polish Stories, and Alban Lake Publishing’s November 2014 Drabble Harvest journal, Tourism on Other Worlds. All of her celebrity crushes are on authors. Hang out with Brigitte on Twitter @bwinterose and at, and stay tuned for her latest project: a pre-apocalyptic coming-of-age adventure novel.

Hunger is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by Shannon Bell

I can’t abide raw meat. It’s not that I don’t love the taste of blood, I do. But it’s the smells and the sounds, as much as the taste, which informs my dining experience.

The smell of a juicy, fat-marbled piece of meat roasting over a naked flame; such an aphrodisiac.

A crackling fire, sizzling flesh, spitting fat, terrified screams, what music!

“Please,” he begs. His fear flavours the meat, his tears a tasty marinade.

I carve a thick slice of thigh. At this rate, he won’t last a day. I like them alive, but oh, I am a glutton.

Author bio: Shannon Bell is addicted to words. You will find him madly writing away in the spare time he has available between holding down a full-time job, being part of a dysfunctional family and looking after his energetic, attention seeking dog.

Feast is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by John Xero

What do you see through those cracked teeth of yours? What sounds wash by those prowling white eyes? Do those ragged ears cry victory, or defeats?

You stalk these backyard jungles, spraying your black scent, stepping your acrid footprints into the soil, steeping the air with your tattered yowl. Entwining yourself with your territory.

But what will you do now that fire has come? With its own hot scent, its red laughter. Trampling fierce and hungry through your forest. It is all insatiable maw. Its eyes a thousand bright embers, tasting everything. Sparing naught.

What can you do, but fight?

Author bio: John Xero is the shimmer at the edge of your hearing, the susurration just out of sight. He believes every word has its own flavour and hopes you have enjoyed his synaesthetic pirouette upon your mental palate.
Appetisers: @xeroverse
Main course:

Tyger is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by Dustin Blottenberger

The funeral was held at dusk. Because I burned for her, I went.

"No purer death than by fire," the black priest intoned. The urn, stately, sat on a pedestal before them.

Doran saw me. He spat like a hot pan, "Out on the green, you bastard." Deserved, surely.

Back to back. Ten paces. We turned. His shot struck me in my breast. I staggered, wheezing, took aim slowly. My shot ripped him through the guts. He fell, his face ashen. The poor man nearly had his revenge.

For my sins, I expected flames, but felt only cold, encroaching dark.

Author bio: Dustin Blottenberger is a writer, painter, and printmaker living in the jungles outside of Baltimore, MD. To reach him, please contact your local animal control agency or follow him on Twitter/Tumblr at NeverSayDustin.

Icarus is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by E. M. Eastick

Thirty men had died in a mining explosion exactly ten years before. The widow laid the rose on her husband’s grave, but she didn’t notice the prick to her finger and drop of blood on the hot restless soil. Under the full moon, the first body clawed to the surface, the scent irresistible. Others followed, young men with hollow eyes, hungry for life stolen by the volatile earth.

The air hissed into vacant graves. The dirt filled its lungs with oxygen, and the coal seam ignited.

The bodies howled with haunted memories as the flames of destiny reclaimed their dead.

Author bio: E. M. Eastick was born and raised in northern Australia. She recently moved to Colorado after years of travelling and working as an environmental professional in Britain, Ireland, and the United Arab Emirates. Her creative efforts can be found in the Literary Hatchet, Splickety Prime, and Mad Scientist Journal.

Reclaimed is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by Carol Stone

Larry loves labels. Especially those with fire hazard warnings on them. He likes to test the credibility of these cautions. It’s his job.

Today, Larry is checking the label in the nape of a blouse. It screams FLAMMABLE! His heart bounces.

He strikes a match, allows it to lick the lace trim around the edge of the fabric. Soon, furious dragon’s tongues eat their way up the garment.

The woman’s screams become distant. Larry is too consumed with the blistering pop of skin. But it’s the melting of her terrified eyes he’s waiting for.

That’s what really spikes Larry’s pulse.

Author bio: Live & work in the UK, previous publications include Alien Skin, Coloured Chalk amongst others but it's been a while since I last here goes!

Labels is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by B.E. Seidl

"Burn in hell!" she hissed at the melting face, her thumbnail cutting into his throat as flames flickered from the head like a mane. His eyes were bright and full of himself. No wonder he had always said it was his favourite photograph – it truly captured his quintessence. She had studied the ritual online on a page for black magic, determined to believe that afterwards he would never hurt her again. Yet, he did. The pain shot through her fingers, the sleeve of her shirt ablaze. She waved her arm like a witch’s torch and indeed it burned like hell.

Author bio: A native of Vienna, Austria, B.E.Seidl works as a translator and university lecturer.

Her fiction has appeared in the anthology "Things You Can Create" by FrostProof808, in Flash Fiction Magazine, at 101words, MicroHorror, Microfiction Monday Magazine and Tethered by Letters.

An avid reader of horror fiction, she is a little bit obsessed with Shirley Jackson.

Witchcraft is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by Sarah Vernetti

You’re great, but I have to be honest. You’re not what I’m looking for right now. Eventually, I know you’ll find someone who appreciates your generous girth, frigid temperatures, and dramatically tilted magnetic field. Maybe even someone who loves you despite your methane. However, I am not that person. I’ve been seeing someone, Mars actually, for about a month, and things are going really well. I've always been attracted to carbon monoxide-rich atmospheres.

Anyway, I know your future will be bright. Perhaps someday you’ll even know the intense heat of a fiery solar flare.

Take care, my mysterious cobalt princess.

Author bio: Sarah Vernetti lives in Las Vegas, Nevada. Her flash fiction has appeared in 300 Days of Sun, Black Denim Lit, Eunoia Review, Foliate Oak, Vending Machine Press, and others.

Neptune is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by John Rhea

It was a routine repair. One we'd done a thousand times.

Her tether, the tether I secured, came loose while she fixed the solar panel. One errant move, a slip, the smallest of fumbles and she floated beyond my reach, beyond the length of my arm and out toward a fiery grave in the star we had studied half our life.

I could've saved her. But I hesitated and she was lost.

The engines flare. My heart yearns for her. Our ship, our home, flies like a moth toward the flame. Our love shall end where it began, in starlight.

Author bio: John is a multi-level creative that works in design, film, apps, and storytelling. By day he builds and maintains websites, by night he tells stories as the Chief Story Scientist at Story Lab. He lives with his wife, three rambunctious boys, and a small army of pets near Charlottesville, VA.

Starlight is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by Anela Deen

They rose from the ash, gangly silhouettes emerging from the smouldering ruins of our city. The fire used to raze the brick and stone on which we’d built New Earth did not consume their curse. Here in this place where the decomposed ferment the soil, where rot draws breath anew, and death becomes a restless imitation, only our hopes stay slain. To any who receive this transmission, come no closer. Sensors may detect a fertile land below but it is a lullaby of nightmares. Only bones and darkness reside now. Adjust course and let this world be swallowed by stars.

Author bio: Anela Deen is an author, blogger, and child of two cultures. This Hawaiian girl is currently landlocked in the Midwest but has traveled and lived abroad much of her life, speaks four languages, and loves to use her imagination to leave planet Earth. She fills her days with family, fiction, and the occasional snowstorm. She’s also been known to crack wise with alarming frequency.


Twitter: @AnelaDeen

Remnant is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.


by Kern Windwraith

Come, she said. Burn with me.

And I followed. Down the dark passageways gouged beneath the canopy of roots, deeper, deeper, I followed, guided by the flicker and flash of her breath, the sparks of her bare heels striking the rocky path.

The iron bars of the first gate melted under her blazing caress. Doubt whispered, cold as ice, but I didn’t stop.

When we reached the final gate, she turned, flames licking her cheeks like molten tears.

Come, she said, and her eyes bled fire.

Memories of my wife and son flared and shrivelled to ash.

And I followed.

Author bio: Kern Windwraith lives with her sister and their blind, deaf, diabetic but always entertaining Jack Russell in Vancouver, British Columbia. Her poetry has been published by The Literary Hatchet.

Ignition is part of 101 Fiction issue 10.

December 2015. Issue 10. Postscript.

Welcome to the fiery end.

If today is Sunday 6th December then issue 10's fifteen flammable fictions will be happening throughout the day. Keep checking back and there will be more toasty tales as the day burns away.

This is the fire-themed issue (did I drop enough hints?). Full of tiny stories to smoulder away in your mind and ignite your imagination.

If the day has passed and you've already read the issue then I hope you enjoyed the journey. But it doesn't have to end here. There are, of course, nine issues before this one, and 101 Fiction was publishing drabbles for years before it became a quarterly.

In fact, 101 Fiction is five years old in January. Thank you for continuing to support the site, thank you to everyone who has ever submitted a story, and thank you for reading.

If you want to be a part of our future, keep an eye here and on twitter (@101Fiction) for details of the next submissions period and theme.

Keep writing. Keep reading. Have fun.

- John Xero

Thursday, 15 October 2015

December issue open for submissions


It's that time again. From October 15th to November 15th the gates are open and all are welcome to join us by the fire and tell their story (or, you know, submit it by email).

The winter issue always has a slight variation on the current cycle of themes. We began this cycle with our underground issue, representing earth. For the next issue we're feeling the long nights and chill bite of the season so we want some fire.

That's your theme: fire. We want heat, we want flames. We want to be scorched. Maybe it's the hungry crackling nightmare consuming the last of the oxygen on a stricken space station, or the flickering burn of friction on its long doomed descent through the atmosphere. It could be the burning sword, Cinder, that sears its wielder's flesh even as it grants them god-like power. Perhaps it is the cursed superhero, adored by millions, unable to ever touch another for fear his flame powers will consume them. Or the bright orange curve of a Molotov cocktail searing the night's blackness and etching itself indelibly into your memory; the inexorable slick of flames that follows.

The word fire does not have to be in the story (and it must not be the title), but fire must be present in some form. Firing a gun or an employee, the fire in his eyes or his belly, don't count. (Unless it's some kind of fire demon with an actual raging inferno in his guts, awaiting the sinners he tosses into his gaping maw, down his gullet, to their doom...)

We have four main genres - science fiction, fantasy, horror and surreal - but what matters most is a good story, well told. Make every word count; hook us from the first line, and blow us away with the last.

As always, the stories must be exactly one hundred words long, with a one word title. For all the fine details and submission info, go to the submissions page.

Gather the wood. Light the fires. Get writing.

Sunday, 6 September 2015

September 2015. Issue 9.

Welcome to issue 9. The beginning of our third year as a quarterly and a new round of themes. This issue we go underground.

There’s a weirdness down there, below the surface. The real world, altered as it echoes through the caverns. Visions and transformations. Monsters, only some of them human. Revelations. Futures both green and desiccated. Tiny tales wrapped in the embrace of mighty Mother Earth.

Two thirds of this issue’s stories are from returning authors and it’s truly fantastic to host such talent, to be a place people come back to, both as readers and writers. It’s brilliant to see some fresh blood in the mix too, new voices that we’ll hopefully hear more from in the future. It feels like this little ‘zine is building a bit of a reputation and it’s humbling that other people get as excited about it as we do.

Now come follow me, down, deeper, as we travel underground.

Read, absorb, enjoy.


Scroll on down for the stories, or pull the whole issue up here.

Each issue is also available as a takeaway read-anywhere read-anyhow .pdf. It's free, it's easy, it's here. (right click, save as, you know the drill...)


by Robin Dunn

They went in through the back just like folks said, under the refrigerator in the 7-11, into the series of rooms that had no place in the world.

Jack had been told that he'd have a good time, and that he should get really high before he did it.

Jill got real high.

Jack and Jill. They went in, under the refrigerator, where the rooms appeared.

Out of nowhere.

But it was a quiet town.

There are a lot of reasons it could have been.

And why not?

Why not go in.

Through the door, under the refrigerator.

And in:

Author bio: Robin Wyatt Dunn writes and teaches in Los Angeles. He's online at and and

Within is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.


by Rhonda Eikamp

Ants trailed through the kitchen after the funeral. He felt too cauterized to care until he noticed they all had her face, so he followed them down, past the cabinet, beneath drywall, into doleful earth.

The queen was regal, acidic. Behind her his wife stood grub-like, features blank.

"Give her back to me."

A formic shrug. "If your trail's good, she'll follow. Don't look behind you."

He climbed. Drones blocked the exit.

"She's dead," one said. "There's nobody there." The voice came from above, disembodied. "You're dreaming."

He wouldn't believe them. His trail was good. He reared, prepared to fight.

Author bio: Rhonda Eikamp is originally from Texas and lives in Germany. Her stories have appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Perihelion and Lightspeed's "Women Destroy Science Fiction." She recently expanded her 101 Fiction flash "Frozen" into a short story, printed in Ice, from Horrified Press.

Myrmecophilous is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.


by J.J. Jordan

The invaders somehow had sight without whiskers. Monsters. Alarming chirps filled the den.

I nuzzled my pups, brushing them all over with my whiskers – seeing them in full – and giving little kisses. I prayed, may the Earth Mother protect them and the Death Worm never find them.

I ambushed the invaders at the highest tunnel, bursting through, my teeth slicing flesh. Others joined me and the invaders fled, screaming.

But it was a trick, a feint, and we returned too late. The nest empty. My brood taken.

I pulled on my whiskers till they fell out. I ache forever. Blind.

Author bio: J.J. Jordan writes fantasy and science fiction out of Tallahassee, Florida. The Liars’ League recently performed his short story, Life After 20, and he publishes flash fiction whenever he has the chance.

Sightless is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.


by John Xero

Kilometres of rock over our heads and still we dig.

Maddie fell five cycles back. You could barely see her hair’d gone grey for all the dirt, but you could see it in her face, her eyes.

Only time I think I ever cried. Not while anyone could see, course.

Only time I ever called her Ma out loud too. Wish I’d done it while she could still hear me. Ain’t no space for wishes down here though. Barely the space to swing a pick.

I asked once, “Why?”

“Dig,” they snarled, spittle flying past cracked tusks. “Deeper.”

Always deeper.

John Xero revels in brevity. @xeroverse &

Deeper is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.


by John Rhea

Aaron raced through the spaceport exhaust tunnels. Footsteps echoed behind him. Antarans didn't like thieves. He'd lost a finger each time he'd been caught. Well not this time.

He zigged and zagged, careening through the shafts.

The tunnel opened up and he stopped dead. A human face, painted on the wall, towered four stories above him. Its hair faded into the darkness. Green skin. Weeping yellow eyes. Purple blood ran down its cheek. The face was giant, disfigured, grotesque, and... beautiful. Debilitatingly beautiful.

Something ripped loose inside Aaron.

As they took him into custody, Aaron knew he'd never steal again.

Author bio: John is a multi-level creative that works in design, film, apps, and storytelling. By day he builds and maintains websites, by night he tells stories as the Chief Story Scientist at Story Lab. He lives with his wife, three rambunctious boys, and a small army of pets near Charlottesville, VA.

Twitter: @storykaboom

Reckoning is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.


by Simon Williams

Every day Rudy and Blanco rode the gravity tunnels at dizzying speeds, dipping, swerving, missing each other and a million others by margins too small to imagine, reaching out and picking up their loads, leaning back, feet first, eyes closed, silent screaming in the heady pounding rush until they could drop what they carried. Then that day there was a tunnelsplit, a spurting leak, the worst of all they had heard of and feared for, spitting them up aboveground. Outside. Beyond the already healing split their clone comrades stepped forward to replace them. Life went on. They dried and died.

Author bio: Simon lives in Edinburgh and writes very short stories, many of which can be found on He tweets at @simonsalento.

Dried is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.


by A V Laidlaw

The seeds wait in the belly of the earth, in its darkness and warmth. Above them, cities grow from mudbrick and stone until vast and towering with glass and concrete. But the seeds are patient. They have lain buried deep in the darkness for millennia, ripe with memories of carboniferous swamps and ancient insect-haunted forests. With time, glass will shatter and concrete crumble to dust. Then the seeds will crack open a thin sliver of white flesh. Roots will dig down for clean water and pale naked shoots grope upwards through the soil. And the cities will be forests again.

Author Bio: A V Laidlaw lives in the UK, in a house built entirely from books, but dreams of one day moving into a cosy hobbit hole.  He writes fiction, occasional poetry, and tweets at @AvLaidlaw.

Seeds is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.


by Elliott Dunstan

She'd forgotten what she was hiding from. She supposed enough time had passed that it was reasonable, after all, for her memories to be fuzzy – funny, though, how she couldn't quite place that, either. All she knew was that the tall columns of stalactites and stalagmites kept her safe. From – something. Someone. It didn't matter. Safe. She was safe. And she didn't particularly care to wander, anyway. She remembered nothing of the upper world, except how the scent of blood had filled her lungs and made her mind spark and rage, and how the orange sun had burnt her skin.

Author bio: Elliott Dunstan is an Ottawa-based young writer of poetry, fiction and non-fiction with a taste for feminist mythology, gruesome stories and tales that inspire more questions than they answer. They post ramblings, thoughts and the occasional unrefined work at their blog,

Safe is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.


by Kymm Coveney

Because the only direction led under cover – deeper, darker, warmer – it never occurred to us that getting lost would be an issue. As a trickle of gentle rain dripped its lullaby onto the soft dirt, ghosts of leaves melted against the soil, which gave way, sucking in a tide of humus. Like clicks of shivering teeth, pebbles showered down around us. Hellfire and brimstone thundered past, announcing the arrival of the encroaching pile of earth come to fill itself back up.

We considered digging as an option, of course we did, but we dithered, stifled by a lack of direction.

Author bio: Born in Boston, Kymm Coveney has lived in Spain since the 1982 World Cup. Links to poetry, flash fiction and translations are at BetterLies, where she does her fiction practitioning.

Misguided is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.


by Voima Oy

She was holding the book when she heard from Marcel, warning her of the impending raid. All she had was in her black bag – the book, a pen, a sweater, ID cards.

No, don't think about the sunny little room, the bookshelf, the begonia in the window, sharing coffee with Andrea. All that was gone, smoke and rubble in the street.

Andrea was waiting at the coffee shop, Marcel at the safe house. Friends would help them out of the city, through the sewers, past the border guards. She had everything she needed. They would write their own future, together.

Author bio: In real life, Voima Oy lives on the western edge of Chicago, near the elevated line and the expressway. She writes about all sorts of things. 

Twitter: @voimaoy

Comrades is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.


by Madeline Mora-Summante

The house, like an unwanted dog, squats on the outskirts of town, whimpers in abandonment. Clarice pushes inside, out of the rain. A burnt odour, old and alone like Clarice herself, licks at her wrinkled face, snuggles under the greasy gray strands of her hair. She shrugs. As long as it's dry.

Clutching her sodden bag, she walks five steps before the house gulps her down its throat. She lands hard inside its bowels, moans, broken.

A giggle. "Got another one."

Clarice looks up. Children grin down from above.

One douses her with gasoline. Another lights a match.

Clarice screams.

Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer and a reader, a beach-comber and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collection, The People We Used to Be.

Derelict is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.


by John Xero

My candle flickers lonely in the dark, like my faith. The wavering light casts leering shadows on the rock walls, cavorting imps conjured to accompany my rough passage below the earth.

I am cast out from the world that was. Wars, hatred, politicians, thieves and whores. Paradise, compared to what came next: demons, descending from the heavens, driving us down to this new hell.

I may be the last free human alive, deserted by God and man alike. I haven’t seen another in weeks, and of him, heathen as he was, I have barely a few strips of meat left.

Author bio: John Xero is a flickering spark wandering the dark caverns of his mind, studying the shadows cast and capturing them in ink.

Listen for echoes: @xeroverse | Explore the terrain:

Fallen is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.

September 2015. Issue 9. Postscript.

Sunday 6th September, 2015. 101 Fiction goes underground. And if that day is today, then the stories are going live right now. The issue is in progress. From 11 to 10 UK time tiny bursts of fiction are firecracking into existence right here.

If you are in the future (Hi, future!), then issue 9 has already happened. And that's a brilliant thing, because you can read it all. Unless you've already read it all, in which case, thank you, but don't stop here... There are hundreds more daring, disturbing, dramatic drabbles beyond this point.

Put the kettle on, crack open those custard creams and enjoy the rides, the worlds, the minds, the times... all from the comfort of your favourite armchair (or, future folk, your favourite hover cushions).

And a big thank you, of course, to everyone who makes 101 Fiction what it is - the writers, the readers, the bloggers and tweeters. The dreamers. You. All of you make it something to be proud of, something special.

If you want a part in our next production, watch this space. Right here is where it happens. @101Fiction is where we shout about it.

Keep writing, keep reading, have fun.

- John Xero.

Wednesday, 15 July 2015

September issue open for submissions

Submissions for the September issue are now closed.

From July 15th to August 15th our inbox is open for submissions. We want your words... One hundred and one of them to be precise. Arranged in such a way as to thrill, inspire and excite.

This September will begin our third year as a quarterly 'zine. We've had a year of mythical beasties and a year of colours, so it's time now for a new cycle of themes. The theme for our September issue, issue 9, will be: underground.

Your story might take place in a claustrophobic wooden box, its inhabitant hammering on the lid, unaware of the six feet of dirt over his head. It could be thieves on the run through a network of ancient sewers, or refugees of an interstellar war grubbing an existence in the disused subway tunnels below a shattered New York. Maybe a whole moon has been hollowed out, used to travel between stars, or just to house and hide away the growing madness of modern life. Miners might come across a behemoth awakening from its centuries-long hibernation, or they might discover a clutch of eggs, and who knows what they might contain...

You don't have to use the word 'underground,' but the story does need to be recognisably beneath the surface. The title cannot be 'underground.'

It doesn't have to be this planet, this time, this existence... we are, after all, a genre publication. Science fiction, fantasy, horror or surreal (or anywhere in-between). The important thing is that it makes us pay attention, it grabs us, it makes us read it again, and again.

For the fine details and submission information, check out the submissions page!

You have 100 words, make them sing...

Be good. Be bad. Keep writing.

Sunday, 21 June 2015

June 2015. Issue 8.

Welcome to issue 8.

Two years gone. I’d like to say ‘in a flash,’ but it’s been a long couple of years (and over a hundred flashes). Our second year as a quarterly ends here, the last of four colour-themed issues, with red.

The issue opens with one of the most powerful drabbles I think we’ve ever had. Then we get into the science fiction, the fantasy and the horror. There’s quite a journey ahead of you, from the past to the distant future, our own world to far-flung others. Your travelling companions are the usual unusual misfits we love at 101 Fiction: robots, vampires, myths, murderers and oddballs. Not too dissimilar to our demographic, really.

For me, it’s a great issue, hitting all the wide-ranging notes I always hope the ‘zine will. Not just a range of genres, but a range of tones. Dark corners and light-hearted clearings, serious moments and frivolous ones provoking thought and laughter alike, all seasoned with a little weirdness and vision, and all bound together with some really smart writing.

Welcome aboard the red line.

Read, absorb, enjoy.


Keep scrolling for the stories, or bring up the whole issue here.

Want 101 Fiction with you, wherever you are? Can't get online on your tea break? Issue 8 is available to download as a .pdf, for free, right here.


by Clara Ray Rusinek Klein

Mama clamps her hand over my eyes, fingers tight.

“Nein.” Papa yanks her away. “He needs to see.”

I press my nose to the glass, breath fogging. Far below, a small procession shuffles on the cobblestones, men in coats and fedoras gripping suitcases, women clutching babies, wide eyed boys and girls clinging, cringing at the walls of helmets and gleaming boots, the bare-teeth barks of slavering Shepherds straining their chains.

Papa steps back, letting the curtains fall. Outside, pops ricochet, shouts echo. Scowling, he rips the red armband from his sleeve, flings it into the fireplace. Sparks crackle, cloth curling.

Author bio: Clara Ray Rusinek Klein is bilingual in Spanish and English. She holds a BA magna cum laude in Political Science with a minor in Religious Studies. Ms. Klein is an internationally published creative writer and author and the founder and Editor in Chief of A Quiet Courage (, an online journal of microfiction and poetry in 100 words or less. Her one-hundred-word story Ostdeutschland was chosen as an Editor’s Pick on Postcard Shorts. For more information and a full list of current publications:


Disgusted is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by Voima Oy

Here on this world of dust, I wear a piece of green. Canadian jade from Vancouver, where the Pacific crashes against the cliffs. I found the pebble on the beach, before we left for Mars.

It's red here. It is a world of one colour, filled with dust. It flavours our coffee. We eat it for lunch. It's a topping on our salads, grown in the hydroponic tanks, under the artificial sun. Zucchini and green beans grow well here.

We have grown apart, Alan and me. His brown eyes scan the ridge in the evening, watching the sunset turn blue.

Author bio: In real life, Voima Oy lives on the western edge of Chicago, near the elevated line and the expressway. She writes about all sorts of things. 

Twitter: @voimaoy

Jade is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by Jonathan Hawk

She has to be the best model I've ever worked with. Completely motionless and silent for hours.

My gaze lingers on the shine of her ruby lips as I dab more acrylic onto my detail brush. I stroke at my canvas, caressing the shadows in the ruching of her crimson cocktail dress. She's a sports car: sleek, beautiful, exhilarating.

"Perfect," I sigh, setting the brush aside.

I step over to her and gently squeeze her earlobe. Her exhaust fans whir to life and her numerous internal devices emit hushed clicks and hums as she exits sleep mode.

"Hello, Primary User.”

Author bio: Jonathan Hawk is a sesquipedalian and "ugly bag of mostly water" from the Baltimore, Maryland area. He's an avid free culture enthusiast and Creative Commoner. His stream of consciousness haunts Twitter as @doublecompile.

Realism is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by John Xero

Old fence post, rusted, swung with thick gloves, connecting hard with hooded head. Stranger folding fast, going down, heavy.

“Take his clothes. Any food.”

Desperate scavengers descending. Tearing torn cloak, seeking some element to aid their own survival. Hitting hard metal.

“Some sort of armour.”

Hesitation. Hostile glances ricochet. This they may be unwilling to share, its value unbounded.

The stranger shifts, red glint in artificial eye. Robot rising.

Scavengers die, unpleasantly, wailing, weeping, wet.

The old cold prince looks up, sees no satellites, wraps up, again.

Broken tones, electric noise, settling. “Huh. Humans. Didn’t think there were any left.”

Author bio: John Xero writes. A lot. He’s trying to write long, but the short still calls to him, the shortest most of all. He should blog (, he should tweet (@xeroverse), but he rarely does.

Survive is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by William Eckman

Welcome to Last Ditch Station. That display? Stupid thing’s said “ALL CONDITIONS: RED” since I got here. The smell? Cooking and body odours of seven different species. Food court is down that hall – you'll eat standing up, no room for tables and chairs. Watch your step, sweeper bot broke down last month. OK, here's your sleeping cubicle, built for two, but you'll share it with five. Final advice: everyone here loves to spread rumours – don't listen, especially when they say the Reptilons are laying eggs. Sure, they say Reptilon hatchlings eat humans, but like I told you, rumours. Just rumours.

Author bio: William Eckman blogs about science fiction at Planetary Defense Command.

Home is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by Denny E. Marshall

Professor Mensa has just completed his time machine. The machine is chrome coloured, cylindrical shape, and large enough to hold passengers. The professor’s assistant Tim E. Travel opens the door to the machine and steps in. After entering Tim slides the door shut. On the interior walls is a large display of dials and levers, and an oversized green button. Below the button the words, Coordinates Set, Push Here, are displayed in red LED lights in large letters. Tim hits the button. The action activates an automated voice that says, “It’s 8:16 p.m. thank you for visiting the time machine.”

Author bio: Denny E. Marshall has had art, poetry, and fiction published. One recent credit would be cover art for Disturbed Digest June 1015. See more at

Time is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by Julia Reynolds

Fate weaves our lives from threads of grey and brown. A sparkle of blue or silver shines here and there for the lucky few.

But for you, warrior king, she only uses one skein. Crimson, vermillion, and scarlet blend in your lifeline, which extends longer than seems just. Blood-red dyes bleed from your fate onto those of all whose paths intersect yours, a spreading stain of violence.

If Fate had her way, you would die in your sleep at 85 in a concubine’s arms. Fate and I disagree, and so you feel my sword at your throat tonight, young prince.

Author bio: Julia Reynolds is a writer in Austin, Texas.

Intervention is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by Shenoa Carroll-Bradd

My husband's beard is blue. The stain on the key... is not.

“Anything you like,” he'd said before leaving. “What's mine is yours, except this one room.”

I tried to distract myself exploring my new home. Tried to be patient. To be good.

But in the end, I disobeyed.

Inside the room, I found pieces of the wives who'd come before me.



And now, no matter how hard I scrub, the traitorous key remains blood-stained.

When he returns, my husband will see. He'll know, and he'll add me to the collection.

Some doors, once opened, can't be shut.

Author bio: I like to write in just about every genre, but my favourites are horror and fantasy. 

My author homepage is and I can also be found on twitter @ShenoaSays

Curious is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by Grace Black

Star-crossed lovers die and fleeting moments burn like bricks. Yet, we do this thing exchanging vows, walking aisles of ash as if redemption lies at the wake. Nothing in common, just a “pretty face”. Rice fed birds explode. But no one sticks around to see. A tradition steeped in harm and waste. Empty tin cans rust. Discordant clang.

The sanguine English countryside, my china cabinet is filled with transferware. Dishes that remind me of the bloodied bird and a place I’ve never been but walk by everyday inside my living room. A room for life where I’ve come to die.

Author bio: Grace Black writes poetry and flash fiction and has been published in Unbroken, Pidgeonholes, East Coast Ink, 101 Words, and more. Her first collection of poetry "Three Lines" was recently published and is available on Amazon. More of her writing can be found on her blog


Omens is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by Cindy Vaskova

Eric ambles down an uneven pimento coloured cobblestone, finding the beach. Languid sea’s bubbling foam spreads out. “Strange,” Eric thinks, sitting down to poke a stick at the seagulls. They infest the morrows, but now this dawn has none of them flying as they are all under the brush of the glowing sand; featherless crimson critters. Eric lies down. A choking hazard wind blows past him and he yelps; his sticking tongue catches some from the swarm of tiny ruby crystals. He can quickly feel them forming razor sharp polyps under his skin. “Strange?” Eric laughs with the red seagulls.

Author bio: Cindy Vaskova is a lover of fiction anyway it comes, and especially of all things weird and dark, and whenever the chance she likes to write some of those of her own. She'd skip a university day to write a horror tale. You can find her at her blog and on Twitter @Raptamei

Hollow is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by Daniel Gooding

My pal Eddie took me out on his boat; said we were going shark fishing.

As he busied himself in the cabin, I looked around for the bucket. “Don’t you need any of that bait, you know, the stuff you throw in to attract the sharks?”

“No need, buddy.”

I felt a searing pain across my thigh; next thing I knew I was smacking against the water, bouncing along on a long, red wave.

“Eddie! Buddy!” I yelled. “I’m in the water!”

“Yeah!” he called back. “I know!”

The boat turned. Ahead of us, the water frothed white like toothpaste.

Author bio: Daniel Gooding was born in 1984, and has been published in 'The Legendary' and 'Woolf Magazine.' His short story 'Crow Magnum Xix' is featured in the upcoming anthology 'Startling Sci-Fi: New Tales of the Beyond' published by New Lit Salon Press, and he occasionally blogs about books for 'The Guardian'. He currently lives in Bath, UK.

Chum is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by Sean Sam

The warning light flashed red again. Samantha sighed and pulled over, getting out of the dirty white Ford Focus, glancing along the road. Nothing but desert.

A shape appeared in the distance, a speck swelling into the form of a big rig through the heat haze. It pulled up alongside her and sat idling, covering her in shadow. The window on the passenger’s side went down.

“Your oil is drained,” a man drawled.

"What? How do you know?"

"I drained it. ‘Bout thirty minutes back at that rest stop. You won't need it anymore."

She heard the stranger’s door open.

Author bio: Sean Sam is a writer from the east coast. His most recent work appeared in The Corner Club Press. He graduated from Virginia Commonwealth University.

Desert is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by Danielle Bordelon

She wore the colour of lust and anger.

She spoke gently into my mind, her lips still. “You are the one that has been searching.”

I nodded, excitement and euphoria in my veins. Finally, I had found her.

Her eyes crinkled at the corners, though her lips remained unmoving.

“You are young.”

“Yes, but I’m ready. I am done with this world. Truly.”

Her body was still, though her eyes followed my every movement.


She held out a hand – too white, too still.

I took it.

For the first time, she smiled, her teeth as red as her dress.

Author bio: Danielle Bordelon is a fiction writer currently focusing on short stories and the editing of her novel. She lives in an apartment with three friends, hundreds of abused books, and an overactive imagination. Her short stories have been published in literary magazines including Black Fox Literary Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, and the Fast-Forward Festival and are available on

Still is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by Shannon Bell

Those lips, stained red with the blood that flows beneath, stained darker with the blood that flows above. Those lips, shaped like a funeral wreath, evoking sadness and hopes of rebirth.

Those eyes, they glow like rubies while you empty me and fill yourself. Those eyes. Fierce, obsessive, wild and seductive. They are not windows to a soul; they are doors to death and portals unto immortality.

Those lips, blood red leeches, stinging, sucking, greedy, hiding your instruments of violence and of redemption.

Those eyes. They enchant and possess and command me as I lie wrapped in your vampiric embrace.

Author bio: Shannon Bell is addicted to words. You will find him madly writing away in the spare time he has available between holding down a full-time job, being part of a highly dysfunctional family and looking after his extremely energetic, attention seeking, high maintenance dog.

Taken is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by John Xero

I used to imagine a fat little demon squatting astride his bald head, one pustulous arse cheek resting on each shoulder, short grubby fingers grabbing at the controls and making him do those evil things.

Until I realised it was all him, just a man meting out the daily cruelties man is capable of.

And the little red demons were clustered about his feet, looking up admiringly. Here was something to aspire to, a thing that called itself man.

My only consolation is that one day he will be theirs, and they will return all they have learnt, through eternity.

Author bio: John Xero writes. A lot. He’s trying to write long, but the short still calls to him, the shortest most of all. He should blog (, he should tweet (@xeroverse), but he rarely does.

Man is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.


by Sean Patrick Kelley

Death is an unappreciated artist. Her palette of painted children every colour of her lurid dreams. They approach with gray skin, green bruises, black blood, empty blue eyes, puckered purple wounds, and white bone. Their grasping hands know the gnawing, broken teeth of hunger. Their dead eyes see nothing but what they lack. Robbed of their lives, bereft of higher purpose, their base natures rule them. The restless dead only see one colour, the colour of their passion, that hue denied them. In their still cold hearts they know only hate, and the word comes unbidden to dead lips: red.

Author bio: Sean Patrick Kelley can be found in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, the Earthdawn roleplaying game, and other gaming publications. He is the co-founder of the Paradise Lost writing workshop. Follow him on twitter under @Endiron.

Hollow is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.

June 2015. Issue 8. Postscript.

June 21st, 2015. If now is then, then issue 8 is now. The stories will be going live all day, from 10 to 10 UK time.

If then was then, then issue 8 has happened, and you have reached the end. Keep scrolling though, with the stories in this issue 101 Fiction has published over a hundred drabbles as a quarterly, all online, all free to read.

And for more than two years before that we published stories every week, sometimes twice a week or more. Four and a half years of teeny tiny stories should keep you going for a tea break or two.

Thank you, as always, to everyone who reads, writes, blogs, tweets and dreams about 101 Fiction. Our authors and our readers make it worthwhile, and make it awesome.

If you want to be a part of this, keep an eye on here or at @101Fiction for our next submissions period.

Keep reading, keep writing, have fun.

-John Xero

Wednesday, 15 April 2015

June issue open for submissions

**We are now closed for submissions**

It’s that time again! From April 15th to May 15th we want your teeniest tiniest shiniest stories. Just a single word for the title, and a hundred more for the tale. A gem with enough shine to stand out and sparkle amongst all the rubble and rock around it.

This will be the last issue of our second year as a quarterly. A year of colour. Blue, Black & White, Green. And now, finally: Red.

It could be the red wine drunk from the Grail of Shebboth, that offers eternal life in exchange only for your mind. The blood seeping from beneath the dragon’s scales as he succumbs to early viral warfare, or the glitter of lasers as the little red men from mars descend en masse now that mankind has destroyed its only defender. A demon’s eyes in the dark, and the gargantuan cursed ruby he set upon the Earth. The carmine cloaks of a cadre of assassins, or the single guilty fleck of evidence on a murderer’s collar. The lipstick on the wineglass. The warning light, throbbing impotently while everything burns around it.

You don’t have to use the word ‘red’ in the story, but the colour needs to be present in some form. The title itself cannot be ‘red’.

We are a genre ‘zine. But don’t let that stifle you. The tabs at the top say Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror, Surreal, and those are our heartstones, but we have embraced crime fiction too. In fact, we often publish genre-defying pieces – the key is to excite us. Write something that’s bold, that’s clever, that stands out. Polish and shine till it dazzles. Submit something we can’t possibly turn down.

For those extra nitty gritty details and full submission info – check the submissions page.

So, take your hundred words and paint the town red.

Have fun, stay cool, keep writing.

Sunday, 1 March 2015

March 2015. Issue 7.

Welcome to issue 7.

It’s great to be green.

In this issue you’ll find thirteen tiny fictions sprouting like the first fresh buds of spring. The green theme has taken root in some truly fertile imagination, and every little shoot has a big, big story etched into its bright little leaves.

The drabbles within span the breadth of the genres 101 Fiction regularly harvests, with a healthy dose of those hybrids that straddle two (or more) as well. And not for the first time there’s a couple that sit more comfortably in crime than anywhere else, not a genre we advertise, but one we’re happy to embrace when the writing’s this good (so long as it keeps its hands where we can see them...).

We like it when a story’s hard to pin down. When you have to go back for more, to savour it, to understand it, to relish the feel of the words seeding themselves in your warm moist mind.

So what have we got for you this time? Salt air and seashores. Angels and aliens. A quantum quandary. Not-so-lucky encounters. Money and murder. Moonlight, twilight and a flickering green light. All leaning heavily on the strange and surreal.

It’s a green, green world.

Read. Absorb. Enjoy.


Keep scrolling for the stories, or bring up the whole issue here.

Want to take 101 Fiction on the train? On a plane? To the beach or the boardwalk? Issue 7 is available to download as a .pdf, for free, right here.


by Kymm Coveney

Amaryllis scratches the air with one buffed fingernail. “It pushes back,” she says to me. I raise an eyebrow. She rolls her eyes. “Watch,” she instructs. Her peach-glossed nail picks as if at a scab in water and again scratches the air. It seems to bend, leaves an iridescent worm of Northern Lights in its wake. She pries at a glimmer of curvature. Like an eclipse it rolls over and she is gone, swallowed by a wave of emerald tinged in jade phosphorescence. I blink. As if coaxing a spell of déjà-vu, I whisper her name. “Amy?” I blink harder.

Author bio: A translator who practices fiction at BetterLies (, Kymm Coveney spent 2014 writing poems with Jo Bell’s 52 poetry group, and has had one published recently in Synaesthesia Magazine’s THUNDER, LIGHTNING issue. She’s also been reading Martin Bojowald’s Once Before Time, learning about loop quantum cosmology.

Entanglement is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.


by Simon Williams

Green was the colour of the angels as they swept down, swords trailing sparks which tumbled like falling stars and settled in our upturned eyes. I do not know why they left the children alive; we did not deserve it.

Many years later, when the red sky had returned to morning, my grandmother, just before dying, whispered to me the secret of the family.

With my sister I went to the forge on the bank of the shining river and in the ashes found my sword. I shook off my cloak and unfurled my green wings. The sky closed forever.

Author bio: Simon lives in Edinburgh, works, reads and writes very short stories. Some can be seen at Simon tweets at @simonsalento.

Secret is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.


by Alex Brightsmith

Some amongst my people said it was sinful to walk upon the face of the Moon, of the Goddess. I did not; is not Mother Earth a goddess?

That made it easier, when the stain spread and She hung there dim and green, when they celebrated their sacrilege and I saw what must be done, to take this job.

She is green, still, but soon She will be brown, and they will know what has been done. They will seek me, doubtless find me, perhaps kill me, but do not grieve.

For She will shine, bone white, above my grave.

Author bio: Alex Brightsmith was born and raised in Bedfordshire and defies anyone who was not to place it on a map. Profligate examples of Alex’s work have been blogged at

Sacrifice is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.


by Grace Black

The moon has returned, and I can hear its whispers. It’s a grey mockery of my past mistakes. A single file line of every wrong decision awaiting their turn at the podium.

Short hair in fourth grade.
Neon and spandex in sixth.
The prom date from hell.
Art history in college.
Hunter green in the 90’s.
Every. Diet. Fad. Ever.
Sushi for dinner because now I’m hungry again.
Did I lock the doors?
Take my meds?

A striptease of self-doubt, night after night I lie in bed with a string of unwanted dialogue and hope for sleep that never comes.

Author bio: Grace Black is just another writer wearing down lead and running out of ink, one line at a time. Coffee refuels her when sleep has not been kind.

Insomnia is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.


by Robin Jennings

That pale, sickly green piece of paper. That gritty, calloused texture that says it’s been around the block a few times. That smell I can never quite place but always leaves me intoxicated.

There’s just something about a dollar bill, you know?

It’s magic.

Hot off the press. Damp with tears. Stained red with blood. Doesn't matter. Every one is beautiful in all of its imperfections.

So give me the next name on the list and I’ll cross it off. I’ll even let you pick the method. As long as you have that magic. That sickly green. Those dollar bills.

Author Bio: Robin Jennings is a horror enthusiast based in the open fields of Northern New Jersey. Having previously optioned a full length screenplay called “Shudder”, she’s now focusing her creative efforts on short fiction. Follow her on Twitter: @Robin_Jayyy.

Iced is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.


by Scott Dingley

I sit out front when a good onshore breeze carries away the smog and just salt remains, ghostly fingerprints. I sit and sweat salt of my own, staring at a spot by the edge of my lawn, where ivy meets sidewalk...

Thirty years back, some maniac took a local waitress and dumped her there – drove right up and dumped her, like a paperboy delivers the news.

This is long before I lived here.

But something of that dead girl has been there since; an unfading vestige; a bathtub Madonna blanketed only by Santa Ana winds.

Like salt in the breeze.

Author bio: Scott Dingley likes his fiction hard-boiled and haunted, a gothic horror breed of noir. He writes Westerns too, but that's another story.

Lawn is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.


by W. M. Lewis

“Man can't survive on lemon tart alone,” Pippy Hunter said, the wind whipping the syllables away like a third-rate magician. The smell of fresh bitumen, pigeon crap, and ancient shells permeated the foreshore.

He said nothing, merely looked at the green sea. She scraped her boot in the gravelly sand. He looked hungry. She touched his face. He looked drunk.

When they found her body the next day, a half-eaten tart on the sea wall above her, it was still and quiet.

The birds strutted around like murderers who’d gotten away with it.

The hot sun itself seemed to smirk.

Author bio: I'm an Australian poet and writer. My poetry has appeared in Alliterati Magazine, Best Australian Poems 2011, Cordite Poetry Review, Eclecticism, Multiverses, PoV Magazine, Railroad Poetry Project, street cake magazine, The Night Light and Tincture Journal. My flash fiction has previously appeared in 101 Fiction. You can find me on Twitter at @mindintoword and at my blog,

Tart is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.


by Madeline Mora-Summonte

The horizon lurches from dark to light. Roscoe hides his shopping cart then shuffles along the beach. He devours dead fish picked over by birds, slurps seaweed, stuffs lost jewelry into his pockets to sell later.

The tide slips back, slaps forward. Suitcases jut from the sand like jagged teeth, water swishing around them like saliva. Roscoe stares at a dark green bag. In the still air, its luggage tag flaps, its wheels spin.

Roscoe tries to run but all around him the sand shifts, rolls. He screams as the first fingers of bone scratch their way to the surface.

Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte reads, writes and breathes fiction in all its forms. She is the author of the flash fiction collection, The People We Used to Be. To learn more, please visit her blog.

Undertow is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.


by Alex Brightsmith

To have escaped, only to die in a simple robbery; it was absurd. But there were three muggers, and I’d run out of alley.

The first crumpled silently, the second with a grunt. The leader span, slashing wildly. His knife clattered aside, leaving only me and the stranger.

There was a spreading stain on his shirt, but he smiled as if finding me had been the answer to his prayers, and I followed him.

By street light I saw that the stain was green, and my own blood ran cold.

He smiled.

“Missstresss would not have you die sso eassily.”

Author bio: Alex Brightsmith was born and raised in Bedfordshire and defies anyone who was not to place it on a map. Profligate examples of Alex’s work have been blogged at

Reprieve is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.


by John Xero

Joe tugged his pocket knife open. It was short and blunt, but it would serve. He stabbed with quick vicious strikes, feeling Old Man Green crumble.

Chips of lichen-green bark pattered down.

He finished. Stepped back to admire his handiwork.


Old Man Green. Oldest tree in the forest. The oak that never lost its leaves, even through deepest winter. Ancient, massive, historic.

Now he and Mandy had their place in history.

He was still there next morning. Blunt knife deep in his heart, the great tree rearing over him, its bark marred only by time and weather.

Author bio: John Xero thinks you should never underestimate nature, it’s been around a lot longer than you have.

His own scrawlings on history’s wall can be found at and @xeroverse.

Historic is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.


by Jason Preu

In the end, Virgil and Violet Kemp sway on the creaky swing which sits out back of their country bungalow. Serenading cicadas nestle within a thick mix of black and cherrybark oaks. Tears well in their eyes as the twilight sky before them fills with an abnormal golden-green light. Violet's body tenses and Virgil inhales sharply. The sky brightens to a blinding intensity as waves of searing winds tear limb and bark alike from the old, oak trees. Soon, a rolling wall of emerald fire follows, incinerating the bungalow, porch swing, and two half-empty glasses of warm, honey-lemon, iced tea.

Author bio: Jason P. Preu lives, works, and worship avocados in the Kansas City metro with his wife and two children. 

His writing has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Holdfast magazine, WORK magazine, and the anthology Vignettes from the End of the World.

Jason can be found on-line at:

Twilight is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.


by Dylan Walton

“Many before you have lived rich, full lives,” the voice crackled from an unseen speaker.

R examined his new accommodation.  His furnishings were spartan.  A bed, table and chair.  Basic bathroom facilities.  A ceiling light casting its sickly verdant glow over the antiseptic walls.

“There is no need to be alarmed.”

Three unadorned walls.  A floor to ceiling mirror.  No visible sign of entry or exit.

“As long as the light remains green.”

R looked up and saw the lamp also contained an unlit red globe.

“All is well.”

He exhaled, and perhaps imagined he saw the green light flicker.

Author bio: Dylan Walton lives in Melbourne, Australia.  He once won second prize in a local short story contest, which he considers to be much better than winning second prize in a beauty contest in a game of Monopoly.  He can be found on Twitter at

Care is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.


by Brigitte Winter

I squint my eye at the tiny green bud – and growl.

I should’ve known. The elders have been wheezing. Something is wrong in the air. Too moist, maybe. Too warm. This planet seemed so promising – encased neatly in ash when the previous inhabitants obliterated themselves millennia ago.

Now we’ll have to leave.

I picture my females at home in the caves, heavy with eggs – all the little ones who will never skitter around the planet’s perfect dry beaches – and I crush the bud, driving it deep into the cracked, gray earth. I growl again, softer this time, and slink away.

Author bio: Brigitte Winter is a collector and teller of stories, a jewellery-maker, a wannabe world traveller, and the Executive Director of Young Playwrights’ Theater, a Washington, DC non-profit that inspires young people to realize the power of their voices through creative writing ( Brigitte’s short fiction is featured in Columbia Writers’ 2014 anthology, Trapped Tales (, and her micro fiction has been published in 101 Fiction, Nail Polish Stories, and Alban Lake Publishing’s November 2014 Drabble Harvest journal, Tourism on Other Worlds. She loves boundary-busting speculative fiction, and she is currently working on a pre-apocalyptic coming-of-age adventure novel. All of her celebrity crushes are on authors. Visit Brigitte online at

Colony is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.

March 2015. Issue 7. Postscript.

The end that is the beginning that is the end. It's the 101 Fiction postscript paradox!

If you are here on March 1st 2015 then issue 7 is happening this very day. New stories will occur on the hour, from now until the end (and you'll know it's the end, because it will be the beginning - the issue 7 introduction).

If today is not March 1st, then you have come to the end of issue 7. Do not despair but carry on, fair traveller, for beyond this there are 6 more issues to explore, and beyond that there are even more tiny tales lost in the fogs of time, waiting only for you to rediscover them.

I hope you've enjoyed this greenest of issues.

Thank you for reading.

If you submitted a story, even if it wasn't accepted, then thank you too - we wouldn't be here without you. And if you want to have a go, then keep an eye on here or @101Fiction for details of issue 8.

Keep reading. Keep writing. Have fun.

- John Xero

Thursday, 15 January 2015

March Issue Open for Submissions

**Submissions are now closed.**

From now (January 15th) to February 15th we’re looking for your teeny tiny stories. Small on the word count, big on the taste. You have a single word for the title and a hundred words to tell your tale.

We’re into the second year of 101 Fiction as a quarterly and if you’ve been paying attention you know the themes for year two are all colours. We’ve been blue. We went black and white.

For issue seven we're going green.

It could be a pair of beguiling green eyes. A broken jade sword, destined to one day slay an emperor. The verdigris on the copper dome of a cathedral, or the flame as it burns. A lush jungle planet and the camouflaged horror that stalks unseen through the greenery. The creeping forest, as nature reclaims an abandoned city. The green light on the escape pod’s life support system flickering and dying. The dark moss green of an orc’s skin, or the leaf green of her blood. A small boat adrift on an emerald sea.

Your story doesn’t have to have the word green in it. Green doesn’t even need to be the focus of the tale. But the colour, in some form, must be present.

The title cannot be 'green.'

We are primarily a genre ‘zine. See up the top there where it says ‘Science fiction, fantasy, horror, surreal.’ But then again, we’re pretty loose with it. Startle us, shock us, stir us deep within. Shake us, scare us, set us in a spin. The important thing is that the story stands out.

Want the full details and guidelines? Check the submissions page.

You’ve got one hundred words. Go play.

Go wild. Go green. Get creative.