Your 100 Word Story
Let’s get this weekend write-life started! From this Friday forward, I’ll include an image prompt and a few words to get your brain percolating towards a story. But only if you need it! Write whatever sparks joy for you.
Here’s how:
Exactly 100 words. Not 99 or 101. The Word Count Police are tracking!
Genre? Writer’s choice! So long as you give us all the thrills and the feels.
To Fic or to Non-Fic? You decide. What matters most is that you’re satisfied with the output.
Copy/paste your words in the comments, then share on your own Substack, and maybe, share to social media!
A Note on Substack Notes | Click the 🔄 “Restack with a Note” and copy/paste your story for added reach and growth.
IMAGE PROMPT
This ain’t no Charlie Brown Pumpkin Patch! I wonder what really goes on at a pumpkin patch in the middle of the night. Especially one that just appears out of nowhere in the middle of a cornfield (perhaps?)…
REMINDER: You don’t have to write your story just on Fridays! Take this sentiment and free write all weekend long!
Enjoying these weekly emails? Don’t forget to read the submissions in the comments section and share this post with your friends!
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My wife found the brochure and coupons.
“Fun for the whole family!” the brochure said. “An unforgettable experience!” the brochure said.
Well, it was right about the last part.
I had reservations. Something seemed off to me. My wife wouldn’t hear of it. We’d been in this town three years, and had yet to find somewhere that met with her approval. As far as she was concerned, Pumpkin Town was going to be pumpkin perfection.
Well, she was right about the last part.
The pumpkins needed our bodies to live up to their true potential. Humans make the best jack-o’-lanterns.
The pumpkins started glowing again.
The priest tried his best last year, but there were only so many times we could call the clergy to the same spot without it getting awkward. After the fifth time, we decided to leave the whole thing alone.
They didn’t end up eating anybody, like we feared. In fact, they turned out to be very polite, lighting the sidewalks after dark and guiding lost children to their parents. They even helped us catch a vandalizing teenager before he did too much damage.
This year, we have an agreement. We grow them, they protect us.
“The Ancestors”
Raina slumped wearily against the flatbed and looked over the dark field. The pumpkin-pickers were gone, cider kegs washed. The last employee, Eric, had shrunk to a pair of taillights turning onto the road. Raina paused to admire how pumpkin-shaped shadows stretched away like giant stones in an ancient lakebed.
With receipts from the tourists, she would pay the last of her family’s back taxes tomorrow. Turning toward the house built by Great-Uncle Mel in 1904, she felt the field come alive behind her with ancestors.
She was used to it. They came every night, rollicking in the pumpkin shadows.