I listen to all the stories and such about credit card debt, and I yell at the TV "Not me!"

This is flash fiction rather than a drabble. I really think cutting this to 100 words would lose too much good stuff.
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Dead Alice

Nobody ever mysteriously disappeared from her restaurant that did not deserve to, she always insisted. Anyway, the police never proved a thing. Dead Alice lived, if that was the right word, in a cloud of rumors - most of them started by her. She was palely pretty; anyone could see that she was 22 at most. Anyone could have seen that for at least 40+ years - since THAT MAN wrote THAT SONG. (One of Dead Alice's supernatural gifts was the ability to speak in capital letters.)

She denied being the original Alice in the stories. "Dodson would not have known a fact if it had bit him". Her tone implied this was something she had tested personally.

No one ever saw Dead Alice eat or drink, at least no one who survived. To those rude enough and brave to enough to ask directly, she always replied: "I'm sure you would not wish to pry into intimate details."

Dead Alice slew monsters. "I won't tolerate anything in my territory that tries to be scarier than me."

Very nice, Typo! I love that last line.

Freedom

“You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”
“Doing what?”
“The way you’re walking, with new weight. The way your eyes look.”
He shrugs.
“The Process is one of the most painful ordeals you can subject yourself to. Mentally, emotionally, physically…”
“But the payoff. Strength, speed, mental clarity. I was a god, once upon a time, atop Olympus. I was there once, I can be there again.”
“You were a target!”
He doesn’t answer.
“Is it worth it?”
He doesn’t answer.
“What will it gain you? What can such sacrifice get you aside from power?”
He smiles.

Ticket to Ride

She sat at the table, head bent over the empty coffee cup. An envelope with a thick sheaf of bills inside rested under her hands. There had been more money in the cookie jar than she realized; she’d been afraid, no, ashamed, to count it. Months ago, her parents had tried to confine her. Little did she realize the freedom they were offering her until it was too late.

The waitress came by and refilled her cup. She picked it up, took a sip of the dark, bitter liquid and waited some more.

The bus station opened in an hour.

I hope we're allowed more than one.

Riddance

Dropping the receiver, she could still hear his girlfriend's screams. She sat down, numb.

Her son's final words echoed like the gunshot that followed. "I'm tired of being your burden. Goodbye."

Despite herself, her first emotion was relief.

As many as you want, Wolfram.

Wow! that has major impact.

Thanks, I'm trying to work on condensing as much as possible. Also I'm really bad at descriptive prose.

I think that's better than the opposite, Wolfram. Sometimes the story gets lost in the descriptive detail.

Paraphrasing Amadeus, "Too many words!"

I do like writers who go for more senses than sight and sound, however. In my opinion, nothing grounds fiction more than the temperature, density, moisture content of air moving on skin, texture, and the scents your characters identify and what those evoke.

"The hot, dry air scorched as his lungs sucked it in, and leached moisture from him as it was pushed out again. His throat felt scraped and raw. The dumpster behind him was due for collection: a fine old stew of human leavings percolated in the heat, but underneath that aroma was oil, grease, engine lube and solvent.

"His thin t-shirt was soaked and sucked at his skin, chafing, especially beneath the shoulder rig."

Tell me what's going on there. No action, no visual or auditory description. You know nothing about the POV character except gender and he's wearing a gun. But are you in the scene? Can you feel the heat, the sweat, the dry mouth? These are the things I look for. Don't tell me, put me there.

But that's just me.