With the sexiest voice
In the world
Was as an auctioneer
And he’d auction horses
And other things people didn’t want
Or need anymore
But his commissions weren’t
All that good
Because his voice was so sexy
Instead of raising their hands
To place their bids
People had their hands
(He didn’t want to think what they’d do
With auction paddles)
So instead of watching
For people to
Raise their hands
He’d listen for them to raise their voices
He’d count that as a bid
I never go outside. It’s not safe out there anymore.
I get everything delivered.
I know what time of year it is by the designs on the Coke cans.
They do those polar bears in winter, fireworks in summer, and scary stuff in Halloween time.
And Santa for Christmas.
A kid comes to deliver the Coke and groceries, and he takes the empties out to the corner for pickup.
“You drink so much of that stuff, why don’t you get the two-liter bottles?” says the kid.
I like it in cans.
And I told the store to send another kid.
Today is my brother’s birthday.
I have not seen or spoken to him in years.
We fought a lot when we were growing up, and it never stopped.
Mom kept trying to get us not to fight and to bury the hatchet, but Dad never got along with his brother, so he totally understood and respected our decision to stay the hell away from each other.
So, when one day my brother shows up, yeah, I buried the hatchet.
Into his chest.
I buried the body in the back yard.
So, yeah, I haven’t seen or spoken to him.
Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.
This is Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
The topic this week was DRINK:
And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:
- Thomas Pitre
- Chris the Nuclear Kid
- Jeff Hema
- Serendipidy Haven
- Cliff – Uncle Monster
- Deanya Zenfold
- Norval Joe
- Tura Brezoianu
- Planet Z
The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of FAINT.
And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:
He was sober, but his behavior had not changed. He was dirty and sober, to coin a phrase. Dave continued to cheat widows out of their savings, and take advantage of women with low, self- esteem. He would pretend to listen to them when they answered his questions: “What do you do.” “What do you think of so-and-so.” He’d look into their eyes, touch their wrist lightly, and lean forward to sip his drink. He had mastered the skills of being a cad and a lothario. Dave was shot through the groin by a scorned woman of especially, low self-esteem.
The drink was new. Developed by a bright, young chemist at PepsiCo. Progengen combined several herbs and a generous portion of caffeine. The herbs, indigenous to Brazilian jungles, were used to enhance brain function. They also were close in chemical composition to free testosterone. Those that drank the new cola, were less sleepy and more aggressive. Gangs of Progengen drinkers found themselves clustering together at concerts, bars and soccer games. They would arrive early, leave late, and would be responsible for riots, fist-fights, and setting fires to cars in the parking lot. The FDA eventually pulled the drink from market.
It was a three dog night. So cold in fact, that Jennifer slept with four dogs that night. She allowed herself a couple of shots of brandy before wrapping herself in her wool blankets and pulling the dogs in close to keep her warm. Of course, Mr. B., the oldest dog snored, and this kept her awake for an hour before she drifted off. Jennifer could not move a finger during the night. Enclosed in the bundle of wool and dog flesh, she was immobilized. The heat generated by a couple of hundred pounds of dog was more than necessary.
Lenore was an odd duck. When she had company over for a fine dinner and drinks, she would exhibit a skeleton on a shelf in the middle of the dining room. The purpose of the skeleton was to remind her guests of the brevity of human life as she offered the first toast, “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.” Every one of her dinner parties were subject to the display, but the food was good and the food and drink were plentiful. Her guests adopted Lenore’s décor. More than half the dinner parties in Brentwood featured skeletons.
She was a tall drink of water. Samantha is blond, slender, blue-eyed, and young. Her makeup is done in such a way that her eyes are emphasized, but the make-up is so soft and subtle, it is not detectable by everyone. When I talked to her, her father was always nearby. He is a friend, and dreads the day Samantha starts dating. He fears what he might do if anyone causes harm to his first born. He is a big man, works in construction, loads trucks, and capable of removing a teenage boy’s head without the use of hand tools.
Daily life of an assassin
I have a decent on off job. I have time to drink all sorts of whisky, ale, beer, and cider. Or that’s how it used to be. I was sitting at the bar checking out the fine ladies when a man sat down next to me.
“You’re a wanted man. “He said simply, “I’m here to hire you”
“what’s the pay and who do you want dead?”I asked. He looked up putting on a fake smile, gave me a hug whispering in my ear, got up and walked away.
“Well I had better get going.”I grabbed my gear and left.
A Life Of Toil
They say school time is the best part of our life. Well, I disagree. Waking up in the mornings was always like pulling teeth for me, especially if I had been burning the midnight oil trying to finish my homework.
I remember once I woke up late and had no time for my morning shower. So I drank a big glass of milk in one fell swoop, and it was as cold as the weather outside.
In a hurry I jumped on my bicycle, and within five minutes I felt that my shoulders were peculiarly light.
“Darn, I forgot it!”, I howled.
To Drink the Ocean
by Jeffrey Fischer
The aviatrix crawled toward the meager shade the wrecked plane provided against the mid-day sun. If only I had some water! she thought, then smiled wryly. Water. She was surrounded by it, but none would slake her thirst.
In the two weeks since the engine failure and crash landing on the Pacific atoll, she and her companion had tried to conserve the potable water as long as possible. Now the water was gone, as was he, and the aviatrix no longer believed rescue would come in time.
Drink! her body commanded, and in time she could hold out no longer.
Alice in Wonderland
by Jeffrey Fischer
“Drink me!” read the sign. Alice considered, then obeyed. She shut her eyes as the amber liquid spread through her body. It burned.
She saw colors – oh, what indescribable colors! – swirling, blending together before separating again. She felt as though she was floating in air, weightless. She heard voices, first faintly, then louder and increasingly strident.
Alice opened her eyes. She lay on the floor, her barstool towering over her. A crowd had gathered, wondering what to do.
The bartender peered at Alice, a stern expression on his face. “Miss, I think you’ve had enough.”
#1 – Stiff drink
Once, he’d recovered sufficiently from his encounter with the lamp post, George took stock of his surroundings.
He was in a typical suburban street and had come to grief outside the doorway of a second-rate bar. Untypically, the door itself was lying in the street and shards of glass littered the pavement from the broken bar room windows.
He toyed with the idea of nipping inside – he could have murdered a stiff drink – but, commonsense prevailed and, painfully he dragged himself to his feet and nervously, walked – somewhat more carefully than before – briskly away from the scene of destruction.
#2 – Lost
Because of the drink I lost my home, and along with it, my family, friends, job and everything that I owned. Now, it’s the drink that keeps me going – my days lurch from pub, to bar, to off-licence, and my nights are spent huddled in cold shop doorways and on park benches.
So, in many ways drink is also my salvation of a kind, even though I know that it’s the drink I have to blame for losing everything.
At least, that’s what I assume… it could well be me that’s lost, and my home is somewhere around here!
#3 – Alice
‘Drink me’ said the label on the bottle.
Alice considered the oddly coloured liquid critically – it had been a very curious day: all these potions and cakes, with their intriguing labels; things just kept getting curiouser and curiouser. Still, that wasn’t going to stop her.
She grabbed the bottle, removed the stopper and drank the lot, before falling to the ground, clutching her stomach in agony.
The bottle’s label dropped to the floor where, as her last breath escaped her body, she read the words on the fluttering card: ‘Drink me’; and – too late – printed on the reverse: ‘And die!’
#4 – Going native
The drink had a peculiar, yet not unpleasant taste, and a potency of epic proportions. Swirling it around my mouth, savouring the flavour of the thick liquid, I swallowed, gasping from it’s fiery burn.
“It’s good”, I choked, smiling broadly at the toothless old woman, and held out my bowl for more.
“What’s it made from?”, I asked our guide, who simply nodded towards the woman who was preparing my second draught.
To my horror, she hawked up a huge wad of saliva into the concoction, and stirred it well, before passing me the bowl with a wide, gummy smile.
Why do they make medicine taste so awful?
This stuff I’ve been prescribed is vile, and for all the good it’s doing me, I’d be better off with a couple of aspirin. If anything, I feel worse since being on the medication!
But it’s the taste that makes me feel sick after every dose. I’ve even tried mixing it with orange juice or honey, but it’s still foul.
In the end, I went back to see my doctor – I told him I couldn’t stomach the stuff anymore… he laughed at me.
“You’re supposed to rub it in, not drink it!”
By Christopher Munroe
…if you want a pleasant atmosphere in which to enjoy a drink or two (or eleven), you could do worse than a pub on a Sunday.
It’s industry night, you see, and as such it’s pretty much all waiters and bartenders celebrating the end of their weekend of work. A relaxed, understanding atmosphere in which to enjoy your evening.
The people working, I’m told, make incredible money themselves. Which makes sense, I suppose, nobody tips like other waiters.
Still, I could never work the industry night shift, however good the money might be.
I gotta get my own drink on…
“What’s this?” asked the stranger from an obscure planet.
“A tap, it gives water, see?” replied the innkeeper.
“Or something else, when we are lucky,” added a customer.
“Something else? Like what?”
“When democracy was abolished, a group of subversives hacked the water system and added a powder that shuts down the brain temporarily. They still do it today.”
“It depends. With workdays that are 18 hours long, being knocked-out for a day or two means rest time.”
“We have robots to do our work,” said the stranger appalled.
“We did too. Oddly enough, they became the subversives.”
The Boy with the Wild Boar’s Face Part 2
The collection theft turned out to be the saving grace of the Muzim Trust. With the insurance money they were able to renovate and modernise. Media attention aroused public sympathy and new audiences and patrons flocked to the well-funded productions which gained generous newspaper review space because a stream of celebrity actors could be employed here between their film shoots. Thus, the Muzim Theatre regained its prestige as a premier leader of the arts in the city. Ketut was happy. He helped out with front of house before each show, swept up afterwards glad Tuan’s life work would continue on.
Under the practical but tasteless Puan, Management tried to curate a new collection, restocking the displays in the vestibule to justify the name and image of the Muzim Theatre. The exhibits were no substitute for those rare exhibits that each had an authentic history behind them. Nevertheless, they installed the inferior collection with fanfare under the glare of media cameras. While all went off to a party, Ketut remained indignant. How could they dishonour the name and memory of Tuan, a national treasure, with all this junk he didn’t collect, all the while keeping his gilded portrait on the vestibule wall?
Installing the new collection was also timed with the opening of new production, the last work written by Tuan based on the story of Jayawarman the Ninth. It was part dance-drama and song cycle with background shadow puppetry telling the story of ritual suicide of a Javanese King, Queen and 1500 family members and retainers before colonial Dutch guns. Instead of fighting and sacrificing thousands, the noble king staged a dance drama full of tragic spectacle as his ultimate protest in the face of military invasion. After the first night sensation, the play was a sell out. Everyone was ecstatic.
But the following week of success and media attention Puan received another shock. Tuan’s priceless collection mysteriously re-appeared overnight replacing the new one.
“Tut,” she called. He came running. “Have you seen this?”
He shrugged. She really didn’t know what to make of all this, but was suddenly fearful that last night’s new media attention the theatre might be exposed for fraud. Clearly Azlim was not to blame after all. She called her staff.
“Look, we have to hide this all? But where?”
They thought hard for a moment.
“There’s that hidden storeroom under the stage,” said her office manager.
As they tugged and manhandled the garments, hats and masks from the cabinets Ketut became agitated. “You are hurting Tuan’s things. You will damage them.”
Worried about a scandal, Puan got angry. “Oh! We have to hide it all Tut. It will bring a bad name to my husband’s memory.
Backstage, they found the hidden door, but it was locked.
“Who has the key? Tut? Please open up.”
Reluctantly he turned the lock and switched on the light. There was the new collection boxed neatly against one wall, his worn grass sleeping mat against the other and Tuan’s picture looking down.
It dawned on Puan what had happened through the innocent Ketut. What drama! She couldn’t be angry with him. He had saved their precious institution, after all. For now, they would have to reinstall the inferior collection. In time they could bribe the local police to uncover the ‘stolen’ one, fabricating a story of a raid on some art thief ring’s warehouse and even get media attention for it. So she deftly diverted Ketut muting him through admission into the actor’s ranks. His talent shined. Public popularity led him to the top very fast fulfilling his destiny as Tuan’s artistic successor.
Ketut developed into a great mask mime and led the Muzim Troupe to overseas festivals. Even Puan was moved to glimpse her own husband occasionally embodied in the new Tuan.
Back home, Ketut carried on as before. Never marrying he lived in the theatre sweeping up after hours. He also fixed the old trapdoor in the stage floor and would trigger it each night, plunging gleefully down onto foam. Then, he would put on his old boar mask, dust the precious exhibits while conversing with Tuan’s portrait on the wall. “Ok, Tuan?” he would ask. “Did you like the show tonight?”
“My kid has been going on about how I shouldn’t drink so much bottled water. That it is bad for the environment. How tap water is quality checked more often than bottled water. He tells me about all the things he has seen on youtube and the conspiracy theories about soda pop companies convincing people that bottled was better so they would not lose costumes when they became diabetic and stopped drinking soda pop.
Sure I could claim I have fears of chlorine and fluoride but the truth is I like to drink bottled water because I hate washing dishes.”
When a policeman pulls you over, be polite. Have your license and registration handy, but not in your hand. After all, you weren’t doing anything wrong. When he asks if you know how fast you were going, act slightly embarrassed and simply say “No, sir.” When he says that you were doing one hundred forty, don’t pump your fist and yell “YES!” It’s bad form. Act contrite, apologetic, and sincere, even if you have to fake it. And, whatever you do, when he asks if you’ve been drinking, don’t pull out the bottle of scotch and offer him a drink.
To Drink or Not to Drink is the Question
by helen r starr 06/15/2013
To Drink or Not to Drink is the Question
Life is in the balance how do you go?
Up or down, I don’t know
People say to you, “Do it this way”
My gut says, “No, let’s do it this way”
Who’s right or wrong, I cannot say?
Can I have a drink?
You sway, and say, “Oops, the next day”
Did drinks just cloud the way?
Minds under pressure
Tears flow, where do I go
Sadness overcomes gladness
Boxed to drink
Who do I trust?
To all I say,
“Don’t drink, and walk away”
A Well Defined Relationship Part II
Banister removed his hip flask and passed it to the boy. Mother didn’t approve of The Drink and under normal circumstances he would let the green liquid pass him by, but here on Stormedge that just wasn’t the most intelligent option. Tim didn’t particularly like the way The Drink made his head feel. Some said The Drink heightened one reflexes. Timmy threw back a swig and coughed. Banister smiled and raised two fingers. The first of the fermentation clouds appeared on the left. The Drink was the only thing which would keep you sober as you flew through Nimbus Alcoholus
Drink by RedGoddess
Lola remembers a saying “a drink is a drink, is a drink, is a drink.”
Maybe its from one of her recovering alcoholic hotel guests. She can’t remember, but in some cases, it doesn’t make sense.
Every morning, her choice of drink is a home brewed cup of dark roasted coffee, with a dash of brown sugar. After work, coffee won’t cut it, even with Baileys.
So honestly, a drink is not a drink, it is not a drink because Lola needs to numb her frustrations, before she explodes like dynamite.
Two days ago, she witnessed her lover having a drink with another woman. He didn’t see her, but she can’t get this image out of her head. Him. Her. And a bottle of wine between them. Him smiling and laughing without her.
She’d not seen the advertisement until she’d finished dinner, flipping absentmindedly through the magazine while she cooked and ate, pages of health tips and “Can this marriage be saved?”
He’d chided her for having wine with dinner; Baptists should only take alcohol if Jesus Himself had turned it from water. Then he’d take the prescription drugs that kept him calm, he’d said, during his emotionally charged acting lessons.
But there it was: his smile; bottle of Merlot in one hand, glass in the other; his acting lessons really paying off; the word in bold sans serif above his head: “Drink?”
Those basement rats nibbed my toe! I’ll drink a health potion! Those scratches are gone, right away!
Yipes! Flesh wound from that kobold! I’ll drink a health potion!
Dang orc gashed my arm! Nothing a health potion won’t clear right up.
Bugbear broke my nose! Health potion tastes like blood, but works just the same.
Troll hit me over the head with a tree! Health potion and an advil.
Dragon just burnt me to a crisp! Two health potions.
Consume responsibly. Contains high levels of mana. Not suitable for pregnant adventurers or adventurers sensitive to mana. Consult cleric if nursing.
Cookie and Bubbles met Sparkle as she got off from work from the “Ride ‘em Cowboy” strip club. It was only 2:30 am, the bars in NYC don’t close until 4, so the girls decided to head to the nearest bar to get a few drinks. Sparkle knew the bartender, Julio, so they all received free drinks. By 3 a.m., Cookie and Bubbles were completely wasted. Sparkle got into a fight with her so called bartending friend, giving him a swift roundhouse kick to the jaw, dislodging his false teeth, which fell to pieces on the floor. Bubbles threw up on the bar.
“You’re mad,” the second mate shouted as he struggled in his bonds. A shipmate slugged him and blocked his mouth with a dirty rag.
“Harr, Mr. Turner. Ye’ve been found guilty of mutiny, and even amongst us pirates that be punishable by death,” the captain growled. “Take him, boys, and throw the scurvy dog into the drink.”
“Excuse me, Captain,” the first mate put in. “We’re space pirates and there is no drink out there, only the soul sucking void of space.”
“I’ll tell you,” the captain said. “You people are no fun. Then, just put him out the airlock.”
Dergle stood outside the bar, wanting to go in, sit down at their table and order a drink. He pulled his wiener dog hoodie over his balding head and pressed the wiener dog nose-mask onto his face.
He stepped through the door. The party at the center table went silent, but for only a moment. They all suddenly laughed at what must have been the funniest joke in the world. They laughed at him and he knew it.
They’d made it clear that the Justice Friends were “Just Us Friends”.
Like so often, they were in and he was out.
Robert Heinlein said that a fiction writer is competing for the reader’s beer money. I’ll drink to that! But why compete? Every microbrewery bottle carries a blurb about how it was “Brewed on the banks of the mighty St. Vrain” or whatever. You could print a proper story there instead, perhaps a hundred words long. Use easy-peel labels and offer collectible albums. Challenge people to collect a saga in instalments. On a bottle of Bailey’s, you would want only the very best stories, stories you can read and reread for as long as the bottle lasts.
The possibilities are endless!
You’re supposed to drink eight glasses of water per day, but I have no idea how big the glasses are supposed to be.
“Glass-sized,” said my doctor. “Why do you have to be such an asshole?”
So, I made a glass with a counter on it, and after every glass of water, I add one to the counter.
When I get to eight, I can stop drinking.
My friend thought it was a cool idea, so I lent it to him.
Three days later, he ended up in the hospital, suffering from severe dehydration.
The dumbass never reset the counter.
Hi there. This is Laurence Simon of the 100 Word Stories Podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.
The topic of the next 100 Word Stories Weekly Challenge is Faint.
Want to give it a shot? Write an email to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com with the subject line of WEEKLY CHALLENGE.
Include the following:
- 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 the next Weekly Challenge
- And, if you can, a recording of your story (and any shameless plugs)
If you hate the sound of your voice or can’t record your story for some reason or another, go ahead and send the text of the story in anyway. I’ll record it 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.
Theodore Baker didn’t like being called Theodore or Theo.
So, he called himself “The.” As in “The Baker.”
He hung out with his friend Theodore Butcher after school.
He also started calling himself “The.” As in “The Butcher.”
They thought it was cool.
Others didn’t. Kids made fun of them, asking where “The Candlestick Maker” was, and shouting “Rub A Dub Dub!” at them.
They were pushed around, picked on, and bullied constantly.
So, when they were cornered, The Butcher got out a butcher’s knife and The Baker pulled out a rolling pin.
The bullies ran.
But they couldn’t hide.
New York Times editor Abe Rosenthal said that he didn’t care if his reporters were fucking elephants, as long as they weren’t covering the circus.
However, Rosenthal changed his mind after paying a rash of elevator repair bills when reporters brought their dates to the office.
Then there was the stampede at the paper’s Christmas Party. I guess the peanut martinis were too strong, and there was an argument between two elephants wearing the same dress.
Abe put out a memo the next day: no dating elephants.
But clowns? Totally okay with him.
Care to sniff my flower, Mr. Friedman?
Second Evangelical’s roof collapsed in a heavy thunderstorm. They used the insurance money to get as much as they could repaired, but the policy didn’t cover their massive pipe organ, once an array of gleaming copper tubes and an magnificent console of keys, switches and stops, now a dripping, bent pile of ruin.
After several bake sales and poker nights, the funds were raised, and the church director found a match: a bankrupt church in Bulgaria.
They signed the contract, had the organ dismantled, shipped, and transplanted it into Second Evangelical.
Engage the pumps, and pull out all the stops!
The thing I never figured out about the Murder, She Wrote television series was how a town like Cabot Cove, Maine could have so many murders.
Despite having less than 4000 people, every week someone in Cabot Cove would get killed.
Oh, sure, some were tourists, but after a few seasons, you’d think the sheriff would notice something. Or demand a raise.
This got me to wondering if Jessica Fletcher, the mystery writer, was also a murderer.
I mean, she figured out every murder, and the alleged murderer denied it… maybe she’d set them up?
Murders, she got away with!