Showdown In New England

The Library wants to build an expansion.
The Y wants to build a pool.
There’s only money in this town to build one of them.
The Y got the jump on the Library, holding bake sales and dances.
The Library offered up naming rights. The Y’s donors called to ask that their checks not be deposited just yet.
Nobody was sure who called out who, but the next day, two directors faced each other on Main Street at high noon.
Donors lined the streets, placing bets and making pledges.
The pool got built. The Library expanded.
So did Boot Hill.


The first time I shaved my head, I had to wrap a towel around my head so I could sleep. My bare scalp against the pillow felt cool, but it felt weird.
The cat who slept on my pillow with me found my head fascinating. She licked my scalp for a while until I wrapped my head with the towel.
Now, beside the shock of seeing myself in the mirror, it’s not a strange feeling at all. Even when I run my hand along the bumps and stubble.
People say it looks great, and you can hardly see the sixes.

Weekly Challenge #531 – Feathers

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:

Laundry yawn cat


I had feathers for one day, and then all was back to normal. There were bright blue, feathered wings, fluorescent red ones on my breast, with a shiny, black bib, while yellow and orange ones crowned my head. I was free, and I was a big-really big-bird. I took the liberty of flying over city hall and waiting for the mayor to step out of the building and start walking to his car. I was ten feet above and swooped in, laying three feet of cable on his head, shoulders, and Italian suit. I flew away, quickly, chirping and clucking.


I nocked the arrow, checked the feathers, and took aim on my target, releasing breath as I did. My target kept moving, and I was losing confidence that I could hit the apricot without sending the Carbon Express, Maxima, RZ, Select shaft through my cousin’s forehead. I steadied myself, moved out of my default mental space and into a mindful frame of mind, simultaneously relaxing the fingers of my string hand. As I was taught, I did not know when the arrow was going to be sent. I only heard the sound of the arrow as it cut the air.


The first time Walt Air took me up for some in-flight checks, we flew the Cessna Twin. We simulated a right engine failure and restart with feathered prop. We had plenty of altitude to do this exercise and there was little traffic on our Southern leg from Walt’s to the Seattle area. My instructor, Buster, was a calm young man, and very attentive to procedure and detail. I tossed my cookies on my “shutdown secure” check list. I used his when I ran through the procedures. When signed off that day, Buster gave me the papers and two sick bags.


by Jeffrey Fischer

Listening to the right piece of music, even just a few phrases, can make the spirit feel feather-light. Music can evoke the past, tap into a variety of emotions, revitalize the soul, lift one out of the doldrums.

Then the darkness descends again. Instead of feeling free, one is anchored by lassitude. Everything seems pointless. One’s loathing for other people is surpassed only by one’s self-loathing.

Grimly, one finds the playlist, the one with those songs, and, hoping against hope, presses the start button. The sense of well-being may not last forever, but this moment is all that matters.

Early One Morning
by Jeffrey Fischer

You caress me with the tips of your fingers, so lightly it feels like the brush of a feather. I keep my eyes closed, wanting this waking moment to continue. Your fingertips move along my arm, then across my bare chest. I allow myself a smile. “Oh, honey, that feels good,” I moan.

“Did you say something to me?” your voice calls from a distance. I open my eyes. A huge spider pauses on its way across my torso, its eyes staring quizzically at me. I leap out of bed with an undignified “Oh shit oh shit oh shit,” flicking the creature off me.


Feather Brain?

“Hey, feather brain, wake up!”
Peter straightened up and tilted his head to one side, then to the other.
“I’m awake.”
“What’s your task for today?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go to the Task Dispenser and press a number.”
“I did.”
“I accomplished it.”
“You were sleeping. How could you have accomplished anything?”
Peter searched his pocket and produced a crumpled slip of paper he handed to the robot. It stated “Take the day off”.
The robot stormed away in a fit of rage, screaming.
“Who hacked the Task Dispenser again? If I catch you, you’ll be sorry. I swear.”



I’m all for the advancement of science and the debunking of myths in favour of hard facts, but sometimes science can go just a little too far.

Warm-blooded dinosaurs I can handle: Even brightly coloured, spritely dinosaurs I can manage; but, when science asks me to believe that dinosaurs were covered in feathers, then as far as I’m concerned, science can take a running jump.

I refuse to accept the notion that T-Rex was just some overgrown version of Tweetie Pie – it’s just wrong on every level.

And it’s ruined the idea of Jurassic Park for me, forever!


Her Bangs
By Christopher Munroe

Her bangs feathered out to either side of her face like the wings of some majestic bird…

Some mythical creature, both immeasurably powerful and graceful beyond imagination, beautiful enough to reduce a grown man to gasping, awestruck tears and yet terrifying in its ability to put your world into sharp perspective.

Against those bangs, other hairstyle couldn’t compete.

Against those bangs, nothing else in life could be said to have meaning…

I liked her hair, basically.

It suited her.

I don’t know if she’d had it cut or was just styling it differently, but whatever she was doing, it worked…


They say that peacock feathers are unlucky, but I suppose people will believe any old superstition if they want to.

Personally, I don’t believe a word of it… Have you ever known any misfortune come to someone as a consequence of such things?

Oh look… You’ve spilled the salt!

Be a dear and grab a peacock feather to brush it up – there’s one in the cupboard under the broken mirror, near that open umbrella, just beneath the ladder. Careful you don’t trip over the cat.

And if that doesn’t bring you bad luck…

I’ll punch you in the nose!


Cheap Chopped Chicken Feathers
Season 4 | Episode 21

When I was small we had these blue stripped pillows. They were stuffed with chicken feathers. Often the point of one of the feathers would poke out of the cloth case and scratch you on the face. Only way to get rid of the feather was to pull it out. Little by little the pillow deflated over the years, till they weren’t much of a pillow at all. Mom switched over to crumped foam. Those totally sucks, so I laid major coin for gooses down. Now I got Tempur-Pedic, very comfy. Don’t real miss the feathers, time marches on.


“So it sounds to me like all of you are on the same side,” Mandy said. “With Polecat being your mutual enemy, you could start your own super hero team.”
“I don’t think so,” Monkey Boy said. ” Ferret was supposed to eliminate Cherry Cola–we can’t trust her. Last time I worked with Cherry Cola, she deserted me and left me a captive to team Horse Feathers.”
“Team who?” Ferret asked.
“They’re a loosely knit group of semi-comedic anti-heroes which I’d infiltrated, until Cherry turned her back on me,” Mickey said. “No. I don’t think we’ll make a good team.”


Nothing can beat playing golf with golfballs you made yourself. To begin, get a stone of goose feathers from your local goose farmer– this will make several hundred golfballs. Take a top-hatful (the traditional measure), pound them with a beechwood mallet, and when they begin to compact, add a trace of bezoar gum to bind the mass. Finish the core with a coat of naturally drawn indiarubber solution in turpentine.

Part two of this series will show how to hand-stitch the leather cover.

Hipster Hobbyist: the magazine of ways to spend your leisure in backbreaking labour of no economic value.


The philosopher asks: Which falls faster, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?
Because of air resistance, the pound of lead would fall faster, right? The feathers catch the air and flutter slowly to the ground.
But not necessarily.
If you use a hydraulic press to mash the feathers into a ball, it fill fall rather quickly.
And if you hammer the lead into soft thin strips, they will flutter to the ground like feathers.
In the end, it’s not what something is made of, but how you shape it.
Well, that, and how you interpret the question.

The topic of the next weekly challenge is Animal

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

The topic of the next 100 Word Stories Weekly Challenge is ANIMAL.

Want to give it a try?

Write an email to isfullofcrap (at) with the subject line of WEEKLY CHALLENGE.

Include the following in your email:

– The text of your 100 word story on the topic.
– Your site’s URL, if you have a site and aren’t ashamed to share it.
– A topic for an upcoming Weekly Challenge.
– A suggestion for this site’s tagline.
– And 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.

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.

7/10 Wings
7/17 Endless
7/24 PICK TWO: Certain, Cloud, Earthling, Wine, Dumped, Beginning
7/31 A Prayer
8/7 Jar
8/14 Stars
8/21 Mind
8/28 Flash
9/4 Cast
9/1 What was the worst thing you ate?
9/18 PICK TWO: Blanket, Center, West, Boobs, Salt, Kentucky, Indigo, Xylophone
9/25 Underwear
10/2 Field
10/9 Murder
10/16 Bottle
10/23 Express
10/30 Halloween Special
11/6 Watch
11/13 PICK TWO: Tramp, Hate, Free, Burn, Channel, Catharsis, Zoo, Twiddle
11/20 Idiot
11/27 Paint
12/4 Moment
12/11 Scream
12/17 Dark
12/25 Christmas Special


Freddy’s Fat

Freddy’s fat.
People called him Fat Freddy.
Well, not me. I called him Fred.
But others, they called him Fat Freddy behind his mile-wide back, and to his big fat face.
Nobody invited him anywhere.
So, Freddy shaved his head.
“Gonna call me Baldy now?” he said.
Nope. They still called him Fat Freddy.
So, Freddy took cooking classes for a year.
He got really good at cooking.
Now, people call him to invite him over for dinner.
“Come cook for us,” they say. “Come join us.”
But that’s not joining. That’s serving.
So, we go out for sushi together.

Hot Mess

I can’t believe he’s marrying her.
She’s such a hot mess. Total psycho.
What is he thinking?
And he’s got kids, too, right?
She can’t handle herself. How is she going to handle being a stepmother?
I wouldn’t trust my kids with her.
Why is he doing this?
Maybe it’s the “I don’t care if the chick I fuck will get my kids killed” gene?
Or “I’m a shitty father” gene.
He has it, passed it on to the kids, and it’ll get weeded out by natural selection.
Maybe we’ll get them a family burial plot as a wedding gift.


Most mornings, I wake up early.
I start a cup of coffee, have some yogurt, and eat vitamin and fiber chews.
Then I get out my wireless headset so I can listen to my favorite podcasts.
At some point, Tinny jumps up on my shoulder and takes a nap. And I pet her.
I can type or text while my arm is around her. She doesn’t mind much.
The earlier, the better. More time to pet her. But at some point, I have to get up, shower, get dressed, and go to work.
She hates those goodbyes.
I do too.