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Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.
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.
We’ve got stories by:
Wind, or Wind
By Christopher Munroe
The wind whips your hair back and forth as you wind your way through the woods, wind whistling through wood as you wander, wondering where you will wind up.
Your watch has wound down, you would have wound it were you aware you’d wind up wandering these woods, but without warning it’s no wonder you wander without…
Your mind wanders, and you wish you were willing to welcome the wonders without, without wondering what those wonders wrought whereupon they wandered upon you, gentle wanderer.
And that’s when you realize: You’ve completely lost track of what you were trying to say…
The wind emanated from Grandma Lucy. Untethered by heavy clothing or undergarments, the winds drove across the dining room while we gathered for Christmas Dinner. Granny had been on a healing diet of rich, Greek food, dates and exotic grains. The cats left the room for the saving oxygen of the back yard, while we kept our heads down, lighting more candles, and sipping wine to anesthetize ourselves and burn off any flammable gases before they collected in the corners behind the heavy furniture. Gran was unaware of her blistering discharges, and continued with her special dinner. Merry Christmas, all.
It was my job to wind the clock in the hall. I had to stand on a chair after retrieving the brass key from the hanger, and check the time on the local FM station before I wound the clock. I was careful not to overwind the clock, and after it was wound, I set the correct time by moving the minute hand either clockwise or counterclockwise. The clock never lost nor gained a minute between windings. I dusted it, quickly, and reported that I finished. The week that I neglected winding the clock was the week I passed away.
by Jeffrey Fischer
“Mouth” McFadden was a good cornerback, but his claim to fame was his ability to trash talk opponents. Every play, all game, McFadden would have a comment about the offensive player’s hygiene, his IQ, his mother – you name it.
One game, the opposing team had enough. They called a play in McFadden’s direction. Three receivers converged on the cornerback, ignoring the ball. Each collided with the Mouth, who went down to the turf gasping for air. He couldn’t speak a word.
Looking over the prone McFadden, one of the receivers said to his teammates, “Looks like we knocked the windbag out of him.”
They were happy to take the 15-yard penalty.
by Jeffrey Fischer
Judy’s eyes lit up. She had her cheating husband dead to rights. He thought he was being clever, ordering the life-sized wind-up doll when she was out of the house, but he forgot that Judy got the email confirmation. She couldn’t believe what she saw: a clockwork sex toy! Sure, their marriage had its problems, and she rarely showed any excitement in bed with him, but honestly!
She had tracked the order and made sure she was home for the delivery. She burst into the bedroom, the accusation already on her lips. The doll, now fully wound, opened its mouth. “It’s so nice to see you home,” it said to her husband. “How was your day, dear?” Judy looked at the box. this wasn’t a sex doll, it was a conversation doll, fluent in Wife!
The flag flapped in the wind, resilient and shredded. It had survived centuries of battles, countless journeys… and John. When he discovered the relic in the attic, he decided to play with it. He imagined fierce pirate fights where kings and aliens joined forces in improbable alliances. For weeks, that flag was a cape, a belt, a beach towel, a hat, a blanket, a traveler’s bag. When his parents realized what he had done, they were horrified and decided to place the flag in the garden, flapping safely in the wind, but away from John’s dreams. The flag wasn’t happy.
It was a dark and stormy night, the wind howled through the empty streets, whipping up stray pieces of litter and sending tin cans clattering down alleyways.
The windows rattled in their frames, rain thudding against the glass; the building creaked and protested under the assault of the storm outside.
I peered out into the darkness, inwardly shivering at the thought of leaving the warmth of the fire and braving the storm.
Some decisions are simple.
I returned to my chair by the fireside, poured a good measure of scotch and raised a silent toast to my own good sense!
I gave the wheel a spin, taking up the slack on the ropes, snagging them tight.
It’s about now that I really should be asking you to confess, but to be quite honest, I’ve no interest at all in anything you have to say… All I want to hear is your screams!
It’s a question of balance – judging the precise amount of tension that will exert the greatest amount of pain.
Just one more turn. One final wind of the rope.
Your joints pop; sinews tear; muscles burst…
And you scream – a confession!
And a job well done.
Even in the Quietest Moments
Francis spent months in the Brass, but didn’t have the Embouchure. He left percussion because he lacked stamina. He sawed away in the strings until the first cellist formally petitioned for his removal. “Dad I’m just not cut out for this,” said Francis. His father set his baton on the podium. He hand the young man a flute. “Let’s give the wind section a try, shall we?” A bit rocky at first, but in time Francis found his place in the orchestra. They said when he played the sound of wind blow in the pines flow through the hall.
I was unloading lumber on a windy day. When I took a piece of plywood off a lumber truck I got hit by a strong wind. I felt like Piglet on that blustery day. I wish someone had seen me before I was a hundred feet in the air. My father couldn’t chase me because his car flooded so he had to wait ten minutes before trying to start the car again. Luckily I was close to the ground when the wind died down. The family whose farmhouse I wound up near let me use their phone to call home.
Five hundred warriors assemble in ranks, armed with pen and paper. Their badges of rank, tin, silver, gold and iron monkeys clasp their cloaks at their necks. Contestants, like knights of old, take up the challenge, proud upon their linguistic steeds, prosaic pennants billow in the wind.
“Set you alarms. Mark your calendars,” the commander calls. “You have but seven days to find the one hundred perfect words to complete your mission. Not one word more or less or you will wind up among the losers. And if you don’t like the sound of your own voice, that’s your problem.”
Ok, I *am* the Messiah! Crazy, right? No argument from me there. See, I’ve always known it, never believed it.
What’s it like? It’s like a violent wind gusting through me, the greatest wind there ever was, but also completely still. That might take in a village carpenter’s son two thousand years ago, but I’ve studied neuroscience, and I don’t take my brain seriously when it pulls stuff like that.
Oh, your club foot? Looks ok to me.
Thanks, but I still don’t believe in these so-called miracles. After all, it’s not exactly a randomised controlled double-blind trial, is it?
WIND airs Christian talk radio up in Chicago.
You can listen to it over the Internet, but I’d rather listen to my music, or the most recent podcasts in my collection.
I have a playlist for when I’m driving to work, or when I’m driving home.
Because the one rock station airs more commercials than music, and the local NPR station is always in a fundraiser.
Same with the classical station, but the fundraisers there are calmer and more relaxed.
More relaxed than the talk on WIND, I suspect.
I connect my iPhone, tell Siri to play, and drive on.