Mystery by Aspen

One dark and stormy night in a haunted forest lived a child unable to escape the walls of her family home. Only there now to watch over ones she left behind.

Her only means of getting out was to attach herself to another living only through what they felt, saw, touched and heard. The gift of laughter no longer her own, memories lived on in those who came after her life lived in stone.

She knows who they are but to them shes an unknown, never spoke of in shame, a mystery of the little child cracked, locked in stone.

Weekly Challenge #651 – Mystery

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at

This is the Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

We’ve got stories by:



Scooby Don’t

It’s a mystery to me how Scooby Doo managed to stay so popular for so long.

Sure, I could understand the attraction of the geeky Velma, delectable Daphne and dependable Fred, but Shaggy didn’t have a lot going for him, even as a cartoon character.

And who wouldn’t be impressed by a talking dog?

But the stories themselves… Rubbish!

Dark spooky building, apparently haunted; Mystery Machine rolls up; much running around, screaming, and colossal sandwiches; fatal error by ghostly presence; cops arrive; janitor unmasked.

And he would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for them pesky kids!


The mystery oil applied to her face was advertised as removing wrinkles deep in her cheeks, over her lips and on her neck. She had no idea what it was, but it costs as much as her car payment for a sixty day supply. She assumed it would work.

It worked. It tightened the skin so much on her face, that in order to appear curious, she had to raise her eyebrows with her fingers.

The oil seemed to dissolve her skin to the point that cosmetic fillers would not be necessary. Botox, of course, was out of the question.


Chef Thomas drizzled the mystery sauce on the grilled steak. The sauce was his secret. Even the sous chefs had no idea what constituted the sauce.

Thomas learned about the sauce when he traveled in the orient, visiting various villages.

He was introduced to the sauce by an old woman. He slipped her three thousand Baht, and placed jars of sauce into his bag.

On the trail back, he noticed that there were dogs following him, sniffing and pawing his bag.

He had only seen this behavior once before. It was the day he cut his hand in the kitchen.


I’m no fan of cop shows.

The plot twists and turns required to keep the final outcome a mystery irritate me. That’s not how it works in real life, where the cops usually know what they’ve got at the start and, spend the rest of the investigation gathering supporting evidence.

However, I do enjoy watching old episodes of Columbo, because unlike every other cop show, you see the crime being committed right at the beginning, you know who did it and how, right away.

So, for any cops listening, I’ll make it simple…

It was me: With my bare hands!


The Lost Episode
by Jeffrey Fischer

“Crikey, it’s not a ghost at all, it’s Mr. Smithers!” cried Velma, pointing at the running man, his mask having slipped from his face.

“Rister Rithers?” Scooby said, confused as usual.

“Make sure he doesn’t get away!” Daphne said. Always the sharp one, that Daphne.

“Radical, man.” That was Shaggy’s contribution.

“Don’t worry, gang, we’ve got him. Get in the Mystery Machine,” Fred said. The fivesome piled into the van, slamming the doors shut. Flakes of rust rained on the pavement. Fred cranked the ignition a half-dozen times before the engine caught with a mighty backfire. He pushed down hard on the accelerator and the van… went nowhere. He adjusted the side mirror and saw a bright red boot clamped on the rear wheel of the van.

“Shaggy, did you pay those parking tickets that you said you would?” Fred asked.

Shaggy gave Fred a big, stoned smile and said, “I would have, but I had the munchies and spent the dough on a bag of hamburgers and fries.”



Mystery – An Ekphrasis
In a certain undistinguished town in Argentina lies the Plaza del Infinidad.

You must enter it on a deserted summer afternoon, from the alley at the corner of the Curiñanca. Stare to the clock tower on the far side. It must be three o’clock. As you make toward it, it recedes, for after walking half way, always half the distance remains. The clock stands still at three o’clock. Here, in the mystery of the hour, somewhere there lies a mirror reflecting the entire universe, but only one has ever found it. The others wander still, lost in this infinite space.


My First Mystery

When I was a kid I uses to watch the Mickey Mouse Club on TV. Late 50’s stuff. They had this on goes section called The Mystery of the Applegate Treasure. It was Hardy Boys knock-off, but I was way too young to be able write, so the story was classic TV mind candy. There are this recurring scene in the series that never left me. A tight shoot of a gloved had tapping out a message on a phone so the boys could get this coded message. In the end it turn out to be the young female led.


Billbert followed Mr. Withybottom up to Linoliumanda’s door.
Everything about the situation was a mystery.
Linoliumanda said she would only speak to him and Mr. and Mrs. Withybottom believed her.
“Go ahead.” Mr. Withybottom pointed to the door.
When Billbert reached for the doorknob Mr. Withybottom grabbed him by the wrist and growled, “Knock.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Billbert raised his hand to pound on the door.
Before he could, the door opened and Linoliumanda pulled him inside.
Billbert had never seen so much pink in his life.
“Um. What do we do now?” Billbert asked.
Linoliumanda pulled him toward the bed.


When Inspector Fred arrived at the scene, he couldn’t help but mutter “This is such a cliche.”
A remote mansion, a long road and drive to the front door, a butler waiting at the front steps.
And a once-innocent dinner party had become a murder mystery.
The guests and staff were, of course, all suspects.
Inspector Fred interviewed all of them
They had reasons to kill the victim. But they also had alibis or reasons why they couldn’t have murdered the victim.
So, Fred chalked it up to suicide and let them all go.
“Asshole had it coming,” he said.

The topic of the next weekly challenge is TURTLE

Hi there. This is Laurence Simon of the 100 Word Stories Podcast at

Every week, I post a topic for the Weekly Challenge, where you come up with the stories and I collect them up and share them.

Want to give it a try? The topic of the next 100 Word Stories Weekly Challenge is TURTLE:

Write a 100 word story on that topic. Then, send it in an email to isfullofcrap (at) with the subject line of WEEKLY CHALLENGE.

Do you have a website where people can learn more about you and your writing? Include the URL to that website.

Also, suggest a topic or topics for future Weekly Challenges.

Most importantly, include a recording of your story. Be sure to introduce yourself to the audience.

If you hate the sound of your voice or can’t record your story for some reason or another, that’s your problem. Deal with it. I am not recording your story for you.

Everything’s due by Sunday morning when I put the episode together. However, if you’re running late, I can put your story up on the feed in a separate post.

Good luck, and as always… keep it brief.

OCT 7 Dug
OCT 14 Mystery
OCT 21 Turtle

NOV 4 Dispute
NOV 11 Braced
NOV 18 Flower

DEC 2 Too much
DEC 8 Polar
DEC 16 Belt
DEC 23 Irritation


why can’t you be more like your sister?
potato chips
heart attack
stunted growth
in the darkness…
who cares?
the F word

Summer camp

Every Summer, my parents sent me to Camp Killer With A Hockey Mask.
At first, I was worried that I would be killed by a killer in a hockey mask.
But apparently, the camp’s name comes from the local Indian tribe.
It’s just a coincidence that their tribe’s name resembles our words for a killer with a hockey mask.
This was a relief… until campers started to disappear.
“Oh, that’s because the tribe’s name actually translates to Killer With A Machete,” said the chief counselor.
He picked up a bloody machete from his desk… and put on a hockey mask.

Down in the sewers

Ted’s new birthday clown business wasn’t doing so well.
Some kind of vengeful spirit in the form of a clown was wandering the sewers and murdering children.
Ted had a certificate from the church that guaranteed that he wasn’t a vengeful child-murdering spirit.
“I’m bonded, too,” said Ted. “Oh, and I tell jokes.”
But that wasn’t enough for most parents.
He tried a magic act, but he was too clumsy for magic tricks.
And he had bad luck with keeping rabbits.
Eventually, Ted gave up, and went back to working in the Water Department.
“Just not Sewers, please,” Ted requested.

Johnson’s sack

Of all the houses on the block, kids love to visit Old Man Johnson’s house on Halloween.
The door opens, Johnson steps out with a large burlap sack, and the kids shout “TRICK OR TREAT!”
“Here,” growls Johnson, and he throws the sack at the kids’ feet.
It’s the possums that he’s caught in his traps. Live or dead, but often quite bloody.
“Possums are good eatin!” the old man says.
Kids toilet paper the trees in his yard a lot.
Johnson rolls the toilet paper back up and keeps it.
“Save me a trip to the store,” he chuckles.

Media Filter

Bob was a censor for a social media corporation.
It doesn’t matter which one, really.
There are a lot of people like Bob at all of the social media corporations.
All day long, he’d look through flagged images and content, judging whether something violated the platform’s standards.
Awful things. Horrible things. Hellish things.
And three buttons to click on: YES, NO, and ESCALATE.
Over and over again, all day, and all night.
Bob looked around the gigantic room.
Rows of people at computers, reviewing similar horror and filth, judging it.
Until all they knew was the evil in the world.

Bobby’s voices

The voices in Bobby’s head told him to do things.
“Clean your room,” they said.
So, Bobby cleaned his room.
“Mop up the mess in the kitchen,” they said.
So, Bobby mopped up the mess in the kitchen.
“Make the back yard took nice,” they said.
So, Bobby bought plants and grass and flowers, and he planted them.
The voices walked Bobby through a list of chores, and Bobby dutifully did them all.
By the time the police arrived, there wasn’t a single shred of evidence left that he’d killed his parents.
Just as the voices told him to do.

The Oracle

King Frederick climbed Oracle Mountain to seek the wisdom of the gods.
“Go away,” said The Oracle, throwing an empty bottle away and opening another.
“I’ve come to seek-”
“Yes,” said The Oracle. “Your future. The answers. Everybody does.”
Frederick drew his sword “If you don’t tell me what my-”
“I’ll die,” said The Oracle. “You’ll die. Everybody dies. But if you look past the daily bullshit, you’d know that already. Simple truth.”
The king stood there for a moment, put his sword away, and gave The Oracle a hug.
They sat on the mountain, drank, and watched the sunset.

Weekly Challenge #650 – Dug

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at

This is the Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

We’ve got stories by:

Shelf life


Linoliumanda was crying and Mr. Withybottom thought Billbert could do something about it.
In the luminescence of the street light, he dug his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as if he would find a solution among the bits of lint.
He wasn’t used to talking to girls.
“Sure. Okay, but, what am I supposed to say. Shouldn’t she talk to her mom, or something? I mean, she is a girl and everything.”
“Don’t you think we’ve tried that?” Mr. Withybottom began, then softened his words again. “Linny won’t open her door. She says she’ll only talk to you.”


Rite of Passage

‘He had a good life’, I said to myself, and now his body had been laid to rest, the time had come to celebrate that life.

As always on these occasions, I reached into the depths of my drinks’ cabinet and dug out the familiar bottle reserved for these sombre moments.

I poured a generous measure of the twelve year old Macallan and drank a toast to his memory. Just a single tot – this bottle was saved only to mark a death.

I swatted dead yet another irritating fly.

‘He had a good life’, I murmured, pouring another measure.


The hole must be big enough, he thought.
But he wasn’t sure he wanted to do it.
He wasn’t sure he wanted another flower or worse, another task to take care of every day. Water the plant and add fertilizer, and all that.
But he continued.
Just a bit more, he thought. The hole was big enough for him to fit in it.
This should do.
He turned to stare at her horrified eyes.
“Don’t worry my treasure, you’ll bloom like all the rest.” And he waved his arm around to show her dozens of mounds with beautiful flowers.


I dug the vibes at Frank’s house. He always had a cigar box full of stems and seeds that needed cleaning, and as a reward there was plenty of good weed to roll up.

He invited Mississippi Blind Lemon to play as a half dozen of us sat around the big living room, leaning on the walls and listening to Lemon sing and play funky blues.

We drank Gallo Burgundy, and nibbled on apples and chips. Those were the days. No pretensions, no angry words, no one bumming anyone out and harshing anyone’s vibe.

My ego dissolved away that summer.


I used a large auger on the post hole digger, and dug a hole in the back yard. I filled the hole with water, and tied a bucket to my feet. I jumped into the hole, pulling the bucket over my feet.

I drowned in the tight hole, unable to move my limbs. The bucket covered me and hid me from anyone looking over the fence.

The dogs left me alone, afraid of the bucket.

A full year passed before someone came by, kicking the bucket, and exposing the skeleton in the post hole.

The police ruled it an accident.


Tomb Raider
by Jeffrey Fischer

The archaeology team stared at the dusty sarcophagus. Over the past months they had painstakingly burrowed their way into the burial chamber and carefully dug out the final resting place of the so-called Black Pharaoh, who was rumored to control the spirit world as well as all of Egypt. Now the team waited for Professor Bilson to open the object. Bilson hung back, reluctant to break the seals. Bilson could see no way of avoiding the honor while still saving face before his team and so, crowbar in hand, he pried open the heavy lid. The Black Pharaoh stared at Bilson, the ruler’s eyes full of life. As the pharaoh’s consciousness forced its way into Bilson’s mind, the professor screamed.


For as long as I can remember, I’ve dug graves.

As a child, I became something of an expert in digging them for expired pets; first my own, then as I developed an aptitude for the task, I started to offer my services to the neighbourhood children too.

I’ve never been a professional gravedigger, despite keeping my hand in well into the present day… Let’s just say, I dig graves on an ‘informal’ basis, as the need arises.

Only these days, I dig them vertical: There’s simply not enough space left in the garden to do it the traditional way!


It Was The 80s

In past 100 word stories I have copped to the fact I have been a heavy video gamer. So it will come as no surprise I have dumped a bunch of coin into a “DIG DUG” arcade machine. Basic game play is you dig a number of vertical tunnels, get the monster to follow you up said tunnels that has a rock directly above, move out way of the falling rock, smash monster. The main strategy was to go deep, wait for monsters to combine at the bottom, led a line up tunnel to falling rock. Not exactly rocket science.


Go ahead. Dig your own grave.
Here’s a shovel.
Don’t feel like digging with a shovel?
Then here’s the address of a place you can rent a backhoe.
You might need some lessons, though.
I’m sure there’s a contractor you can hire.
But that’s cheating.
That’s someone else digging your grave.
You’re supposed to dig your own grave.
Maybe if you tried to dig in softer ground?
You could use a pickaxe to break things up a big before you dig.
Oh, and did you call the gas company to make sure it’s safe to dig?
Safety first, you know.