The winners of the 101-Word Short Story Contest run free with their imaginations to blur the lines between fantasy and reality.

First Place

Going Downhill

By Shawn Boyle

Jasper shockingly eyeballed the “Free Piano” sign as he slammed on the brakes. He hopped out and quickly hightailed to the piano on the corner. It was surprisingly in good condition. The wheels were perfectly functioning, almost like roller skates. He played the main chord of Sheila E. “The Glamorous Life” in tune on the keys. He thought this was too good to be true. He got on one end and gave it a huge heave toward his truck. Only he was not aiming for his truck. Jasper delightfully yelled, “You’re free,” and down the hill the piano became truly free.

Second Place

The Headstone

By Laurie Bauer

“Why on earth would you do that?” asked Margaret, when her husband Frank described his purchase.

“I got a great deal from the stone carver if I bought a double headstone. I’ll just have to add your death date.”

Margaret’s face reddened with rage. “I’ve spent 25 years with this guy,” she thought, “and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend eternity with him.”

Luckily for Margaret, Frank died shortly thereafter, and she had many happy years of freedom. She now lies in eternal rest under a shady pine tree, far from Frank, with her very own headstone.

Third Place

The Decoder

By David Blackburn

Waiting for my wife at the hotel, I sat in a chair within shouting distance of the men’s room. Guys would try the doorknob, notice the keypad below it, and groan, snort, or cuss. I began whisper-yelling “7649!”

A sigh of relief or thumbs up would soon follow. Amused, I spotted an old geezer approach and attempted a little bathroom humor.

“A penny for your thoughts,” I said.

“What?” the old man replied.

“A nickel for the code!” I hollered.

Grumbling, he headed for a large plant.

“I remember pay toilets. I pee freely.”

I went to look for my wife.

Honorable Mentions

Welcome No More

By Roy Verley

The maintenance worker stared solemnly at the historic plaque he’d been ordered to remove. He’d cleaned and polished it countless times through years of “working the statue” and, as an immigrant, had always felt reassured by its welcoming message. Until now.

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free… I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Puzzled, he rang his supervisor.

“You sure this plaque comes down? Feels like something’s dyin’ here.”

“Yes,” she said. “Orders from the top.”

“And then?”

“Hide it. Cherish it. And pray one day we get to put it back.”

Train Trip

By Nicki Ehrlich

The train lay still on the tracks. I hadn’t seen it arrive. New to this mode of travel, I focused on the opening doors, followed others more experienced. A planned adventure, I wanted a good seat where I could take in the approaching scenery. I trudged up the stairs with my baggage, delighted there were so few of us. I didn’t like crowds. The seats faced both ways, but most faced west, surely the way forward. I sat. Arranged my belongings. Smiled. The train moved. I found myself facing backward with the freedom only to watch what I left behind.

The Italian Game

By Tara Mann

Grandpa’s old chessboard sits on a box in the attic. On a whim, you move the white king’s pawn forward.

The next day, black king’s pawn has responded. An eerie voice whispers as you move your kingside knight to free your pawn.

The next day, black’s knight has responded. Your bishop attacks. The chilly air fogs your breath, the house creaking around you.

You find your sister in the kitchen. “You know Grandpa’s chessboard – ”

“In the attic? I have to tell you something crazy.”

“Me, too.”

You share a glance, and then together – “I think I’m playing chess with Grandpa’s ghost.”

Juneteenth

By Bruce Merchant

He was a babe in arms when they came with what they called The Declaration, which said, “All men are created equal.” His father cried, “We are all going to be free!” He grabbed his baby boy and danced around and said, “My baby boy is going to be free!”

He was on his deathbed when they came around again. He had worked from the time he was 5. He had sired 17 children, sold to other plantations. When they said, “There is a Proclamation that slavery is ended,” he shook his head and said, “All my life. All my life.”

Cream Hustler

By Mike Haugh

I probably shouldn’t call my cat, Spotty, a “cream hustler,” but if the name fits… I mean, what should I call her when every time I go to make myself a cup of coffee, she freely appears on the counter meowing and rubbing herself about me until I surrender to her feline charm and pour her a smattering of cream.

Now, it’s whenever I open the fridge, I find her circling my feet like I’m a wagon train under attack, until I appease her creamy addiction.

Spotty is the Oliver Twist of cats: “Please, sir, I want some more.”

French Fries

By Clare Mounteer

Monsieur Feury surveyed the bored looking faces before him and thought longingly of the twinkling lights of Paris which would soon transform the city’s landscape. Soon he would return and put this teaching assignment behind him. He sighed and began the lesson. “Mes amis, we are ’ere to pronounce French correctly – parler correctement le français.” He paused. “Michael, read the sentence on the board, s’il vous plaît. It means ‘would you like fries with that?’” Michael read the sentence. “Mais non, mon ami, the ‘t’ is not silent in the word ’frites,’ it should not be pronounced ‘free,’ but, ‘freet.’”

This Thanksgiving Guest Made a Big Hit

By Scotty Cornfield

Bobby “Four-Banger” was the family’s freelance hit man, but with his notorious temper and his kills “just because,” he wasn’t fun to be around.

He often bragged about his exploits like he had his own reality show – something the family didn’t like. They didn’t need the heat.

One Thanksgiving, Bobby tried impressing Vic – a newcomer – about his last kill.

“Why they call you ‘Four-Banger’?” Vic asked.

“Cuz’ my signature move is two in the head, two in the heart.”

Vic nodded. Pumped a single slug into Bobby’s temple, dropping him.

“They call me ‘The Golfer,’” Vic said, smirking. “Hole in one.”

It’s the End of the World as We Know It, and I Feel Fine

By Ashley Shaffer

The first time the sky was erased, everyone panicked. We were convinced that the apocalypse had come and that sins were going to be atoned for.

But none of that happened and, as things tend to lose their luster with repeated exposure, by the third time, the mass hysteria had calmed down quite a bit.

Everybody who’d given away their belongings for free was trying to track everything down, and anyone who’d blown up their relationship was trying to take it all back.

Now, when the sky disappears, we post memes and wonder why we have to keep going to work.

February 2, 1848

By Andrew Bauer

The cry of “Land ho!” shatters five months of ocean monotony and soon my sea legs are wobbling out onto California’s sunlit soil. Monterey is wobbling too: a mirage more dreamlike than how I dreamed she’d be. Barrels crash and bribes vanish into sly hands. Tobacco and hides hit the buggies. Five months of salt-stained misery dissolve in the sun. “I’m free!” I yell, over the seagulls squawking and Californios shouting. “Bull and bear fight tonight!” But no time for that. I’m bound for the golden hills. Just as soon as I’ve had my drink. Always the drink first – always.

No Pardons Needed

By Alex Hulanicki

Have you considered the life of the golden-crisp bird on the Thanksgiving platter? Let’s call him Nicholas. He grew up on a turkey ranch. He didn’t know his mother; she didn’t know his father because she was artificially inseminated. Nicholas was injected with hormones and drugs to prevent flu, easily spread in crowded conditions. Indeed, he wasn’t an organic, free-range bird.

He wasn’t allowed to play football; couldn’t chance a broken leg. Soccer and track would keep his weight down.

He gave up his life for your feast, but he lives on in soup, salad and sandwiches.

Give thanks to Nicholas.

Power’s Out

By Clark Coleman

Hank, the lineman, was working to secure the insulators on the power pole for a new power line through a section of the Sierras. Pines had already been cut back from the projected path of the power lines. Hank wanted to complete this pole before he was free from his shift.

The utility van pulled up and Hank climbed down to greet the driver.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Hank barked, following the driver, a new kid, to open the van doors in back. There, in a colorful box, was an Optimus Prime toy.

“Wrong transformer,” Hank said, shaking his head.

Capturing the Soul

By Louie Montgomery

In a world humming with AI-generated prose, Sophia sat before her blank page. Around her, people praised the flawless words their machines produced – efficient, polished, but soulless. She had tried it, too. The AI captured her style, mimicked her tone, yet left her feeling hollow.

Now, her pen scratched across the paper. The sentences stumbled, uneven and raw, but they were hers. Every word carried a piece of her – her passions, her joys, her essence.

She realized true freedom wasn’t perfection but imperfection – expressing herself, unfiltered and alive. As she wrote, she smiled, knowing no algorithm could ever match her soul.

Hit the Sleigh

By Clark Coleman

“So let me understand this,” Santa said. “Inspired by Kamala’s presidential run, you now want to pick up half of my stops on Christmas Eve next year?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Claus said. “I found six reindeer and have my sleigh already picked out.”

“What will the public think? I’ve been doing this for more than 200 years. I don’t think the free world is ready for Mrs. Claus to deliver gifts.”

“Because I’m a woman?”

“No, of course not. But why six reindeer?” Santa asked.

“I only need six. No offense, but you need eight because you kind of let yourself go.”

I Just Want to Help

By Peter Mehren

Would you like a fresh cup of coffee?

Shhh! I’m writing.
Would you like me to turn on the overhead light, or not?

Shhh! I’m writing.

Would you like me to turn up the heat in the room, or down?

Shhh! I’m writing.

Is the cat bothering you? Should I take her out?

Shhh! I’m writing.

I’m going to the store. Anything you want?

Shhh! I’m writing.

Is something bothering you?

Did you just hear that soft, fluttering sound? That was Inspiration flying away, free. Now, what were you saying?

Oh, don’t let me bother you while you’re writing, dear.

New to Town

By Gabriela Ortiz

In 1880, Cole, a young cowboy, rode into the dusty town of Laredo, seeking freedom from a past full of trouble. He was tired of being hunted for crimes he didn’t commit. As he entered the saloon, the sheriff, Emma, caught his eye.

“You here for trouble?” she asked, hands on her hips.

“No, ma’am, I’m just lookin’ for freedom,” Cole replied, tipping his hat.

Emma smirked. “Well, freedom’s expensive.”

“Then maybe I’ll pay you in other ways,” Cole winked.

Emma chuckled. “Guess you’ve never been arrested for offering that kind of payment before.”

Cole grinned. “Guess I’m about to be.”

Circle of Life

By R C Roach

A tired old oriole took another free drink from the hummingbirds’ feeder, ready to build a nest again, when he fell down to the concrete pad in a colorful coat of majesty, and quivered. A raven swooped in a funnel of shadows and landed on top of the arbor.

The family, now a female with two immature sons and one daughter, clung in a line on the yucca tree and looked down to that listless body below. They paid respects and flew away, when the raven swooped down again, carrying away the body in sharp talons to another place unknown.

Letting Go

By Jill Ostrie

The bird flapped its wings against the steel bars, longing for freedom. Each morning, sunlight streamed through the tiny window, teasing it with the promise of open skies.

One day, a child approached the cage, eyes wide with wonder. “Why is it locked?” she asked her father.

“To keep it safe,” he replied.

The girl frowned, then opened the latch without hesitation. “Safe isn’t the same as free.”

The bird hesitated, then soared through the window, its wings slicing through the air freely.

From below, the child smiled. “See? Sometimes letting go is the safest thing of all.”

Seventy-four Inches

By Kay Mehren

Six-feet-two in ninth grade, she learned the usual questions and the best responses.

“You play basketball?”

“No. You play miniature golf?”

“You a model?”

“No, I’m life-size.”

“How tall are you?”

“A hundred and ninety centimeters.”

“Huh?”

“Seventy-four inches.”

“Seven foot four! Wow!”

“That’s right: ten inches in a foot.”

She’d stopped worrying about boys staring at her bust – “My front pack,” she called it. “They’re free to look. It’s at eye level for most of them.”

She’d learned from her mother how to sew, modifying store-bought clothes to her shape, and making some of her own.

One adapts.

The Menu

By Brian Rutana

The restaurant review said “small and intimate.” Understatement. It was smaller than a single car garage. Tiny candlelit tables lined both sides. The back wall showcased a large aquarium, like a giant screen TV. We perused menus the size of newspapers. Suddenly mine was on fire. The candle.

Very flammable menu. A panicky moment. The aquarium was just a few steps away. About to leave my seat, the waiter gratefully reappeared. He snatched the burning menu and slipped through a door beside the aquarium where colorful fish languidly searched for freedom, unaware that their boredom almost got a little exciting.

On the Train

By Lud Geiger

I sit three seats from the back of the car. He sits two seats in front of me.

I read the morning newspaper.

The minutes pass so slowly.

The conductor enters the car, clips tickets, exchanges a few words… A moment of sheer terror.

At the station, the train comes to a chugging halt.

Passengers disembark. He follows me. Fortunately, the rail police are engaged elsewhere.

We walk along the dock. He stays close by.

At the rail cafe, I stop for a morning coffee. He walks on, the guide follows, soon leading the rescued fugitive to safety and freedom.

Time Passes

By Jill Ostrie

For generations, the residents of Monterey lived alongside the sea, knowing its rhythms like their own heartbeat. Old man Harold, the last of his line, had fished these waters for 70 years.

One morning, as he lowered his boat into the waves, he thought of the land his family had tended for centuries. The sea, too, was their inheritance – its freedom, his legacy.

His granddaughter, Emma, joined him, her eyes full of dreams. “What’s it like, Grandpa?”

He smiled, casting his line. “It’s like living in the same place forever, but the ocean – well, it never stays the same. It frees you.”

The Nature of Her Game

By John Fredrickson

While complaining loud and long about the terrible weather, Junior (He, Him) was overheard by the devil. Recognizing an opportunity for mischief, Lucifer (She, Her) offered Junior unrestrained freedom to control next year’s weather. They made the deal.

A lovely year followed: not too hot or cold, neither too wet nor dry. Harvest time, however, was disastrous. Junior had forgotten to manage the wind that self-pollinating plants need for successful crops. Famine loomed.

Satan gleefully rewarded the neophyte mastermind. Leveraging her considerable political connections, she secured for Junior a senior position in Central Planning at the Ministry of the Economy.

Perfect Pear

By Peggy Beard

I gently press the knife into a point near the top, and I’m pleased to see no greenish tinge. Lopping off the first curved slice, I quickly raise the blade and free a thin, curling slice. As it falls to the plate, I see the glistening promise of a sweet bite. Raising the slice to my mouth, I revel in the subtle flavor with its slight crunch. I nod and smile, and he picks up a slice.

“This may be the best pear I’ve ever had,” he comments.

“This is important,” I reply. “This, right here, is what matters.”

2026 Midterms

By Gary Bolen

Jennifer was excited to be voting in her very first national election. The 2026 midterms had the potential of bringing about real change. There had been some confusion about the “Fair Elections Act” of 2025, but President-for-Life Donald Trump had assured a nervous population that these elections would be the most scandal free ever.

A uniformed volunteer handed her a ballot saying, “You can drop it in the box right over there.” Confused, Jennifer inquired, “But where do I go to fill it out?” He replied, “Oh, don’t worry about that dear. It’s already been filled out for you.”

Christmas Carol Part 2

By Jaime Guzman

Ebenezer Scrooge walked around the orphaned child on the street before briefly pausing. He had remembered the ghost of Christmas future’s warning. It was Christmas Eve after all.

“Young child, what is it you want for Christmas this year?”

The child with little strength pointed towards the toy store across the way. Ebenezer looked towards the building and nodded. Ebenezer then ran back to the boy with a boxed train set before running away. The store manager walked with a policeman towards the boy.

“Stolen toys aren’t free, kid,” he said.

They didn’t call Scrooge a miser for nothing.

Life of a Typical Middle School Kid

By Justin Kim

Another Monday morning. The same as the past eight years. Get up at 7, quick shower, brush my teeth, breakfast, then off to another torturous six hours of school. As I approach campus, I’m greeted by cheery teachers (I don’t get how they’re so cheery). There’s not much I can do for the first few periods. After millennia of lecturing, we have 50 minutes of freedom. I’m at the top of the stairs when I see undercooked pasta on a tray. We need more options for lunch. Two more hours of suffering, I finally go home and start my everlasting homework.

The Cave

By Gus Wellin

Fox and Snake stand outside the cave. Well, one does.

They eye each other.

After a moment, Snake begins, “I hear there are mice.”

“I like mice,” responds Fox conversationally. “Could be.”

They both turn to look at the cave.

“Do you?” Fox continues.

Snake’s head tilts. A tongue tastes the air.

“Like mice I mean.”

“Mice are a little furry.”

Fox clears his throat.

“For me that is.”

A drop of water slips free from the mouth of the cave and lands in front of them.

“Oh.” Fox finishes.

There’s a long silence.

They both walk away. Well, one does.

About Those Baby Shoes…

By Roy Verley

The doctor’s numbing words echoed in his ears as he walked home from the hospital in the rain.

“We’re so sorry, Mr. Henry. We couldn’t save them. They’re both gone.” Then something about a twisted umbilical cord and massive hemorrhaging, but he’d stopped listening by then.

He was thinking about Catherine. How much he loved her. How hard she’d tried to deliver their first child. And now…

He called the local newspaper to dictate an ad.

“For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.”

He paused.

“On second thought, let’s say ‘free.’”

Catherine would have insisted. And Catherine would get the last word.

When His Search Hit the Paws Button

By Scotty Cornfield

The old friends met in front of Carefree Park.

“Hey, stranger,” Ryan said. “Haven’t seen you in months.”

“True. Last time I saw you, you were scouring every pet store and shelter around,” Maxine said.

Ryan laughed. “Right. I got Rocky, a Great Dane. Way too big for the apartment. Then I found Bubbles, a Yorkie. Cute, but so small I almost stepped on her. Eventually, I discovered Isabella.”

“Don’t tell me. You went from dog too big, to dog too small, to dog just right.”

“Almost. Isabella owns a pet store. I married her. Still looking for the perfect dog.”

Foot Guy  – A True Story

By C Fredericksen

Costco was brimming with vigilant foragers in pursuit of free tasty morsels when I noticed a skittering about from the corner of my eye, like a cautious rat on the move.

“Wow! Those are nice shoes!” says the face, unexpectedly in front of mine.

He chatted: wife, hiking, my cool slip-on sneakers.

Harmless.

My baby babbles in the cart.

“What size are those?”

He asked to inspect the soles then reached down and slowly stroked my toes, to my horror, and skittered away into the crowd.

Twenty years later, standing at my job, chopping vegetables…

“Hey! Those are nice shoes!”

Market Day

By Lud Geiger

A brisk autumn morning.

She walks nearly empty streets, a wicker market basket with a small baguette wrapped in cloth, a slim slip of paper carrying the hope of freedom hidden there.

She approaches the stalls as usual, taking time to peruse the offerings. A few potatoes, some carrots and an onion. The stalls offer less now; some have closed.

At last she stops, offers the baguette to the vendor, selects a wilted bunch of radishes and pays with hoarded pennies.

She walks on. Don’t look nervous; never look back. If they are coming for you, they will come.

Clarinets

By Steve Schechter

My father grew up during the Depression. His father owned a pharmacy, where my father worked just to see him.

As a teenager, my dad played clarinet with big bands that snuck him into clubs. He went to college for free on a music scholarship, enlisting halfway through. Afterwards, he finished college and married my mother, joining her family’s business.

My father played clarinet twice during my lifetime. Hauntingly beautiful, dark notes. Twice. Why, then, years after his death, do clarinets make me well up? Because those two times seemed glimpses of who my dad really was, and might have been.

Free and Easy

By Donnolo Beren

Ledecky swims freestyle. Molchanova was a free diver. Ruth was a free swinger. Ohtani was a free agent. Walks are free passes. Curry takes free throws. Messi takes free kicks.

I support freedom of religion and freedom of the seas. I believe in a free press, free trade, free speech, free shipping, free will, free love, free verse, and free fall. I free-associate.

I’m a free spirit, freemason, free-lancer, freeloader, and freebooter. I write freely freehand. My energy, electrons, and radicals are free. My freestanding freehold is in free socage.

Some freeways are toll roads. There’s no free lunch.

You’re Dreaming

By Nepenthe Machado

Wake up, you’re freefalling. Is the internet up?

Need to find my to-do list. No time to be carefree.

Have to find my glasses first.

I’ll make a smoothie while I look.

Why did I come in this room?

My daughter sees the frazzled look.

“I’m looking for my glasses.”

One pair is on your freethinking head.

One pair is in your hand!

Here! One pair is in the freezer!

“Thanks.”

Now I can breathe. Is breathing still free?

Or do I have to pay through the nose?

“Where’s my té doo list?”

Phoenix

By Madeline de Campos

Emerald leaves glided the whirls of spring air freely in swirls of pine. Under a canopy of trees, Aurora walked in a white sundress. She carried an embroidered bag with daffodils that fluttered across the canvas. Reaching her destination, she knocked on the apartment door and coughed as soot flew from her rapping knuckles into her face. There was a groan from inside before the door cracked open to reveal her rumpled-haired ex in wrinkled clothes. His bloodshot eyes widened.

“You got my letter?” he asked.

She opened her fist and blew the ashes of the letter in his face.

Furnished Studio Apartment

By John Fredrickson

Now that the kids have moved out, Mary has decided to offer for rent the studio apartment behind her house. A sign is posted; flyers are circulating.

But she’s having second thoughts. “Can I really charge $1,000 per month for this tiny apartment? And, I mean, is it right?”

A friend offers advice. “It’s less than the going rate. You’re free to charge whatever.”

Mary remains perplexed. “It still seems like a lot to me. There’s no way I could ever afford it for myself.” Suddenly it dawns on her: “I’m the kind of people I don’t want as my tenant.”

The End

By Lori Robinson

“Read me a story, Daddy.”

“I’ll tell you a story,” he replied.

“OK.”

“Once upon a time there was a girl living with her daddy in a cottage they owned so the landlord couldn’t evict them.”

“What about taxes, insurance, and zoning, Daddy?”

Her father, taken aback, responded, “Well, those are considerations. But it’s still worth owning land.”

“Did they have to share a driveway, Daddy? Was it near a factory polluting air and water? Nothing is free of drawbacks.”

The man sat up, “And they lived happily ever after. The end.”

“Good night, Daddy. No fantasies next time.”

My Escape from Reality

By Gabriella Jackson

The sun was low, painting the course in soft gold as I stood on the tee box. I inhaled the fresh, grassy air, the quiet only broken by the distant chirp of a bird. I swung the club, and the ball flew straight, landing just shy of the green. Not bad. As I walked the fairway, I felt the world slip away. Out here, I was free – free from texts, deadlines, and the weight of daily life. On the final hole, I sunk a long putt, grinning as the ball dropped. Victory or not, the real win was this fleeting, perfect freedom.