Nobody was dying from the sickness any more, but that didn’t mean that nobody was dying. The constant reminder that Tilda was dying was the wet sucking sound every time she breathed.
She couldn’t run. She’d die fighting, or from drowning – she never should have pulled the knife from her ribs, but it was the only weapon she could reach. She pounced from the shadows when her pursuer turned the corner. The knife slipped in between two ribs and soon there was a pair of dying women lying in the hall. Each died wondering if the other still breathed.
Tags: 100 word story, Apocalypse, attack, axe, blood, creative writing, dead, death, flash fiction, microfiction, murder, scrawl brawl, short story, survival
The knob jiggled; Katie positioned herself near the door. There was a second of silence before it flew open in an explosion of splinters. Katie swung her bat, but the intruder ripped it out of her hands, and smashed her skull with one nauseating crack.
I buried my axe into his neck before he could turn around. He dropped beside her, bleeding out onto the floor.
Another man entered. We quickly assessed each other.
He held out his hand. I grabbed my supplies before accepting it, and followed him out.
And that’s how I met your father.
Tags: 100 word story, Apocalypse, attack, blood, bloodthirsty, creative writing, dead, death, flash fiction, microfiction, mosquitos, murder, pandemic, scrawl brawl, short story, the despot, Vincent Crampton
The government’s solution to the mosquito pandemic buzzed in Dr. Meyer’s lab.
“Genetic manipulations, controlled releases, the parasites will soon be extinct,” said General Shaw, leading an assembly into the lab. “Right, doctor?”
Through his hazmat suit, Dr. Meyer said, “This plague will soon end.”
“When shall we release them?”
“Now.” Meyer pressed a remote. Dark swarms flew from trap doors. Huge, aggressive, bloodthirsty, they attacked the visitors. “You ask me to orchestrate their genocide?” shouted Meyer amidst screams. “This species predates the dinosaurs. The hubris!”
He stepped over desiccated corpses, opened a window, releasing the swarm. “Eliminate the parasites!”
The bandits fought like ancient street thugs. I grabbed a swinging chain and pulled. My attacker spun. I stabbed.
POW! The bandit leader’s pistol was pointed skyward.
“Join us and be initiated!”
I wasn’t near enough to do harm with knife or chain, so I freed my pipe from my sleeve. I blew.
The dart flew. All eyes followed until it sank into the gunman’s neck.
In seconds he was dead.
My comrades brought forth their own pipes.
The bandits dropped their weapons, raising their empty hands, realizing we had reached farther back into history for our weaponry.
Tags: 100 word story, Adam Francis Smith, animals, Apocalypse, attack, Battle, creative writing, flash fiction, microfiction, scrawl brawl, short story
He needed water. The cougar swung, clawing Aaron’s shoulder, spinning him. Aaron dived down an incline, gaining his feet only to face a bison that charged. Dodging to avoid the beast, he ran. Climbing a fence, he dropped to the other side. A pair of goats attacked, kicking. Battered, he forced his way into a barn. Feeling safe, he rested. Above, an owl screeched and launched itself from an ancient beam, talons raised. He ran again and was nearly trampled by a horse, but he rolled, righted himself and finally made it to the well. Now, where was that canteen?
Tags: 100 word story, Apocalypse, attack, children, creative writing, dead, death, flash fiction, killers, microfiction, murder, scrawl brawl, short story
Klip ran as fast as he could, chased by the Huffing Man. The man was the leader, so Klip decided he should be first.
The boy slid beneath the porch and scrambled under the house and out the other side. The Huffing Man tried to follow but was too big and was soon stuck.
Several children bashed in his head and watched as his body quivered before becoming still. They cheered, but the celebration was short-lived.
Klip came around from the rear of the house. “Drag the body to the barn,” he ordered, “while I go get another grown-up.”
The baby wouldn’t shut up, so I did what I had to do. It was ridiculous how large my hand was compared to his face. I covered his mouth, his nose, his eyes. He squirmed and huffed, but eventually his little body went limp.
I wanted to cry, there in that ruin that had once been a house. Rain poured in from the swiss cheese roof and ivy grew on the walls. My house used to be like that. Once upon a time.
I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. The dolphin’s hearing was too good.
Tags: 100 word story, Adam Francis Smith, Apocalypse, attack, blood, creative writing, dead, death, flash fiction, last man on earth, microfiction, murder, scrawl brawl, scythe, short story
Three of us remain: he and she and I. I want him, so I lie in wait, crouched in shadow near the only fresh-water source for miles.
The sky is as gray as the land, with a wide ellipse of turbulent crimson, dotted with darker gray — always churning.
She comes, bucket in hand, and I leap from the darkness, slashing with my scythe. Gouts of blood float in seeming slow-motion as she falls to the ground — gray on red on gray again.
I’ve won, securing for myself the second-to-last man on earth by elimination of the last woman.
Tags: 100 word story, Adam Francis Smith, attack, creative writing, dead, death, drowning, Feudal Japan, flash fiction, microfiction, murder, scrawl brawl, short story
Gin felt the lake close over her as she bathed. Recent attacks came to mind as a hand covered her mouth. She let herself drop, and planted a solid punch into a groin. Exhaling loudly her uncle bent and she chopped his throat, her hand hard as steel. He fell forward. Gin stomped his neck and forced him under water. She kept the pressure on until he ceased flailing, then hurriedly dressed and ran home. This might be the death of her and her family, her uncle having been a powerful lord, but what was done was done.
Tags: 100 word story, bandit, bridge, cliff, creative writing, dagger, dead, death, fall, Feudal Japan, flash fiction, knife, microfiction, scrawl brawl, short story, tanuki, trickster, Vincent Crampton
The bandit Ishikawa wanders to a steep cliff, a prosperous village the other side. He steps onto a rope bridge hovering above the misty abyss.
Halfway across, Tanuki appears, scratching his big tummy and sipping sake.
Ishikawa draws a dagger.
“The village has nothing worth stealing,” says Tanuki, “except this bridge.” He tips his straw hat to the ropes. “They wove this bridge from gold fibers.”
“Trickster!” shouts Ishikawa. “That can’t be.”
Tanuki belches. “See for yourself.”
Ishikawa glances down. The ropes glisten gold.
“The bridge is yours,” says Tanuki.
Leering, Ishikawa’s dagger hacks at the rope, his bandit fortune.
A twang. The rope snaps. The bridge tips, hurling Ishikawa into the abyss.
Tanuki yawns. “Gotta fix the bridge again.”
Note: The Despot realizes this story has 120 words, not 100 words. The Despot makes the rules in this realm. The Despot will allow this small infraction, but only this once, for the sake of this story alone.