Fiction 101
Published winners from Boise Weekly’s annual Fiction 101 contest. Each story is exactly 101 words in length.
Billows
Grand Prize - 2007
If not a monster, then something close; our grandfather lumbers around the house like a B-movie Frankenstein, swearing up storms at misplaced Tonka trucks, his skeleton creaking and groaning like an antiquated arm chair.
You boys wear a coat or catch a fright, he says.
It's too goddamned cold, he says.
And stop pissing in the cat lady's yard.
After sandpaper kisses, we see his frame by the fire, burnishing his belt buckle with a threadbare handkerchief. We whisper, our breath expanding then dying in the January air, leaving clouds like ghosts.
Through the window, we search his neck for bolts.
The Cats
1st Place - 2007
Me and my brother throw stray cats off our roof. They don't always land on their feet, but most come close.
We talk about it at breakfast. Daddy sometimes says to shut the hell up, usually though, he don't say anything at all. We pour milk and stare out windows. We drop fireball candies into ice water and take turns tasting it.
Come November, there ain't no more cats, just hoarfrost and exhaust. Daddy cranks the car heater and says that lady threw us for a loop. My brother grins and says the same, says mostly we land on our feet.
In Tongues
Third Place - 2008
Inside Foursquare Pentecostal, our mother paces aisles, swallows hot coffee, and waits her turn to be knocked down by Jesus.
My kid brother spins this yarn about his birth: says the nurse on duty swears on a stack of bibles she's never seen a baby flail so much. Says she nearly fumbled the catch. He signs this story with whipping, exaggerated arm motions. He's mute, see? That's part of the joke.
Soon, we'll line up between pews with Mom. She'll stand, singing, raising her arms toward God. My brother will mouth silent hymns, praying, waiting his turn to be born again.
The Swells
First Place - 2009
The beach was biting cold, but our mom wore a two-piece and swore it was a vacation. I wrestled Andy into the ocean. We toppled in waves, nostrils stinging with salt.
Mom lit cigarettes, hugged her arms.
"Looks like rain," she said. Clouds smeared like charcoal behind her, Mom's bikini bright neon against them.
A man noticed, too. He waved, flashing his tan-line wedding ring.
Mom blew smoke and smiled.
Andy and I gasped on the sand. We watched the swells heave like our chests, like the ocean catching its breath. We locked hands, determined to wait out the coming storm.
A Fog
Second Place - 2010
Every autumn, mayflies paint our city black. They fog the streets, blanket every building, every wall. Sam tosses a tennis ball against them. Their bodies crack. Wings stick in the fuzz.
At dinner, Sam butters corn, stares at the empty seat where Dad used to be. Mom chews cauliflower, tries not to do the same. "We'll be alright," she says. "Of course we will. Finish your broccoli."
Later, me and Sam count mayflies through our window. The air's thick with them, can't see much else. "Where they coming from?" Sam says. I shrug. "Don't matter. Soon enough, they'll leave us alone."
A Magic Act, A Grand Illusion
First Place - 2025
My brother’s in the basement again, sawing Dad in half. He can do it, too. It’s barely even scary. He once turned our cat Marge into a flock of doves.
Dad grins and peers down at his wiggling fingers, at his nearly severed legs. “I wish your mother were here,” he says. “She would’ve loved this.”
My brother grunts and tugs at the saw, tophat teetering with violence.
Sawdust blooms in the air. Outside, doves perch on telephone wires, mailboxes, and rooftops, cooing and cooing.
Later, Dad makes omelets. We watch from the table, unsure how he put himself back together.
A Time for Experimentation
Judge’s Pick - 2025
Frank is a scientist, so it’s easy to see how his daughter has changed.
He’s seen documentaries about the Big Bang, so he understands tiny beginnings. He’s studied rock formations, so he knows even impregnable things can be broken by perpetual and trivial force.
Now, his daughter sidles through his towers of textbooks, through stacks of stained paper plates.
She says, “Jesus, Dad, how are you still living like this?”
He thinks about variables. About how she’s grown in ways that have nothing to do with size.
With the right tools, he thinks, Frank could measure the distance growing between them.