Last month, I wrote a 50-word story. Since then it seems that everywhere I look I see suggestions for flash fiction.

Fifty is short, even for flash fiction. So here’s the same story, twice as long. My 100 version.

The base station attendant was the last person to see him alive as the gondola rose away. One car every hundred feet. Nothing but empty space and, depending on how far up the mountain, as much as seven hundred feet from the ground.

“I could see his breath through the glass,” she told the officer taking statements. “He was the only person in that car. Just him and his skis.”

At the top when the door opened they’d found one bullet, but no gun. No broken glass. No holes in the aluminum car’s body. A single shot to the temple.