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.
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.
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.
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.
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.