100-Word Fiction: ‘The Storm of St Lou’

Yeah can you get some now now
Hear it comin’ yeah yeah
Howlin’ howlin’ oh yeah howl howl
All the way and back and down down
Down the line now baby
Oh come on now keep it yeah
Storm is raising
Storm is raising
Storm is raising
Can you hear it rainin’ rain rain
Whistle blowin’ blow blow
Wind is rattlin’ now a huff huff
Huffin’ puffin’ huffin huff puff
Trees a-fallin’ on the line line
Trains a-rattlin’ all the time time
Woah Mister Driver you’d better
Call it off off
Aww it’s gettin’ hot hot
Awright, lemme hear ya

100-Word Fiction: ‘Red Thread’

Was there a time before the freedoms that still endure, before the storms that swept the sands, where what we watched unfold bore some resemblance to reality?

Once, I think, after the first of the degradations had been suffered, we still imagined the aimless orbit of missiles around the void of an ethical centre.

Not now. No signs refer to an external model any more. They stand for nothing but themselves and refer only to other signs.

The no-fly zones are full of jetplanes. Red tracer fire stitches the sky like thread in blue jeans. Meaning is out of sight.

100-Word Fiction: ‘Wild’

As the leaves were ripped from the trees one wild weekend, and a paper cup scuttled down the street, and the clouds were driven by, and the concrete towered high, and the feathers of a hat were bowed, and the sound of drums echoed, and the rifles saluted, and the cannons rolled, and the crowds were seated and cowed, and the carriages rocked all through the city, the house was silent. Did the walls creak? Did the draughts whisper? Did the bells ring? Did the door knock? No. She looked at him and he at her, and all was good.