MAY’S COLLECTION OF 100 WORD STORIES BY THE MOVING PEN AUTHORS
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Century by Paul Nicholls
They fist-pumped mid-pitch. Big letters on the scoreboard read: C JACKSON 94*.
Captain and senior players, heads together.
The umpire called: “New bowler, right-arm over.”
It was Arunjit, the clown-prince of Bangalore. Gone was the smile, the gentle eyes. This was Arunjit the partnership-breaker.
A fielder came in so close on the leg side Chris could hear him breathing – or perhaps his own heart pounding.
The crowd hushed.
Arunjit bowled, his arms whipping around like a monsoon. Was it the googly?
I must meet it on the half-volley.
He swung. THWACK!
The crowd rose. Six! The scoreboard ticked over. A century.
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Flight by Rob Wilcher
Wings now secured, he could realise his dreams of flight. All his life he had experimented with prototypes and broken bones but now, finally, he had proven the technology and the art and had the wings.
He stood on the cliff edge, in the sun and wind, and released himself into the void.
He felt the wings lift, and the wind battered his ears. The valley spread vast and green and rushed below him.
He was flying, and all he feared was gone.
Stunned bushwalkers in the gully heard the trees splinter before they saw the flash of broken wing.
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Target by Rob Wilcher
Bow and arrow? Ancient technology. So glad I lived to see the algorithm.
Take those two kids over there – I could take them easily, straight through the heart, bang, they’re gone.
But if you want to make sure that little death is forever, use an algorithm, research your targets. Their beliefs – what heaven or hell they think they’ll go to – their material hopes, their compatibility, their reactions under stress, their sexual proclivities, etc.
When that lines up, then loose the arrow to the heart.
Plus you can use the intel on marketing – Cupid’s wedding hire, gifts, honeymoons.
Clever, hey?
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Exit Left by Eva Chow
“You alright? Need another beer?” The barman smiled.
“I feel tired. I can’t stand my boss. I want to quit work. I don’t understand this. The harder I work, the higher I climb, the more money I make, the less fulfilled I am. It’s like the harder and faster I run, the longer the road gets.”
“Sounds like you had been following the ‘Turn Right for More’ sign. You do that enough times, you go in a circle. ” The barman mused.
“Right.“ Dave chuckled and looked up. “How do you know when you have reached your stop?”
“Check your tank. It is not bottomless.“ The barman offered.
Dave got up and thanked the barman.
“Exit Left.”
First night by Rob Wilcher
She folds the bedclothes over her head, wriggles for warmth and curls into a tight ball. Tears well, and a blanket of unknowing floats above her in the darkened room. Unopened boxes lie on the floor. Clothes hang like memories from a corner rack.
She wonders what her family is doing now, what they are feeling. Then she decides she needn’t wonder that; this is her life now. They have theirs. She will and will not miss them. The future beckons and she wriggles again and smiles. Relaxing, she sinks into her first night’s sleep having left home.
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Goodbye Kiss by Rob Wilcher
Winter was setting in. The skies were grey, the trees stripped bare. He recalled when they were young, kissing her goodbye at the station, wanting to linger on her lips, thanking her for last night’s love, watching her mesh with the peak hour rush.
In their bedroom, he regarded the grim faces of his children.
“Dad, she’s awake, look.”
When she saw him she smiled, wanly, and he held her gaze for a moment before the drugs steered her away. He kissed her forehead, wanting to linger, saying goodbye, my love, thank you for the last sixty years.
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Dreamer by Eva Chow
A couple walked past a pile of plywood outside a house.
“They’re rubbish,” the builder had said.
Rubbish? But they are so beautiful.Those square, rectangular, long and short pieces are waiting to be discovered. A bench, a box, or perhaps a toy is waiting to be born. There are so many possibilities, the man thought.
“Don’t you dare take them! I don’t want any more rubbish in the house. You start and you don’t finish. Stop dreaming. If you have the energy, go and make more money!” The wife snarled.
I know what to build. A coffin. The man smiled.
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The Web by Paul Nichols
She floats through the air, twisting and spinning, in her livery of nondescript brown. She concentrates as she builds her web.
It is her trap,
her deceit,
her mode of survival.
A ray of sunlight hits the web and her ruse is revealed. A glint of fine silver thread. In this light she is far from nondescript. The tips of her legs are golden-hued, as if she had been dangling her feet over the edge of a twig adrift in a lake of honey.
The web shakes. A structural test that must not fail.
She bounces.
It holds.
She descends.
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Labour of Love by Eva Chow
Heave. Heave. He pauses to catch his breath. Twelve more steps to get to the top. Sweat pours down his face and neck.
Two big breaths. He hoists his load up those stairs. Keep going, last step.
He drops his load and relaxes. His whole body tingles from the release.
“This is where the bench will live. It will have a wonderful view of the crowded city below. It will be my throne.” The man laughs. His heart fills with pride and joy as he soaks in his roof top garden that he has built with his bare hands.
“Let’s sit down for a bit.” He calls for his beloved cat.
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