Wednesday 30 April 2014

100 Worder Carousel

100 Worder

Jo Fino


Cotton Candy Carousel – 2 oz Cotton Candy Vodka, 1 oz Coco Jack Rum, 3 oz club soda, splash grenadine. Mix in glass filled with ice. Garnish with a cherry.

‘Day I was born, Ma said I went round in circles, trying to find my way out!’ Casey threw back her head, squealing as the carousel picked up speed.
              He longed to wind her sleek black hair in his fingers and kiss her slowly, lips lingering.
             ‘What you thinkin’ bout Bobby? You ain’t with me.’
              How wrong she was.
              The ride over, she slipped off the painted horse giggling.
             ‘Let’s go to the jambalaya stand,’ she shouted over the music ‘I’m starving.’
             She pranced through the fairground stalls, Bobby trailing faithfully behind. One of them a lamb to the slaughter.

About the Author
Jo Fino calls herself a dreamer, an optimist and a worrier. She started writing again to deal with stress and gradually rediscovered her passion. She is working on short stories and a couple of novel ideas, dabbles with poetry and has a blog:

Since CafeLit published Jo’s first short story here, her story A Tale of A Smuggler and His Girl was shortlisted by Honno in their call for ghost stories and her short story Cruel Summer won the Writer's Forum monthly competition and was published in issue 146.

Thursday 24 April 2014

100 Worder Do Or Die

100 Worder
Susan Eames
Do Or Die
Bitter Lemon

The anticipation is always worse than the reality. I repeat the mantra whilst riffling through a blur of magazines.
‘Pop your top off,’ says Nurse.
Pop indeed.
‘Stand here. Lean forwards. Let’s pop your breast onto the plate.’
I’ll bloody pop you in a minute.
She lifts my right breast and slaps it down. ‘Comfy?’
She brings the top plate down.
Blessed relief as she releases the pressure.
‘Good girl, and again.’
‘Excellent.’ She grabs my left breast. ‘Up we pop.’
I want to kill her. I want to refuse. Then I remember why I’m doing this.

About the Author
Susan Eames left England over twenty years ago to explore the world and dive its oceans. She has had travel articles and short fiction published on three continents. She is currently arranging a move from Fiji to Ireland.

Wednesday 23 April 2014

Harriet’s Easter Surprise

Jan Baynham

Harriet’s Easter Surprise

Sweet Hot Chocolate

‘Oh no!’ I clucked to myself, watching Patsy Poulet and Fiona Fowl as they headed my way. These two birds thought they ruled the roost.
‘Come on, Harriet Hen,’ squawked Patsy. ‘Off you get. You’ve been sitting on that nest for days. Let’s see.’ The two hens pushed me off and gazed in at my clutch of precious eggs.
‘What on earth is that?’ clucked Fiona unkindly and pointed one of her talons at the smallest egg which was tucked safely in the corner of the straw. They both cackled with laughter and flew back to the high perch at the other end of the hen house.
I looked down on my eight eggs with the pride that only a broody hen could understand. To me, the smallest egg was special not different, with a pink lilac shell delicately spattered with fine purple speckles and a translucent coating almost like a powder that didn’t rub off. I returned to warm the eggs, fluffed up my feathers and sat back down. How dare they make fun of my beautiful tiny egg? I thought.
‘Over there, my little one,’ I clucked to the pink egg, rolling it to the edge where it was cooler. Something told me instinctively not to over-heat my special egg. That evening, I felt the first pecking and gentle tapping from a few of my chicks inside their shells and knew it wouldn’t be long before they hatched. I loved this time of year when all my careful nest sitting would soon result in baby chicks entering the world from the safety of their silky smooth eggs.
Sure enough, a few days before Good Friday seven out of my eight eggs hatched out into straggly wet chicks. It wasn’t long before they were fluffy and yellow, opening their beaks wide for any food I could give them. My special pink egg just lay there.
‘When are you going to hatch, my little one?’ I clucked, but half knowing that would never happen. Deep down, something told me there was no chick inside the pink shell. As well as producing chicks, my other job was to lay eggs for the family’s breakfast and soon I had laid another clutch of fresh eggs.


‘Sophie, Josh! Come and choose your eggs!’ said their mum. ‘As soon as we’ve had breakfast, we can start the egg hunt.’
 It was Easter Sunday at last and the children found their way to where Harriet had laid her eggs.
‘I know why you two always head for Harriet’s eggs,’ she said.
‘Because they are always the brownest and the creamiest,’ Sophie laughed. ‘I’m sure Patsy and Fiona must be jealous.’ She looked over to the part of the henhouse where the two other hens were strutting up and down their perches as if to attract the children’s attention away from Harriet.
 ‘Can I have this one, Mum?’ said Josh, holding up a large shiny brown egg.
‘Mum, Mum, come quick!’ said Sophie. ‘Look Harriet’s laid a pink egg! It must be for me.’
            ‘Don’t be daft,’ said her mum. ‘Hens don’t lay pink eggs!’
‘Come and see,’ said Sophie. ‘Harriet has!’
Her mum strolled over to the corner where Sophie was jumping up and down, unable to contain her excitement.

            ‘Well, I never. In all the years I’ve been looking after hens, I swear I’ve not seen one like that before, ever.’
Sophie picked up the pink egg and carried it back to the house as if she was holding a precious jewel.
All but one of the eggs were dropped into boiling water for four and a half minutes precisely but something told Sophie’s mum just to warm the pink egg gently. Buttered bread soldiers were waiting in rows around the plates for the children to top their eggs.
‘Wow,’ said Josh, as the yolk, like golden lava, trickled down the side of the shell when he opened his egg.
But when Sophie’s spoon cut through the pink shell of her egg, a smooth creamy chocolate oozed out instead.
          ‘I knew the pink egg was special,’ Sophie said, delighted. ‘Thank you, Harriet. It’s a real Easter surprise!’      

About the Author
A writer living in Cardiff, Jan joined a writers' group three years ago and began writing for her own enjoyment. It wasn’t until she joined a university writing class taught by a published author that she began to submit stories for publication. She is currently writing her first novel.

Wednesday 16 April 2014

100 Worder Lost Connections

100 Worder
Janet Bunce
Lost Connections
Champagne Sour Cocktail

I walk home completely absorbed in thoughts of our party this evening. My husband Gary has done us proud. Our 40th birthday at a swanky London hotel – no expenses spared. Loads of champagne and all our friends and family together.
Suddenly loud engine noises break my reverie. Two vehicles vie with each other down the busy road. In a split second it happens – control lost and the chasing car is thrown into a spin.
A compelling instinct makes me run to the crumpled vehicle. I pull the intoxicated dying driver out and weep for my soulmate, my sister, my twin.
About the Author

Janet Bunce lives with her husband in Essex and is keen to write more and develop an ability to pen longer stories. She loves the 100 worders as she tends to live life in short spurts and this fits her character completely. She enjoys lots of sports and travel which is needed as a reprieve from financial services where she works.

Monday 14 April 2014

100 Worder Well Chosen Words

100 Worder

Alan Cadman

Well Chosen Words

A calming Manhattan Cocktail

Damn and blast, that’s all I said. Just three small words uttered in about three seconds. A mild profanity, a conjunction and a noun, nothing else, so what’s the big problem with that? Everyone knows it can get a little heated in my job. I am the most powerful woman in the world; the President of the United States of America. How dare my husband reprimand me for cursing! I guess it must have been me shouting “blast” that he found disturbing. OK it did burst out of my mouth sharply, before I authorised the biggest decision I’ve ever made.

About the Author
Alan has been writing short stories for seven years. Before that, he was the editor of a civic society newsletter for the same period. When he first started writing fiction, his published work was rewarded with complimentary copies from magazines. His first cheque arrived on Christmas Eve 2009.
In 2011 he made the short list for one story and became a prize winner for flash fiction. Alan also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The last three accolades were awarded by the same best-selling UK magazine for writers. Alan’s work has been read out on Internet radio and his stories are now published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.

Tuesday 8 April 2014

100 Worder Cellar Door

100 Worder
David Hook
Cellar Door
Bitter Cold Tea

A cottage upon a storm battered bluff.
A cellar door shunned for decades past, hinges rusted and fused.
Powder blue paint, cracked, mosaic.

A frail woman with skin as flaked and fractured.
Knarled fingers raise a cup to her rouged lips. She sips.
Leaves staccato against the window, conducted by a biting November wind.
A fitful glance, another sip.
A howl borne on the tempest's back. The cellar door silent and bolted.
A lull. The ticking clock.

Behind the cellar door, creaking.
Forlorn sobs seeking the woman's stony heart.
A birth hidden in youth, secret.
Another sip.
Mum's the word.

About the Author

David lives on the edge of Epping Forest having been raised on a council estate in South London. Recently resigned from a stressful job after twenty years he finds that his mind is decluttering and is now able to concentrate on hobbies and interests. He hopes, despite a crippling fear of grammar and punctuation, that writing will become one of them.  

Monday 7 April 2014

100 Worder Daddy's Girl?

100 Worder

Kate Stuart

Daddy's Girl?

Cold Espresso

John was quite sure that he would never like her.
She smelled funny. Flowery and powdery all at once. It tickled his nose. And her dresses were too tight – lumps and bumps bursting everywhere. When she laughed it was too loud, like she was trying to attract everyone’s attention. Like she was trying too hard. She’d cling on to Daddy’s arm like her laugh was going to make her fall and he’d need to save her. Her red nails would make horrible scratchy sounds as she gripped his shirt.
The worst thing? She wasn’t Mum.
Why couldn’t Mummy come back?

About the Author

Kate Stuart is a student at Bangor University studying Creative and Professional Writing. She has experimented with many forms of writing but enjoys microfiction or scriptwriting best. Some examples of her microfiction can be found on her twitter account –