101-WORD FICTION FINALISTS

0

1992

As vacant hours ran through our hair, sunlight slid between the whitewashed boards of the fence, laying lazy lines against the green that guards your childhood home. Another tumultuous time pulled clean by the reach and pull of the shore — a roar in the distance — and the hazy way you would laugh then, eyes squinting at the sun.

This is how I choose to remember you: All scabbed knees and escape plans.

Still sheltered.

— Courtney Clarkson Farrell

Untitled

We saw Annie at the concert last night. I recalled our first meeting. Joseph brought her by and introduced her as his daughter, though she was a foster child. She didn’t speak, just hid behind him and peeked out avoiding eye contact. She never spoke. Born addicted and alcoholic, the first thirty days of her life were in withdrawal. For seven years she never spoke.

A tiny girl, hidden behind the cellos, only the white top of her bassoon and her music proved her existence there. During applause we caught a glimpse of her smile. The music was exquisite. We spoke.

— T. Cotter Stephenson

Untitled

My brother whimpers against the sounds next door. Still he holds his eyes tight against the darkness. His face mashes into my sweatshirt he uses as a pillow. The smell of smoke and piss permeate the floor we draped with tattered blankets. This game is called being asleep. I hum with the power lines trying to drown the sounds of flesh meeting fists. Mother’s friend yelling echoes against thin walls. Their muffled words are an ancient language I hope he can’t understand. She will check on us later, when it is quiet. Then I will play the game too.

— Joseph Foster

The Moment

The conditions were much less than perfect as we approached the summit.

Being too late to turn back we honed in on all of the experiences that brought us to this moment. The sky opened up and let loose as thunder clapped, startling us. With the earth shaking beneath us, we made eye contact and subtly nodded, this was it. “Climbing,” I shouted, above the clouds, as I heard static electricity transmit between the ropes and ’biners. Wiping my face dry, I dug in for the final push. High step to mantel, my foot slipped and I launched into the abyss.

— Andrew Zimmerman

Quality of Life

Pringle’s just a part of the family, you know? There was no question of doing everything possible, like the $100s every week in medications, the wheeled cart for his paralyzed back legs, or carrying him up and down the stairs.

So maybe he can’t lift a leg to pee on other dogs at the park anymore, but it’s about quality of life. On his wheels, he can still snap at delivery folks, can still roll into a room just to fart bomb everyone, but no, don’t pet him. He still bites, too.

See? Same old asshole. Good dog, Pringle. Good dog. 

— Kate Jonuska

Waiting To Cross

The man saw a teenage boy bolt headlong into rush-hour traffic. People gasped. Car horns blared. It was amazing how quick the boy was, how nimbly he was able to dance and dodge between the cars without breaking stride. The boy made it safely across and then looked back and laughed. That laugh — an affront against the entire world. The man wished for a moment that he were that boy, that he could feel exactly what the boy was feeling right now just once in his very safe, careful life.

— Randy Klutts

The Cold Man

It was cold outside, but from inside his hut a man saw a fur coat floating in the river, possibly a bearskin, much prized for its warmth. Reaching out to seize it, the coat first seemed to reach back, then wore him home.

— James Maxwell

Sprung

Trance music reaches a cresendo. I feel it on my scalp, maybe the roots of my hair. All around, bodies quiver with and for pleasure. The coals of the firewalk pit are ready. The first few adventurers walk across, struggling not to seem to hurry.

I see a girl with an insulin pump on her hip and think of Rebecca. It occurs to me, I get along with diabetics. Over the music I hail to her, Is that an Asante SNAP?! She furrows her brows, looks east and west, disappears into the crowd. Maybe she is self conscious about her diabetes…

— Chris Norris

Core Strength

Adjustment is a word — it is not a verb, there is no action that brings evenness back to us. It is him and the illness. I am outside it — pale, hollowed, twisted, anticlastic.

“Yoga strengthens your core,” our instructor says. This gaggle of above-middle-aged women moves. “Final relaxation. Namaste.” We bend low, reply the same. I don’t want them to gather ’round my strandedness; their husbands are witty, cogent, steady.

I need them to surround me. They do. Their kindness is rebar that strengthens my core. I put on sunglasses so none of the strength spills out. 

— Andi Gregory Pearson

Just Visiting

Boulder. St Julian Hotel. Here for a conference. The bar. Guy next to me emits a calm edginess. Shots. Beers. Him: “You like to fly?” “Anytime.” Underground parking. Tesla. Him: “Don’t worry, it’s legal.”

Drive to Longmont Airport and into a disintegrating single prop piper. Ducttaped windows. Checking gauges. “Little low on oil but should be OK.” Take off.

Like being in a shopping cart going down stairs.

Flatirons. Sunset. Currents of currants. Red rash slabs under a blue green frostbitten sky. Him: “OK.” “We OK.” “Oil pressure,” he hands me another tightly rolled flight plan. “You like to jump?” 

— Will Pittenger

Untitled

I’d been feeling very lost, so I went out into the world to find myself. It became clear very quickly that it was no small feat. How do you find yourself without knowing where to look? In panic, I poured over the places I’d been many times before. Searching endlessly. Days, weeks, years. It was a blur. Until at last I found the truth. I’d never find myself in the places I’d been before — that was my past. To see my future, I had to go where I’d never been before. And that is where I found myself at last.

— Jessi Dazzo

Rantabula Three

“There are such things as risky derivatives markets and overseas investments involving slave labor and environmental destruction, you know,” Francisco told his son, who was struggling to look at life and see the reality of it; truth in an objective manner.

“My mind is a never-ending rant, Dad. And let’s admit it. We enjoy it!

Everyone does, without exception. Clearing the slate happens, but it only happens when you have kids, after which all is lost, obviously.”

“True,” the father replied, “but divorce set me free to question again and to love you just the same. Remember this, if you can!” 

—Jon Theunissen

Untitled

“So what if I were to tell you that for three months I have been recording the conversations we have before sex.”

“You’re kidding!” “No.” “What!??… Are you recording us now?” He smiled. She pointed towards to the door unwilling to say another word then muttered “…trick me into talking.” She glowered then moved from indignant to astounded to curious.

“Are you going to transcribe it all?” “Just the good parts.” “I don’t know… that’s so weird. “ “For me good writing is about dialogue. We have a good story.” “I want you to tell our story, but, we can’t…” 

— Isaac Davenport