100 Word Story Contest Finalists
Here are the stories from the top ten authors in the second annual Arts Academy in the Woods Creative Writing 100 Word Story Contest. There were over a hundred entries this year. Author names were removed from the stories and the contest was judged by students in different classes. Please be aware some of the stories contain gore/intense imagery.
(Milo had two stories that placed in the top ten.)
Iâm sitting in a restaurant waiting for a girl who said sheâd meet me an hour ago. I pour about twelve sugar packets onto the table and drag my finger through the grit in the shape of a dog. I laugh, he has a funny looking face. I think to myself, that girl will come barging through the front entrance any moment now, rain soaked and profusely apologizing. Iâll tell her not to worry and order her a drink. Maybe. I sneeze, and the sugar goes everywhere. Iâm not laughing anymore. Fake dogs never sit. Fake girls never show up.
Butterflies swarm in my gut. Their wings are rough like sandpaper, peeling the lining off the inside of my stomach as they try to escape. I try to hold them down like I would a bad meal, but theyâre much more violent than rotten leftovers. I can feel the blood bubbling up in my throat. It tastes like a final goodbye. You said that I was a garden as you let caterpillars creep between the gaps in my teeth. But there were no flowers for them to eat, so they fed on me instead. I swear that love is violence.
Ideas from these stories came from an attempt to delve into absurdity while still remaining realistic.
âHey Iver!â an old friend says while running to catch up to me, âYou doing alright?âÂ
I turn and look back into my friendâs deep brown eyes, thinking back to my childhood, days of baking in the kitchen with Mom, the magnificent scent of apples and cinnamon from the freshly opened oven, the sound of mom swearing because she touched the burner. The soft, yet crumbly feel of the chocolate caramel brownies I made. The messy but familiar kitchen, scattered baking tools everywhere, a spoon covered in batter, the flour spilled on the glossy counter.
I sigh, âYeah, Iâm okayâ
Peter was inspired by memories of baking when he was younger.
I miss the heat of summer. When the sun would sit so close I could bring out a jar and catch its rays like fireflies. When we'd keep the AC off because even with it on the house would still feel like the inside of a volcano; ice cream that melted in seconds. I even miss the way the sun would reach down and kiss my checks, and place its warm hand on my back, leaving freckles and a bright red burn in its place. But what I miss most about the heat are the memories that came with it.
âJulyâ was inspired by nostalgic hot, summer days that the author would spend with friends and family when she was younger.
Freight Trains by Penelope K.
The freight trains take all the baggage away. I walk down the tracks earnestly, hoping an empty boxcar would call out my name. I can see myself running towards my fate so clearly, all my belongings left behind; abandoned, lost maybe. Every cold, hopeless night I long for the day where I grow the courage to wait by the tracks and hop on when no one is looking. Because maybe if I can run away from this small town, I can somehow run away from myself, too. Iâll leave the ghosts of my past here to keep the tourists company.
"Freight Trains" is a representation of what Penelope thinks is a feeling everyone experiences from time to time -- a desire for a clean slate, the need for a new beginning.
Michelangelo's Perfection by Paige Z.
My beautiful masterpiece.
Once so pure and full, now etched with my desire.
For I am the great Michelangelo.
Your stand still silence is my greatest challenge, it enticed me,
I longed to carve into your being.
My existence soaked into your cracks.
My phantom touch haunting your design.
Even though rivers flowed, it would polish your features so effortlessly.
I will enable you to be rid of all your flaws.
To finally rise to perfection of being my creation.
My generosity embraces you my dearest,
As beauty is the purgation of superfluities.
For I am the great Michelangelo, forevermore.
This story was a retelling of a personal experience of mine through the eyes of the second party, I wanted this to be a voice for myself and possibly connect to others.
I experienced what death smells like today. I had closure in knowing that it doesnât smell like whatever you fear most. It smells empty and dull. Death and decomposition are ugly, hungry and brutal forces that naturally take place, and although I wish I could; I cannot simply shun the inevitable. As I break my chopsticks, I stare at my sushi roll, notice that eel sauce has the same consistency as cold blood, and I take the moment to thank the fish my food came from because I hope that whatever eats me in the future will do the same.
Mia was torn between past and future events when this was written -- the piece represents a liminal space. A place between two events where time was stopped and you could just sit down and reflect before fully moving on with life.
Unexplainable by Sommer F.
Iâve only got a minute to explain all this, So Iâll be quick. Things arenât going very well at headquarters. Iâm not sure that this door can take much more abuse. And that stupid intercom screeching about how there has been a breach isnât helping. Anyways, that isnât why Iâm sending this last message. Thereâs so much I wish I could say to you, but time is running out and you know that I type slower than a snail. You canât come back here. I canât die without knowing youâll be safe or not. Donât be my hero. Donât come back.
Sommer says, âHonestly, I donât really know what inspired âUnexplainable.â I love to free write -- I guess you can say this is some of my best work.â
Empty Landscape by Gabriel G.
TOP STORY BY A UNDERCLASSMEN
The tall grass seemed to fade away the further you walk, and so does everything else. Once the sky above you was dark and it faded until a paper white seemed to swallow you whole. After all thatâs happening, the world is gone. Why are you still walking?! What are you waiting for, do you think the end is just going to appear for you? Well thatâs not how life works. You canât walk in blindly and get to the end, thatâs not how it works! Yet you still walk. Fine, I warned you, I give up.
The main inspiration for âEmpty Landscapeâ was a scene from Coraline where she and the cat walk around the world.
Ghosts/goblins are what these creatures are called, but you need not fear for they just want to play. But do you know what frightens these supposed nightmares. It is not the children they are scared of, but scared for. They see our world and its cruel grip it has on people. They worry for the unborn that will soon be there. They cry for the children who have already seen its horrors. They hurt for the adults who are living it. And they pity the dead who died in it, even if those who did made peace with it.
âIt was really fun to go back on some older works and just mess with them, âMonstersâ was one of my favorite ones to work on again.â
The Existence of a Personâs Crown Does Not Break Your Own by Rosemarie K.
SECOND PLACE HONOR (Rosemarie had two stories that tied with the second highest scores.)
Autumn, with her striking colors and a cool relief from the hot-tempered Summer, was well loved. Winter, though, was thought to be aloof and envied the adoration Autumn received. The world did anything to shut Winter out; doors were firmly shut and the heat was blasted. Winter tried to give the world snow as a gift, but all she heard was the grumble of drivers. She never heard, though, the joyous cry of children on a snow day or the hopes for a white Christmas. Winter, busy thinking of all that Autumn was, never saw the adoration she had.
Flames Start Before Ash Is Seen by Rosemarie K.
I burned the land because they refused to drain the moat and lower the bridge. I had known this castle; why was I not allowed in? My flames crumbled the already failing foundation, but my resentment lasted. One of the towers fell and a soldier begged for the end. Not to me, but I could read his lips while he mouthed a silent prayer. With horror, I gave my apologies. Occasionally, velvet curtains were pulled back and I could see inside. Now, I understood that my deed was one of many others. I wish I had the stone to rebuild.
Both of Rosemarie's stories were inspired by tarot cards.
Mother wailed in agony as she rested her wiry bones in the bath, soaking in filth and sadness. Her black ashtray sat upon the ledge of the tub, and inside the decaying corpses of cancer sticks.Â
âWhy me?â She whispered.
âHey hun, where are you?â The crackling of flames roared in the background.
âJohn? Where are you?âÂ
âI canât remember. Nobody here has a face. Help us.â
âThe children are licking their lips over and over. We havenât had food since you cooked us that nice casserole⌠What was your special ingredient, love, or rat poison?
Anna feels her writing teeters on the morbid side of things, but that it creates space to produce shocking and exciting pieces. She says âAfterthoughtâ was written to send a chill down reader's spines.
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