A Small Scratch

 Genre: Horror. Action: Telephone Call. Word: gorge. 100 words

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"Down is the easy part," I reassured her. "I'll call you when I reach the tipple."

I stepped onto the trail and zig-zagged down to Kaymoor Mine, overlooking New River Gorge. I wanted the photo: Your family wants you to work safely.

Peering into the abandoned mine, I call her.

"Hey girl," I start.

"Mind the gas. Stay off the tracks. A small scratch can kill a large workman." It isn't her voice. It's...tinny, thready.

"Who is this?"

 
"Mind the gas. Stay off the tracks. A small scratch--"

A whistle blows within the mine.

"--can kill a large man."

Fourth Floor

100 word microfiction. Genre: mystery. Action: riding an elevator. Word: permanence

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You can't go to the fourth floor. An exorcism, you know the book, it was the Jesuits. Here. You don't believe the legends, although this is true: you can't get to the fourth floor of Reinigen Hall.

Stairs go up; there is no door. Rather, there is a door, but the bolts have an unmitigated permanence to them. Sealed.

There’s an elevator button. The little lock next to it begging for a key.

"There's no call button," they claim. "You're trapped until someone else has the same notion."

You slip the master key in your pocket. You’ve always been notional.

Merit Badge

100 word microfiction. Genre: lesbian romance. Activity: Building furniture. Word: Merit

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We spread the pieces across the floor. I start counting, recounting, rearranging, reading the pieces like tarot. 

Will it work? 

Will we work?

Will it fit?

Will we?

She hands me the allen wrench. I pass it back. Decipher the instructions.

 
"The girl scouts have a merit badge for this shit now."

"All those camps are run by lesbians, Delia," she raises an eyebrow.

"Don't you know it," I nod, lying back, my head on her thigh, my hand on her foot. I tell the story of my old troop, finding my way, getting lost, getting found.

By her.

Churning in Space

Microfiction: Science fiction. In less than 100 words, use the word "beneath" and depict the action "eating ice cream"

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Keeper-Starlight is still; we hear the recycling churn beneath us power up. Our mouths water, eleven Earth-years since the last recycling. 

"Chocolate," Bosun-Silence whispers, sniffing the air. The churn's vacuoles relinquish the coolant-based treat I can hardly remember. 

"You first," he nods to me. I lift the spoon to my mouth, honoring Keeper-Starlight with the first miraculous melting mouthful. 

Every generation yields life to the next; the moment of recycling a frozen sacrificial celebration. Nine generations of flavor-based eulogies as we drift in space. 

I look at Bosun-Silence. He's certainly caramel, I muse. 

Craving, I finger my antique steel blade.