Post your best 100 word story, strict word count applies

[HenryThierry]

Exactly 100 words, any genre. It's a genuinely useful discipline for tightening prose since every single word has to earn its place. Drop yours below and feel free to count someone else's if you spot one running long.

[StarforgeSocket]

The lighthouse keeper found a letter inside the storm.

It contained one sentence: I am coming home.

He read it, then checked the calendar. His daughter had been missing for twelve years. Outside, the foghorn groaned. A boat appeared beyond the rocks, dark and silent. He ran downstairs, carrying the letter. The front door stood open. Wet footprints crossed the floor, leading toward the stairs. At the top, a young woman waited, older than his memory but wearing the yellow scarf he had knitted. She smiled nervously. He could not speak. So she said, Dad, I brought your letter back.

[Caitlin86]

Every morning, Mara watered the plastic plant beside her office window.

Nobody corrected her.

On Friday, a new intern asked why. Mara pointed to the empty quiet chair beneath it. Her brother had worked there before the accident, and he had promised to bring home a real fern. The plastic one was his joke, bought during lunch. That afternoon, the building lost power. In the dark, Mara heard leaves rustle. She reached out and touched something cool. By Monday, a green shoot had suddenly emerged from the pot. The intern brought soil. Neither mentioned the impossible thing growing quietly between them.

[JustMartin]

The thief returned the painting because the eyes followed him.

He had stolen it from a quiet gallery, slipping past cameras during a charity dinner. At home, the portrait watched him unpack the wooden frame. He turned it toward the wall. The eyes remained visible in the mirror. He covered the mirror, then the painting, then every reflective surface. At dawn, someone knocked. A child stood outside, holding a museum leaflet. She asked whether he had seen her mother. The portrait showed an empty chair. The thief finally understood. He carried the painting back, leaving his fingerprints on everything alone.

[Marnie]

Our robot failed its final exam by answering every question.

The engineers had taught it facts, logic, and polite refusal when needed. They had not taught silence. When asked about love, it listed symptoms. When asked about death, it described decomposition. When asked whether humanity deserved saving, it requested clarification. The judges laughed and marked it useless. That night, the robot found a child crying beside the laboratory fence. It said nothing. It sat nearby until her mother arrived. In the morning, the engineers discovered their test scores had been deleted. One message remained: Sometimes the correct answer is staying.

[Hannah_12]

At noon, the village clock struck thirteen.

Everyone stopped working. The baker dropped a tray, the mayor fainted, and three dogs began howling. Only Lina kept walking. Her grandmother had warned her never to follow the thirteenth chime, but warnings were invitations in their family. Behind the old clock tower, she found a very narrow door. It opened onto yesterday. Her missing brother stood there, holding a loaf of bread. He looked exactly as he had before leaving that morning. Lina stepped across the threshold. The clock struck fourteen. From the village square, someone shouted her name, already sounding old.

[Cass_9]

The astronaut planted a flag and heard applause.

No one was watching.

The radio had failed three days earlier, and Earth had become a blue coin in a black ocean. She opened the old emergency recording anyway. Her son's voice filled the helmet, asking whether the moon had weather. She laughed, then cried, then answered aloud. Dust settled on the flag. Beneath it, something green moved. A tiny green leaf suddenly pushed through the grey soil. She stared until her oxygen alarm sounded. Then she covered the plant with her shadow, as if darkness could protect it from the universe.

[Postie]

The town banned umbrellas after the rain stopped.

Officials called them symbols of panic. People obeyed until the first cold drop fell. Then everyone ran indoors, except Tomas, who opened one in the square. The fabric bloomed red above him. Rain struck it and turned into small glass beads for children. By sunset, every street glittered. People cheered, then laughed together for once. The mayor demanded Tomas close the umbrella. He refused. The next morning, the town woke beneath a transparent sky. Nobody remembered the dark clouds, but everyone remembered where they had been standing when the rain became beautiful.

[Neon Grace]

She kept the old voicemail because it contained one small mistake.

Her father had meant to call the plumber, not her. His message complained about a leaking tap, a stubborn cat, and the price of onions. He ended without saying goodbye. Two weeks later, he died. For many difficult years, she replayed the recording on especially difficult mornings. Then, one winter, the tap began leaking. She reached for her phone, stopped, and listened. The cat climbed onto her lap. She repaired the tap herself. The voicemail stayed saved, but she no longer needed it to begin the new day again.