The following is a featured 100-word story from the December Writing Challenge.


I stand on the balcony of my hotel room, taking in the crisp December air as I smoke my morning cigarette. I watch the clouds, remembering your quivering lips when I told you that I no longer smoke, but you knew otherwise.

It has caused me to lose you, my love, something I’d much rather have than any amount of cigarette smoke I could bear to fill my lungs with. But now that you’re gone, all I can do to help myself forget of the burden of your absence is yet another hit of this burning little white killing machine.




Danielle Diaz

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