The following story was the winner of our "Ninety-Eight-Word Short Story Contest," not to be confused with the unrelated "98 Word Short Story Contest," which was a commemoration of the venerable word processing system of the same name.
Loud Sex and the Occasional Fishstick
We'd been living in San Francisco for a few months. It was bliss and it was agony. We piled the fishsticks in the shower in order to let them thaw. Exactly 111 at a time. The number was important, but for reasons we didn't understand. At dinner, he would say something to me. I'd cram my mouth full of fishstick and scream "fuck you" at him. His face now peppered with flecks of the breaded foodcraft, we would consummate our strange love like birds of paradise. San Francisco -- oh Jack, it's just like you said it would be.