Weekly Challenge #630 – PIZZA

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.

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:



As I child, I was lucky enough to have the pizza bones any time we ordered a pizza. We had the pizza on a Saturday night, as we gathered in the den in front of the television. Mom would trim the crispy end pieces for me. She would grate some additional Mozzarella, and pop the pieces into the oven until the cheese melted and joined the circle of bones together into a large circle of crispy, cheesy, chewiness.

Dad and I sometimes shared the Bone Ring as we named it, but he usually was happy with eating the regular slices.


The First Glorious Thing I Ever Ate.

Many years ago challenge topics were chosen by the winner of a weekly poll. The first time I had a majority of listens votes I chose the topic: Pizza. This choice totally drove Andrew Ian Dodge crazy. He said it was the stupidest topic he had ever seen and end a run of 22 stories in a row. He refused to write a story. I feel confident in the decade that has follow pizza has not been the worst topic. Further I think it’s fair to say all 630 topics have been it their way inspiring, as was Mr. Dodge.


“This looks awful. Are you sure they have pizza here?”
“How did you find this place? There’s no one else here.”
“I got an email. They sent me an 80%-off coupon.”
“80%?? Let’s go. Now.”
“Haven’t you heard of the 80% club? They’ll shrink your brain by 80%.”
It was too late. The doors closed.
The next morning, they were found barely alive.
The number of these cases had been growing lately. No one knew how it was done, but everyone knew the consequences.
Discount coupons can be hazardous.


Food of the gods

That sublime combination of tomato, cheese and a light, doughy base, suffused with an infinite variety of flavours and textures. Mushroom, chicken, sausage, onion, fresh herbs and olive oil… I could talk forever of its merits.

Food of the gods indeed, but there’s a downside to this culinary marvel – I can’t eat more than a slice without suffering the most appalling heartburn.

Might explain why the gods always seem to be hurling lightning bolts and in such a bad mood.


Pizzas are not popular in China, and imported Western pizza chains have met with indifferent success. This is despite the fact that pizza was invented there, more than two thousand years ago, during the Qin dynasty, and had many regional forms. But one day, at a great state banquet, one of the guests suddenly picked up his pizza and flung it, frisbee style, at the Emperor. The circular blade concealed inside by a treasonous cook decapitated him.

Pizzas were henceforth banned throughout the Middle Kingdom, pizza ovens and recipes were destroyed, and the very word was expunged from the language.


Wrapped in Wool To Keep It Warm


Jon DeCles

The first pizza is speculated to be that of the Ancient Romans, who baked it on the hot bricks of the hearth after raking back the coals. The dough was made simply with water and chestnut flour. Chestnuts were plentiful, and easier to process than wheat or barley. Pine nuts rather than anchovies provided a contrasting flavor, and a sprinkling of fresh rosemary was covered with a drizzle of olive oil before baking. It was a very rich desert.

Flavius the attractive slave delivered it from the baker, and was subject to the same advances as his attractive contemporary counterpart.


Hotter than the surface of the sun!

That first bite of a fresh pizza that sears the roof of your mouth, instantly flaying the skin in peeling layers from your palate; bubbling blisters erupting from the corners of your lips.

It’s excruciating.

Yet you’re compelled to continue through to the bitter end.

Bite after bite.

Slice after slice.

One piece after another; until, bleeding, torn and blistered, tongue swollen and useless, you collapse, whimpering and broken.

Would you like another slice?


Weekly Challenge 630: Pizza
Posted on May 14, 2018 by dannydwyer
Vito tried to calm a customer outraged at his brother slapping the dough on his bare chest to make pizza by saying, “you think that’s bad, you should see how he makes the doughnuts.” The customer stormed out in a rage. Over the next week, Vito and Tony were shocked at the sudden decline in business. They had NO customers at all.

They agreed to be on “Gordon Ramsay’s 24 Hours to Hell & Back,’ to figure out what was going wrong. Gordon screamed after walking in on Tony making the doughnuts, “Start by taking your dick out of the food, dumb-ass!”


Billbert leaned over, held his stomach, and stared at the ground, waiting for the pain and the students to go away.
When the nausea passed he looked up to find a single student standing there.
She smiled. Neon blue cat ear headphones perched on her blond head matched her blue eyes.
“I’m Linoliamanda. I’m sorry he hit you.”
Billbert gathered up the shreds of plastic. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Do you want to come to my birthday party on Friday? We’re having pizza.”
Billbert shoved the remains of the plastic bag in his pocket and said, “Yeah. That sounds like fun.”


I like to watch the How It’s Made television series.
The episode on Frozen Pizzas is fascinating, showing how much automation there in is the process.
The machines they use are fascinatingly complex.
If I had become an engineer, I’d have liked to have designed machines like that.
But what I find most fascinating is that instead of having to watch The Discovery Channel when they air this show, I can watch any episode by searching for it on YouTube.
On Demand is so fascinatingly complex.
If I had been a software engineer, I’d have liked to design that too.

Weekly Challenge #629 – ORGAN

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.

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:

  • Richard
  • Charlie Lacrosse
  • Lizzie
  • Serendipity
  • Tom
  • Jon
  • Norval Joe
  • Danny
  • Paul Camp
  • Planet Z
  • Sleepy



    Mavis plays the pipe organ in church every Sunday.

    She’s not particularly good, but the vicar won’t let anyone else try their hand, despite having a few candidates who could play equally well, if not better.

    There’s Albert, who was a music teacher; Henry, who plays keyboard on a Friday night at The Smokehouse Blues Bar; and Jake, who’s young, but can play better than most twice his age.

    We reckoned the vicar just didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

    Until we discovered the vicar’s own ‘pipe organ’ was also getting the Mavis treatment in the vestry before every service!


    When I went to South Africa to shop for my organ, I brought Bessie with me. I trusted her enough to help me pick out the organ I would have the rest of my life.

    She was not a stuffy, snooty type. She would pick one out that was simple, not ornate in any way, and she would tend to pick something that was practical and easy to maintain.

    We arrived at the showroom and the director took us into the private display salon.

    There were about a dozen on display. A couple of them had mirrors reflecting several views.


    If you have an aging organ, you have several options: 1) rebuild the existing organ; 2) replace the organ with a suitable electronic substitute; 3) purchase an entirely new organ; or 4) make do with a compromised tool.

    Trading in an existing organ for an electronic substitute can be much like tossing out an heirloom gold watch bequeathed by your grandfather and replacing it with a Walmart 6 dollar watch. Most organs, even those neglected and in greatest need of repair, have parts of considerable value to someone.

    The pipes, casework, console shell, and many other components never wear out.


    When we arrived for dinner at the neighbors, a man was playing a song on an old pipe organ. One of the notes was off-key, but he played on. When the host invited us to go outside, I was happy to escape that torture. The problems started when she explained that they needed meat and that they took some of his organs . I was shocked, and was about to ask how he could even play when I felt a sharp blow to the back of my neck. Officer, do you think this scar is what I suspect it is?


    I’m all in favour of organ donation, but I do think that it’s a shame so many die because the demand for organs so frequently outstrips the supply.

    So I thought I should do my bit to solve the problem. I’ve been working on growing human tissues in the lab, with some very encouraging successes to date, I’ve even managed to create a functioning human kidney!

    You see, I’m not all bad.

    I bet you thought this was going to be a story about harvesting organs from unwilling victims, didn’t you?

    That’s just a hobby I pursue on the side!


    Even Educated Fleas Do-s It

    Birds got this organ that lets them know exactly where there are in space. You’ve seen Humming Birds target a space that was once a red feeder and hoover there in surprise. Well modern science has discovered a logic organ in male humans. It seems a matrix of Y-chromosomes somewhere north of Mr. Happy and bit south of the hippocampus is responsible for mid-level discord processes. Researchers at the Mayo Clinic have dubbed this new structure the Y-organ. The triggering mechanism is the sound of the female voice. The response is a long string of the word: WHY WHY WHY.


    Bach’s Royal Instrument


    Jon DeCles

    The organ is the biggest, most powerful instrument ever built. Pipes from teeny tiny to pipes 28 feet long. In San Francisco there is an art gallery that is one gigantic organ, the pipes inside the walls. Churches tremble as if in earthquake when the mighty organ sounds its orgasmic chords under fingers and pedals. People who have only heard the organ recorded are like those who have read pornography but never had sex. Properly played, the organ can make you tremble right down to your core.

    That’s the very kind of big-piped, powerful, orgasm-inducing, mind-shattering organ that I want.


    A dozen students, including Billbert, gathered around Roderick as he put his feet through the holes in the grocery bag and pulled it up.

    “Watch this.” He put his arms out like superman, jumped forward, and belly flopped in the dirt.

    The kids wouldn’t have laughed harder if an organ grinder with a dancing monkey had suddenly appeared.

    Fuming, Roderick got to his feet, tore off the grocery bag, and threw the shreds of plastic on the ground. He walked to Billbert and slugged him in the stomach.

    “I think he ruptured my spleen,” Billbert said, watching Roderick stomp away.


    Jezebel was a musician, who liked to make instruments out of human organs and body parts. There were the Bagpipes made of lungs, piano keys made from bones, piano wire made from hair and muscle, and his favorite, a harmonica made from a larynx. Jezebel would bring his grizzly musical instruments to the town square every Saturday, where the crowd favorite was his portable Organ made solely out of organs. It would make disturbing squishy sounds with every key he hit. “What on earth does that sound like?” most would ask. I don’t know, but it sure does sound expensive.


    Time For the Game

    “Daddy, why do they call it the Organ Trail?” The game is about to start. I mute the car radio.
    “The Organ Trail?”
    “You know, with the covered wagons.”
    “Oh, sweetheart, you mean the Oregon Trail. Oregon is a place.”
    “No, Daddy! Mrs. Lindholm says it’s the ‘Organ Trail.’
    Who am I to contradict her first grade teacher?
    “It’s because the Indians would cut out everyone’s hearts and livers. You know, their organs.”
    A look in the mirror of horrified silence. We can straighten this out later. I turn up the radio. This is going to be a great game.


    People settled Red Creek about two hundred years ago.
    They built houses, a school, and a church.
    More people arrived. And they built more.
    They raised money for a pipe organ for the church.
    Wells Fargo wagons brought the pipes and machinery out to Red Creek.
    But the assembly instructions somehow got lost.
    Instead of waiting for a new copy to arrive, the town blacksmith did his best to put the thing together.
    At the celebration party, the pipe organ exploded, killing everyone in town.
    Wells Fargo paid the newspapers to cover it up and call it a meteor strike

Weekly Challenge #628 – Fly

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.

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:

  • Jeffrey
  • Richard
  • Charlie Lacrosse
  • Tom
  • Lizzie
  • Serendipity
  • Tura
  • Jon
  • Norval Joe
  • Planet Z
  • Tinny


    by Jeffrey Fischer

    The past few weeks had been very stressful for me. An internal audit and the loss of a big client had left me edgy and irritable. My friend Mack, sensing my tension, proposed a weekend trip to go fly fishing. “Trust me, you’ll never have been so relaxed in your life.”

    That’s how I found myself in a freezing stream at 6 a.m., casting a rod adorned with colorful plastic into the water. Three hours later I was in the same spot with nothing to show for it beyond my increasing frustration and perhaps some frostbite. I snapped my rod in two, did the same with Mack’s, and threw our gear into the stream. “You’re right,” said, “this *is* relaxing. I should have done this hours ago.”


    #1 – Leave it to the birds

    If we were meant to fly, we’d have been given wings and feathers. Unfortunately we weren’t, so those crazy Wright brothers came up with the mad idea of creating the aeroplane.

    C’mon… I don’t care what the laws of physics state, there’s something incredibly wrong about five hundred tons of steel and aviation fuel defying gravity and taking to the skies.

    I’m dead against it – people were not meant to fly, and nothing you can argue to the contrary will change my opinion.

    So, you might ask why it is I love flying so much.

    Two words: Free booze.

    #2 – Fly!

    As a child, I always wondered what it would be like to fly. Stories of Peter Pan inspired dreams of flitting above the rooftops, soaring through the clouds and sailing through the misty air.

    And then, one day, I met the gypsy woman, and fumbling with the few coins I had saved from my pocket money, I whispered her my most fervent wish.

    That night, as the moon rose above the horizon, so did I, and it was everything I’d dreamed of, and more.

    Sadly, that was the only time.

    And I shall never fly again.

    Landings are a bastard!

    #3 – Ecology

    I watched the fly struggling in the web outside my window, and felt the stirrings of compassion.

    Perhaps I should intervene and set the poor thing free?

    But then the spider would go hungry; and maybe the bird that would have feasted on the spider would go hungry, and so on, right up the food chain, until we reach the ultimate apex predator… human beings.

    And we can’t have hungry humans, can we?

    Ecology is terribly complex.

    However, that’s not the reason I left the fly struggling in that web.

    I left it there, because I really can’t stand flies!


    A fly has been buzzing around the inside of my window, opposite my desk. It managed to avoid a scrap of flypaper pinned to the sill. It’s big, and I think it’s a male. The male is smaller than the female and the genitalia looks darker, blunter, untidier, and more convoluted.

    If and when the fly gets stuck to the flypaper, I will take it outside and do my best to free the fly, using disposable gloves and plastic tweezers.

    I will release it above a steaming pile of dog crap, so it can find nourishment after its stressful ordeal.


    When I was a lad, I dressed fly. I was the picture of sartorial splendor and a model for the hippest and most sought after style in the city.

    I sewed many of my own garments, learning how to make patterns by tediously disassembling my favorite shirts, jackets and trousers. I made patterns, bought fabrics and piping at a large fabric store, and stitched things together with an antique, treadle-powered Singer.

    People would ask me where I bought my clothes. I told them they were original, and I made them. I was offered cash, trades, and drugs for my wardrobe.


    Pretty Fly For a White Guy

    Technically Elvis Presley was fly before fly was fly. Clothes from Lansky’s moves from Chuck Berry. Pat Boon would take decades to catch up even with a Big Mama” Thornton kick start. But you got to give credit where credit is due. Back stage at the T.A.M.I. Show in 1964 Mick Jagger is watching the Hardest Work Man in Show Business kill it on stage. He the Stones go on next and Jagger pretty much steals every move James Brown made. Keith Richards said of the moment, “the biggest mistake of their careers.” You just can’t out fly James Brown.


    “The photo’s really bad. Where’s this?!”
    “I don’t know. But this is where the hot air balloon is.”
    “I can see that… Do you have any other irrelevant information to volunteer?!”
    “There’s a lighthouse on the photo.”
    “I can see that too… What else?”
    “Nothing… Except those red leaves.”
    “Special leaves?”
    “No. They’re quite common.”
    “Then, we have nothing.”
    “Why did you bring me this photo then?”
    “Because at the back someone wrote the coordinates.”
    “And you waited this long to tell me that?”
    “I just hate negative people.”


    Isn’t this just amazing?

    I know you’re nervous. Who wouldn’t be nervous before their first jump? Some would say you have to be more than a little crazy to throw yourself out of a perfectly good plane at thirteen thousand feet, with nothing but a thin sheet of silk to stop you from hitting the ground below at terminal velocity.

    But I know you, and that you’re not at all crazy, not even a little bit.

    There’s no way you’d jump out of a plane with only a parachute to save you.

    Not that I packed one for you anyway!


    We burst out of our cocoons in our new bodies, rise into the air, and scatter. Our throng is more numerous than I can grasp. But each must strive to outdo the others, and find a mate to receive our payload alone.

    I sense how much energy yet remains. I have no mouth and cannot feed, but I must not fail. At last I detect an unmated target. With my utmost effort I expend my last reserves, and at the end I achieve consummation.

    The drone swooped down from the sky and exploded in the centre of the enemy outpost.


    I believe I can fly, and in dreams I know I can. The problem is the aerodynamic imagination.

    Some people, when they fly in their dreams, fly with their arms outstretched at their sides, kind of like wings. Some with their arms stretched out in front of them, like Superman. If you are in the dream time, you never see anybody flying the other way, the way that is not your way.

    If you do, you lose faith and you crash.

    I heard when you hanglide you cease to dream of flying.

    Now I fly for real and don’t crash.


    Sitting in the back of the bus, Billbert thought he was home free, until Roderick climbed on. Though the bus was crowded the bully made straight for him and sat.
    “Give me that bag, or you’re going to fly out the window of this bus,” Roderick snarled.
    When Billbert hesitated, Roderick pulled his backpack from his hands and rifled through the pockets until he found it.
    Dragging Billbert from the bus at the next stop, Roderick held the bag in the air and declared for the rest of the students to hear, “This bag is going to make me fly.”


    We walked through metal detectors, got patted down, and were escorted into the conference hall by bodyguards.
    More bodyguards sat in a row in front of the podium as celebrities shouted about how much they hated the NRA and demanded gun control.
    So, I shouted “GUN!”
    All of the bodyguards quickly pulled out their weapons and scanned the crowd, and then… there was a shot, and another, and then…
    The bodyguards were shooting each other.
    Instant panic. Celebrities rushed the exits, but they were locked.
    “SEE HOW WE NEED GUN CONTROL!” shouted someone.
    A shot rang out, and they screamed.

Weekly Challenge #627 – Pick Two Granite, Pertinent, Record, Surely, Tag, Bridge, Proud, Detective, Tarp, Caramel

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.

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:

Lap Myst


The Morning After
by Jeffrey Fischer

In the 1970s, my parents participated in a monthly bridge game that rotated among houses. The host would put on a record, put out some food, and provide a great deal of liquor. They’d drive home, somewhere between tipsy and plastered – the 70s were groovy, children – and loud enough to wake the kids.

By the sober – and hung-over – light of the morning, the recriminations started. “You should have bid six no trump!” “I clearly signaled to you that I had no spades.”

Bridge games faded away like bell-bottoms in the 80s. So did my parents’ marriage.


George was a pirate,but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Pillaging and burning was fun, but it didn’t seem like a reliable vocation.
He enrolled in the local Jr. College and took several courses in accounting.
In time George developed great bookkeeping skills and set up shop as an accountant.
Soon he was working for Calico Jack, Henry Morgan and Black Beard.
“Wow” thought George, “this is like plundering with out all the blood.”
Everything was great until Black Beard took a look at the books. They tried George for
misappropriation of funds and made him walk the plank.


The record, and all the pertinent data, including videos viewed, was inscribed on the granite pedestals of the bridge. A bronze tag was prepared and attached to the bottom of the column. The record was that of all of my personal Facebook history.

Zuck agreed to pay for all the materials, property, and labor. I threatened him with exposing his dicpic from school. If he did not comply, he would surely be embarrassed, and so would his wife’s family.

I was amazed at how much data was in the file. I requested it from FB, and it arrived minutes later.


Mr. Caramel was surely the one who knew more about everyone else. He noticed every single detail regarding the neighborhood and memorized it thoroughly.
Mr. Caramel could hear his wife chatting languidly with Mr. Granite, that Mr. Granite…
Mr. Caramel decided, right there and then, that he wasn’t going to do anything but enjoy the warm hours of a lazy afternoon. He slowly stretched his neck towards the sun.
If Mrs. Caramel wanted to eat, she could go prepare things herself… or ask Mr. Granite.
He stood on the pole and closed his eyes. Mr. Caramel was a proud seagull.


#1 – Murder!

“Cover it up, I’ve seen everything I need”

The officers pulled the tarp over the bodies, hiding the crime scene from prying eyes; Detective Fredericks sighed. A senseless waste of life… And why?

These two victims brought the total to six: All young supermarket employees, just doing their jobs, brutally murdered in bizarre circumstances.

The first victims, crushed by half a ton of wheatflour; another suffocated – oats forced down his throat. Now these two, stabbed through the heart with corn cobs.

He didn’t know the motive, but Fredericks knew for sure, he had a cereal killer on his hands!

#2 – Pride

Just for the record, I want to make it clear that I’m proud of my kids. Sure they may not exactly have ‘excelled’ in their endeavours, with Joey in prison – for the third time – and Amy banned for life from athletics for doping. And then there’s George, the pirate. Pirate, my arse! He was an undercover cop, until his cover got blown and they forced him to walk the plank!

So, not very good at all at what they do.

But still, I’m proud of them, because there’s one thing that they all do extraordinarily well…

Get caught!


In the moonlight blood turns black

They found the body under a tarp at the center of the Granite Bridge. The head Detective placed a toe tag on the victim and noted his cursory finding in a small book to record the basic facts. The watch commander asked Reilly a lot of very pertinent questions later that night. “Surely, the perp entered the bridge from the south end,” said Captain Jeremiah O’Brien. Lieutenant Caramel Santiago suggest a counter argument. “Given the marks on the lower section of the bridge it is possible he came up from the river.” All eyes turned to Santiago, she beamed proudly.


My Fair Lady


Jon DeCles

The detective found the pertinent record in the corner, under a caramel-colored tarp covered in dust. Surely the builder was simply too proud to notice his error, which was why he wore a tag on his toe down at the morgue, victim of a disaster of his own making. The great span of the new granite bridge had been impressive until the vibration of usage proved it to be weak where it could not afford to be weak. The builder was standing at the base when, like London Bridge, it came falling down. She decided the cold case was closed.


In my profession, we have standard methods for disposing of bodies.

We’ve moved on from acid baths – they take forever, they stink, and there’s only so much acid you can buy before arousing suspicions.

These days, we keep things simple: wrap the body in a tarp, and bury it; or wrap the body in a tarp and throw it off a bridge; some wrap the body in a tarp and weigh it down with rocks, for disposal at sea.

But I’m getting too old for manhandling bodies in tarps.

Although, I make decent money: Manufacturing tarps for the Mob!


Billbert ate his lunch alone, constantly surveying his surroundings like a detective on a stakeout.

Roderick was a grade higher than he and ate his lunch at a different time. Surely, they were unlikely to cross paths at this time.

The pertinent question was how was he going to get home after school without getting beaten up?

Maybe he could tag along with some of the kids who lived in his neighborhood. Would Roderick confront him with witnesses to record the event?

Then he realized. He could take the bus. Crammed in like sardines Roderick wouldn’t get close to him.


It has been a record-setting year for people jumping off of the bridge.
Leonard with the Park Service has his electric cart ready with a tarp when we spot someone going over the rails.
Ricardo handles evenings, and Paco handles weekends.
For a while, they kept score in the breakroom.
Someone complained to the director, and they wiped the board clean.
When the electric cart runs low on power, they plug it in to charge.
But sometimes they forget, and they try to run out with the tarp.
It’s too heavy to carry. They end up dragging it out there.

Weekly Challenge #626 – Camping

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.

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:

Myst watches Possum


I’ve never been a camper. Sorry. Once at a party in Frisco, I dressed up as a chubby daughter of Lesbos for a high camp fest that my art school threw.

High camp was in at the time. My aesthetic was a form and demonstration of inverted attributes of beauty, value and taste. “Camping it up” was the strategy for the whole weekend. My friends still talk about it.

Today, many years later, my taste in camp is confined to reading The National Enquirer, watching Cuban pop singers, and watching lustless porn with the sound turned off.

Lifetime NRA Member.


Camping usually is family affair with my family. We pack two, unmuffled, diesel generators, the dogs and the miniature pigs, and the large screen TV and stereo gear. We bought six air mattresses and a motorized hammock that can hold the whole family.

Target practice, archery, lawn darts, naked volleyball, and a portable Sanikan take up the rest of the room in the utility trailer. The Sanikan is pumped out by the local plumbing shop twice a week. We have plenty of hot water due to the propane heaters and storage tanks.

We relish the flash pictures of Mother Nature.



I hate camping!

Ever since trips to ‘The Great Outdoors’ as a youngster, I’ve loathed anything to do with tents, sleeping bags and portaloos… How anyone can enjoy that sort of thing beats me!

It’s cramped, cold, everything smells musty, and the slightest hint of rain means that everything will remain damp and uncomfortable for the duration.

Then there’s the bugs and all the other unpleasantness that others pretend to enjoy.

Not me though. I’ll stay in a hotel with a decent bar, a comfortable bed, room service and air conditioning.

Or, better still, why bother? I’ll stay at home!


“It’s cold and I don’t even like camping.” And Annie slammed the door behind her.
Why did Annie have the final word about everything, thought Paula.
A pair of curious eyes looked inside the house.
Why couldn’t they go camping in the winter? They just needed a few extra sweaters. And besides, Paula really wanted to see that stag again.
When she turned around, he was there. She didn’t dare to move. They looked at each other. And that’s how the word camping took on a completely different meaning, as the stag came back for a visit every day.


A friend introduced me to living under canvas many years ago. He would constantly be extolling the virtues of getting close to nature, becoming one with the environment and living in harmony with the forest.

That’s not the reason I camp out in the wilds and avoid cities and civilisation; my reasons have nothing to do with living as nature intended.

It’s a practicality, as far as I’m concerned – the further from habitation I keep, the less likely the cops will catch up with me.

Together with the added bonus that it’s easy to dispose of bodies out here!


Nature Boy, Not

I’m not an avid camper. I’m an urbanite. When we travel we expect a mint on the pillow, not a tree root to the spine. “Camping allow you a closer connection to nature.” So does a weekend with Ebola. The only way to get me into the wood, to “CAMP” there had better be a cabin, a bank of electoral plugs, and oh yes, WIFI. But Tom the purpose of camping is to remove yourself from the tyranny of the modern world. Oh and walking 10 miles hauling a 90 pound pack, to dine on freeze dry food is freedom. Nup


No More Camping Trips!


Jon DeCles

It was to be an idyllic Saturday. My buddy was coming over and we could watch old movies and opera on the big screen TV. My son, Master of the Media, was to be away with my wife on a camping trip. He normally dominates the usage of the TV, but he assured us the electronics would be free for our use. If need be, my nephew could advise us on how it worked.

We could not turn it on. My nephew could turn it on, but not make it go. His son got us a picture, but nothing more.


You need less than you think to camp in the wilderness. Who needs a tent? Make your shelter from tree branches. No need to carry food, you can live off the land. As for clothes, a properly trained human body needs only its natural strength. To wander naked with nothing through the empty places is real living, not slowly dying in cities. One taste and you’ll never go back.

That’s what I tell them for $10,000 a day at corporate team-building retreats. And now I have fans who actually do it! I’m almost tempted to try it myself.


Billbert settled down onto the roof of the library. Giddy from escaping the bully he fought the desire to laugh out loud so that he could hear what Roderick said on the ground below.
“Get down here with that bag or I’m gonna kick your skinny butt.”
Billbert considered camping out on the roof for the rest of his life. But why? With his plastic grocery bag, he could fly anywhere.
Making sure to stay out of Roderick’s view, Billbert circled around and landed on the ground near his locker. Safely locking the bag away he hurried to his class.


George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
Other pirates looked at raids as work.
George looked at them as camping trips.
He’d pack all kinds of things for the raid, such as a portable stove, a change of clothes, and meals ready to eat.
“You don’t need all of that,” said the captain. “Just steal food during the raid..”
This assumed that the pirates would succeed.
Which they didn’t.
George quickly changed clothes and posed as a lost tourist.
The townspeople welcomed him. “Sorry for the mess,” they said “Want to watch us hang some pirates?”

Weekly Challenge #625 – Weak

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.

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:

Black cat


You call us old and say we’re weak

You think the boomers are meek.

Didn’t anyone ever teach you,

you should be seen and not speak.

We’re your moms, dads, grandmas and grandpas.

Grew up with swings and seesaws.

We didn’t need helmets and pads,

or playground safety laws.

You say we spent all your money,

on pensions and social security.

How much did you plan on making,

with your new liberal arts degree?

Some day our role you’ll take on.

You’re gonna miss us when we’re gone.

My last words to you millennials,

everybody just STAY OFF MY LAWN!


Bilbert took a couple steps and jumped into the air. Again, only a weak buzzing from the poket of his backpack and he landed back on his feet.
“That’s pretty weak,” Roderick said. “It’s too bad you made fun of me like that. Now, I’m going to have to beat you up.”
Frantically, Billbert pulled off the backpack and opened the buzzing pocket.
His eyes lit up when he saw the plastic grocery bag. Stepping through the leg holes, he pulled up the bag. Holding on with one hand, he leapt into the air and flew out of Roderick’s reach.


Weak On The Concept

By Jon DeCles

Yesterday I was shopping at Safeway. The cheerful female voice of the omnipresent commercial announcement was burbling on and on about the sandwiches one could purchase in the deli department. I heard in astonishment that one could get sandwiches featuring ‘delicious gluten-free meats’ from the deli case.

People who write advertising copy often have impressive degrees from universities, much like people who copy-edit books for publishers. They are really good at putting the right spin on their words. They are universally weak when it comes to the content of their copy.

I got into hundred word because of gluten-free copy-writing.


Some Like it Beyond Hot

Allan dipped the spoon into the bowl. “It’s still weak,” he said to Colin. “Well we’ve add both the Red Devil and Green Devil. A mess of chills that would incinerated a goat’s digestive track, and the pepper both Carolina Reaper and Trinidad Moruga Scorpion. What left?” Allan reached up to a shelf containing an unmarked bottle. Dropped an eye dropper down the neck. Drew up a single drop of liquid. “The juice of Pepper X.” “You’re out of your fucking mind, but be it far from me to curtail your insanity. Allan down the sauce. “Not weak,” he rasped


The Inexplicable Force
by Jeffrey Fischer

Scientists have found four fundamental forces in the universe: the gravitational and electromagnetic forces, and the weak and strong forces. More recently, they have uncovered a fifth force, more powerful than the others.

Ever wonder why hipsters like bad-tasting beer, or overpaying for pretentious-sounding dishes in restaurants? Why are some rich people drawn to the Prius? And how is it that the woman who is clearly out of the guy’s league besotted with him? It’s the inexplicable force! Striking seemingly at random, it becomes the superglue of physics. You won’t find the hipster trying a decent beer or the Prius driver learning that gasoline-powered engines in decent-looking cars are the way to travel.

And Sarah Jane… pure logic says she should dump that schlub of a boyfriend for me, but it never happens. Yup, the inexplicable force in action.


“My stomach is weak,” she said, a tray filled with amazing food looking back at her.
At the restaurant, they were used to her moaning. But she ended up gobbling it all down.
One day, they dared her to cook. She hesitated, but she wasn’t one to run away from a challenge.
When the insurance company showed up, it was impossible to identify where the kitchen was, and it was nearly absurd to even attempt to tread through the barrier of debris by the front door.
That’s when they heard, “My stomach is weak and now my leg hurts…”


#1 – Weaker sex?

People who say that women are the weaker sex have clearly never met my wife!

That’s not to say she doesn’t ask me to carry the shopping from the car, take the bins out, remove stuck jar lids and do all the heavy jobs in the garden.

Not that you can blame her, after all, I’m six foot three in my socks and built like the proverbial brick outhouse, and I was a professional wrestler in my heyday.

But she doesn’t make me do all those things because I can handle it; she does it because she can handle me!

#2 – Make mine a double

If there’s one thing I hate, it’s my drinks weak.

Weak, insipid, tasteless tea or coffee is a crime against humanity, and there’s nothing worse than being served something undrinkable when visiting friends. I smile, take a sip, then leave it to cool, untouched, at my side.

It’s hard to be polite, in those situations, but I try.

I don’t like my alcohol weak either. Forget the ice and water, forget the mixers: Give it to me straight.

A double, at least.

But then, it’s even harder to be polite.

Probably why I’m no longer invited to friends for drinks!


Never weak in any way. nor surrendering to any kind of pressure. I’ve survived indigenous people’s wrist burns, and dozens of nuclear wedgies during school gym classes. I still have some pencil lead in my buttock from the pencil Pete Poggi stuck under me as I sat down in chemistry class in the tenth grade.

Today, as an independent business person, I exercise my will and demonstrate my strength. If I get a new client that is a lawyer, insurance man, dentist or doctor, I add fifty percent to the hourly rate when I invoice them for computer network maintenance.


My cousin has a weak mind, and a brittle marriage. Her husband has taken up with a skank he met at his AA meeting. They are both out of work, and they like the weed as much as the gin and Ranier Ale.

She called and asked if I would meet with her. She hopes I will help her “take care” of her old man after she gets a big policy on his life.

I figure that we can do it next time he changes the oil in his pickup. I’d kick the jackstands out, and collect half the policy.


The strong survive and the weak die.
That’s what my boxing coach always said.
So, when I killed him, that’s what I said to the cops.
Okay, so I punched him after he caught me robbing the gym after hours.
But it isn’t what you think.
He said I could keep the money if I beat him in the ring, bare-knuckles.
Final exam, he called it.
And I guess I passed, because I laid him out with one punch.
Cops didn’t agree. Neither did the judge.
Twenty years.
Now I fight in the prison gym, and the guards place bets.

Weekly Challenge #624 – Vibrations

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.

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:

Sleepy Tin



Years ago I owned a car that was fine until you reached sixty, but anything above that speed would cause a noticeable vibration through the steering.

I didn’t think much of it and put it down to the tyres needing balancing, or something similar.

I eventually passed it on to my sister, and forgot all about it.

We were chatting the other day about cars we’d owned, and she referred to it as the one that nearly killed her.

Apparently, she was doing over sixty when the steering wheel came off in her hands!

Lucky escape for me, I reckon!


I am very sensitive to vibration. I am sensitive to vibrations when working at my desk, or studying. I’ve damped a number of things in the house and car.

I’ve used dense foam, old sponges, wood, cardboard, and other materials to stop the vibration and noise on my heat pump, washing machine and cold air injection on my truck.

A piece of heavy rubber jammed into the space between the washer and the dryer stopped the noise during the spin cycle, thus preventing a seizure and saving me from falling to the floor into a mound of incontinence and spittle.


In the old days, a good vibe was the vibration you got being around someone whose company you enjoyed or cherished. It was the vibe you got by being with them, or an environment that was cool, soothing, and peaceful as they were.

A bad vibration was the one that struck you and harshed your buzz. The buzz could have been an artificially induced high, or the high a person gave you.

A bad vibe should be abandoned as soon as possible and forgotton. It should never be discussed or spoken of, much like the 14 years of my marriage.


At the age of nineteen, the poet Maya Angelou worked as an exotic dancer.
Just image that.
You probably imagine her as some old lady reading “Why the caged bird sings” or her other works at various events.
Or her work with Martin Luther King. That was important, you know.
But me, I’m trying to imagine her younger self, working the pole at night and sneaking off to church during the day.
Imagine, going to one of her book signings, and telling her that back in the day, you had put a dollar in her g-string.
For her, maybe two.


My name is blue canary

MY heart beats

Like a tiny dove

The vibrations rising

It’s a song of love

I’m your only friend

I’m not your only friend

But I’m a little glowing friend

But really I’m not actually your friend

But I am

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch

Who watches over you

Make a little birdhouse in your soul

Not to put too fine a point on it

Say I’m the only bee in your bonnet

Make a little birdhouse in your soul

I have a secret to tell

From my electrical well

Leaving out the whistles and bells


Can you feel that?

The subtle vibration that causes you to squirm slightly in your bonds.

Are you trembling too, with anticipation of what you think is to come?

Exciting, isn’t it?

But more so for me.

You see, I know you’re the one with whom my husband has been cheating on me.

And this isn’t an ‘erotic adventure’ that he’s set up for your pleasure.

Because I’m no dominatrix.

And that vibration is not the toy you think it is.

It’s a circular saw, and it’s moving steadily closer…

Now, you’re struggling!

And now, you’re sorry.

Aren’t you, bitch?


The vibration was stronger as the herd approached. They continued to sleep under the giant plant.
The bamboos muttered a strange song, the thumping making it grow more and more intense. They didn’t wake up. They slept on, immersed in their dreams, their huge ears flipping back and forth as if they were awake.
The symbols on the stone became bright, dancing to the rhythm of the bamboo song.
The herd trotted past them and didn’t even noticed they were there.
They opened their eyes slowly. The bamboo became silent and the stone went to sleep under the giant plant.


Normal Range
by Jeffrey Fischer

The new Metro trains were touted as modernizing the fleet: sleek, eight cars long, with overhead displays of the current and subsequent stations. The trains were also quite heavy.

Homeowners noticed increased vibrations as the new trains passed through the tunnels below their houses. Windows rattled, paintings shifted, and bric-a-brac walked in their displays. Metro downplayed the vibrations, claiming they were within “normal range.” That is, until house foundations began to crack and the occasional house collapsed. Even the transit system’s management had to concede the results were somewhat unusual and undesirable. True to form, their solution was to demand more taxpayer money to “improve” the system.


Billbert wondered why Roderick was accusing him. So, he’d escaped from the tree and foiled the bully’s joke.

Feeling flippant, he said, “Maybe I flew down.”

Roderick made a fist with his other hand. “You better not be making fun of me.”

The boy couldn’t take a joke. Maybe Billbert could impress him, instead.

“I did fly. Come here. I’ll show you,” Billbert said and lead Roderick to the patio off the library. With his backpack still over his shoulders he made to leap into the air.

All that happened was a weak vibration from a pocket of his backpack.


Hardly Any Time At All


Jon DeCles

I had been in Second Life a short time. Less than a year. Hardly any time when it comes to getting to know a person. Much less than a year if you count learning all the complex gobbledygook.

I was dancing in a club. My friend was bouncing next to me. Suddenly he explained to the barkeep that he was dead. His avatar was being occupied by his wife, who had never done SL before. He had died of a heart attack, and she came to tell us. Brave and kind of her.

I cried and drank Scotch all night.

Good (and bad) Vibrations


Jon DeCles

I like to dance, and I don’t mind feeling the vibration through the floor from the music when I am dancing. But when it is from the apartment upstairs, and I am trying to sleep, it is not a good vibration.

The people upstairs, or downstairs, never respond to polite requests.

I read in Mark Twain about Tesla and his experiments with vibration. Twain talks about standing on Tesla’s machine and feeling very comfortable until he suddenly had to run full speed to the rest room. I built the machine.

Now the vibration ends with the sound of repeated flushings.



“This is the best way to find water. Trust me.” He picked up a limb with a Y in it and held it in both hands.

“When you are over water it will kind of vibrate in your hands like text message” He said. “Then it will point down to the water and bingo!”

He walked in a big circle sweeping the stick back and forth. Whenever the stick pointed down I would run up and dig a hole in that spot. By sundown we hadn’t found any water, but I had six pull tabs and a Rainer bottle cap.

Weekly Challenge #623 – Hardly

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.

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:

Fifty Shades of Brown


His apartment in San Francisco was hardly larger than the closet he had as a youngster. He paid twenty-five hundred a month rent. Utilities were included, but he shared the bath and kitchen with six other people.

He slept on a shelf, high on the back wall. His clothes were hung on nails, with some of them on pulleys, so he could pull them up to ceiling.

His laptop folded down with the desk from the wall. The small camp stool folded out from the table once it was in place.

He was happy until he found the peep hole.


Dental: Mental!

When I was a child, our family dentist was a very affable and friendly fellow, but even so, I was terrified of him.

To be fair, he tried his best to reassure me whenever I attended the surgery, but usually his attempts were worse than useless.

Take his stock phrase that he’d invariably trot out, prior to ramming a novocaine injection into my gum:

“This is hardly going to hurt… Just like being punched in the mouth!”

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been punched in the mouth – but it bloody well hurts!

And so did the needle!


Matt winced. He adjusted his glasses and looked at the huge sign. “Gone Fishing”.
And off he went!
Everything was fine until the neighbor kid noticed he never brought back any fish.
“I ate them.”
The kid wasn’t convinced, but Matt didn’t mind.
In his pocket, he had three gold nuggets. He placed them carefully in the box he hid under the floor planks. He needed a new box. This one was full.
When the kid sneaked inside the house to see what was inside the box, he found a lot of yellowish pebbles.
Matt really needed new glasses!


I’d barely settled down to a cup of tea, when the doorbell rang: It was that idiot woman from across the street, complaining about how I’d parked my car.

I invited her in, and – using all my powers of persuasion – explained why it was perfectly reasonable to park where I did.

You haven’t witnessed my powers of persuasion, but they are very convincing, especially the sharp, pointy one; the dull, rusty one; and the one with the corkscrew end.

Since then, I haven’t heard a peep from her.

Hardly surprising, since her tongue went down the waste disposal!


That Which is Remembered Lives.

Hardly a day goes by I don’t think about Jack. It gets stronger with the coming of spring, which is when he died. There are some souls that pass into your life with such a lust for life that their absence leaves a gaping hole in time/space continuum. I had things I needed to tell him. Things I’m just figuring out. Come July it will be the 17th time we have made the road trip to Seattle. He would be so proud of how amazing his daughter has grown into an articulate young woman. He just left to soon.


by Jeffrey Fischer

The gun-grabber march seemed filled with teenage girls engaged in group-think: all were “scared” to go to school. Some held signs asking “Am I Next?” Hardly. The CDC reports an average of 43 violent deaths per year at schools for the decade ending in 2010. 43 may be 43 too many, but the 15 million high school students face pretty good odds. In contrast, the CDC reports 2,333 deaths of 16-to-19 year old teens in road fatalities in 2016, many involving poor decion-making, driving under the influence, excessive speed, and lack of seat belts. If kids truly cared about saving their lives, instead of goofing their way down Pennsylvania Avenue preening for the cameras, they’d march to raise the driving age. Fat chance of that.


“Get to class,” Coach Slaughterball said to Billbert, following the last of the boys out of the locker room.

Billbert didn’t waste any time. The coach had hardly left the room and he was pulling his clothes on.

He shoved the plastic grocery bag into a pocket of his backpack and ran to the office. After turning in the soggy note from the coach, Billbert hurried out of the office and ran into directly into Roderick.

He grabbed Billbert by his shirt. “How’d you get out of that tree? One second your were there. The next second you were gone.”



I hardly knew Isaac, but since I sat across from him I was asked to give his eulogy. Asking around the office nobody could tell me anything about him, so I lied.

I said Isaac had been a Fuller Brush salesman and draft dodger in the 1960s. In the 70s he taught disco and ran a desert ashram until the IRS raid. He spent the 80s as a cold-war spy.

The local paper printed my tribute and it went national. Since Isaac had no family I received a 100K book advance for his biography and later sold the movie rights.


On April 7th, Hilda turned to stone.
She’d been walking in the park when it happened.
At first, people thought she was an abandoned statue.
So did the birds.
Hilda’s family recognized her from a photo in the newspaper.
How did this happen?
Was she alive?
Could she be changed back?
Scientists looked over Hilda, but they had no answers.
After a year, Hilda’s family held a memorial.
The city allowed them to put her back in the park.
With a plaque bearing her name.
Some people say she’s creepy.
Kids dare each other to touch her.
Then they run.

Weekly Challenge #622 – PICK TWO

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.

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:



Sunny Shift

The angel sat on the bench. The sunny day was coming to an end as was his shift. However, he had failed, so he couldn’t understand why he felt so happy. The elderly woman he was supposed to watch over had been hit by a car. The obnoxious teen had jumped in the pool and broken a leg. Even that damn dog someone had placed in his list as a prank had bitten the nosy neighbor. And yet, he felt happy. That’s when he noticed some of the feathers of his wings were taking on an unusual tint of red.


The hearty, Scotch, Major radioed the order that my platoon must advance straightaway making a wee shift out of the sunny grass into the protective canopy of the dark forest.

We were ordered to take a position so we could attack the five-inch guns that were strategically housed within the giant, concrete, globe emplacements on the hilltop.

I signaled back the requisite “wilco”, and said all was well, and my troops would not fail!

The filthy Huns wouldn’t have butter on their Milchbrötchen this morning, only the blood of their comrades.

We took them by surprise, eating them afterward.


You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.
-Well known idiom.

The condominium board voted to plant butter grass. Not knowing anything about horticulture, Miss Snodblade was put in charge.

Snodblade wasn’t the brightest bulb. She used to be a call girl in Washington D.C. Her claim to fame was her coupling with two of the last presidents and three of the past first ladies.

The butter grass grew an inch a day, and soon the grass was up to the eyeballs of the poor lads that were in charge of lawn care.

The moral here is that you can lead a whore to culture, but you can’t make her think.


Sunny Delight

“‘Ello sunshine! Did you grass me up to the rozzers?”

The expression on ‘Sunny’ Sullivan’s face told me that, whatever my response, he’d already made his mind up.

So, with nothing to lose, I decided to brazen it out…

“Yeah, sure I did. Why, what are you gonna do about it?”

The expression turned from dark to black as pitch, and then, slowly, like the sun rising at dawn, a huge smile replaced the frown.

“Hahaha… You crack me up! Fancy a pint? Wish I knew who it was though.”

I supped on my pint, and calmly changed the subject.



My father’s failed attempt at a manicured lawn was legion in our suburban neighborhood. Each spring he’d purchase a small mountain of grass seed and equal mound of fertilizer. Ran that grass spreader machine back and forth for hours. Come the summer the grab grass and dandelions dominated the front-yard.

Now the back-yard was my domain and I peppered it with clove, which meant I did have to mow the sucker. Further due to the exceedingly high water table on our street the back yard was little more than low end swamp. Grass hated the damp, the clove was quite happy


On a Date
by Jeffrey Fischer

One sunny day I took Sarah to a grassy meadow I had seen driving through the country. Beautiful and deserted, this seemed like the perfect location for a date: a little Wilco on the speakers, a blanket on the grass, my picnic hamper with a little bread and butter, and a decent bottle of wine… how could this fail to take our relationship to the next level?

However, the meadow wasn’t exactly deserted. A wee lamb wandered in our direction, curious about our lunch. “Isn’t she just the cutest?” Sarah exclaimed.

“Yes, but I’m not so sure about daddy’s intentions.” A large ram was moving at speed in our direction. This wasn’t the kind of butter I had in mind. Grabbing the wine by the neck, I raced after Sarah to the safety of the car.


If it hadn’t been such a beautiful, sunny day, the class would have remained inside the gym. Running through the locker room to the blacktop or grass outside, most of the boys didn’t fail to notice Billbert in his plastic loincloth, and many stopped to laugh.
He could leap into the air using his superpower and fly around the room. Then their scorn would turn to envy.
Taking a single preparatory step to launch himself over their heads, he slipped in the water and ended up flat on his back.
“Get your butts outside,” Coach Slaughterball yelled at the boys.


“Model Winner”

I was nervous enough about failure, knowing Wilco was judging the
annual art show, but an intense sunny day only raised my anxiety as
the heat did a number on my entry. The wee islands began to shift on
my butter molded globe with the continents not far behind as the
medium started to melt. The tufts of grass representing greener areas
of the world dropped onto the table. To win, I’d have to dig deep in
my well and bring out the groupie in me. Boobs up, skirt short, smile
in place, I waited for the band to arrive.


To look at me, you’d think butter wouldn’t melt… That is, as long as you’re not a criminal psychologist, and you’re looking at the inner workings of my mind, rather than outward appearances.

That’s what most people completely fail to appreciate, despite knowing full well, you should never judge a book by its cover.

Or rather, judge me based on the sweet and innocent persona I outwardly project.

Those who do, and get a little too close will find that there’s a high price to be paid:

And I have no qualms about taking what I feel is rightfully mine.


Our Aunt Maisy used to say “Love don’t pay the bills.”
She woke up early to milk the cows, then led them back out to pasture.
The cows grazed while she churned butter.
These days, robots and computers do all of the work.
They even harvest the crops in the fall.
For a while, the people who did the migrant field work would try to sabotage the robots.
But the robots would grind them up into fertilizer.
Maisy gave us tracker bracelets.
But when Bobby went to go swimming in the creek…
About six hours ago.
I hope they’re waterproof.

Weekly Challenge #621 – Water

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.

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:

Suspicious Tinny


W. C. Fields, a notorious enthusiast of alcohol, said he didn’t drink water because “Fish f*** in it.” True, but the rest of us don’t mind drinking it if it doesn’t have any additives…like too much chlorine, or fluorides.

I filter all my drinking water for the dogs and myself by using canisters of finely granulated, activated charcoal. Activated charcoal is charcoal that has been heated or otherwise treated to increase its adsorptive power.

I keep pitchers of filtered water on the counter for tea and soup, and a big one in the fridge for cold drinks.

Filter your water.


As a youngster, I used to swim a lot. I swam in public pools, home pools, canals, rivers, creeks, lakes, oceans, and the bathtub. I spent more time under the water than on the surface.

When my cousins came over to swim in our pool when I was in grammar school, I spent the majority of the time under the water admiring the coordinated arms and legs of the girls swimming above.

I confess, I did a lot of watching, and the only touching I did was to myself after they left for the day.

At 88, I still swim.


Water has always been something I have been captivated and enamored with. When a person in a film pours a tall glass of water, drinking it with detachment and showing pleasure, I am very attentive and compelled to do the same at my first opportunity.

Pouring a glass of clear, cool water from a large glass pitcher or a heavy, ceramic container after I’ve gone to the kitchen after a few hours in the summer sun in the garden, is a pleasure without measure.

We take clean drinking water for granted. One in six people do not have this luxury.


H2 No!

Dihydrogen Monoxide… Awful stuff.

So corrosive, it can eat through solid steel and carve its way through rock.

Just a teaspoonful inhaled can kill; you can’t breathe it; and long term exposure causes muscle cramps, exhaustion, delirium and ultimately, death!

It destroys property and wrecks the environment… And that’s just the liquid form. As a solid, it’s treacherous; and in gaseous form it causes pain, blistering and burns.

More addictive than crack cocaine, one hundred percent of people can’t live without it, letting it into their homes without a second thought.

This vile substance must be banned, with immediate effect!


She put the baby’s corpse in the pillowcase, duct-taped it shut, and then tied the end to a cinderblock.
The fishing boat could get out to where the water was deep enough.
“It’s a science project,” she said. “Currents and stuff.”
“Whatever,” said the boat’s owner. “Seventy bucks cash.”
Two miles out, the boat had engine trouble.
“We’ve got to head back,” said the captain.
“I guess this will do,” she said, pushing the pillowcase over the side, and she was an only child again.
All she had to do was think up a good story.
She’d Google for one.


Water, Water
by Jeffrey Fischer

People always complain about water. Too little and it’s a drought. Farmers moan about lost crops, homeowners complain about brown lawns and use restrictions. Too much and farmers complain about lost crops, homeowners complain about mildew in basements and flooded roads. We worry that foreign water will cause diarrhea. We complain about taste, color, minerals. That’s the nature of life, I guess.

I thought about those petty whines after my ill-fated skid off the road, as the last few feet of the passenger cabin of my car filled with lake water. Gross, tastes brackish.


Water… It’s wonderful stuff. Readily available, cheap and plentiful, safe to use, but tremendously effective. It’s so much better than many, more obvious, methods.

Take waterboarding, for instance – such a simple technique, but incredibly effective. Quick, easy, and straightforward.

Or if you’re in no hurry and want to enjoy the process, why not go for the good, old fashioned, Chinese water torture? Who would have thought that the simple, steady, drip, drip, drip – inescapable and unforgiving – could break even the strongest will?

And the best thing of all?

Torture can be thirsty work… But not any more!


Best Laid Plans

The water was still, not a rip lapped the bank. The silver dollar moon mirrored the surface caught the monster’s eye. With an effortless flick of a gnarled claw a small form shattered the moons continence and dropped below the approaching waves. It smiled a smile less triumphant, primal, rimming the edge of some deep millennial evil. Heavy legs moved off towards the village. Innocence in slumber would wake to the corruptible agent of their departure from this world. It licked the nail of a claw with perverse joy. It was only then it saw the flaming sword of justice.



I’ve heard it said that in the desert you can’t remember your name. That seemed silly, but after a couple of weeks of wandering I had found it to be true. Your thoughts are filled with sun and sand. Your mind stops noticing the heat and pain at some point and you just keep moving.

I thought I’d started hallucinating, but as I got close there was a man crawling across the sand. He reached out a bony hand to me.

“Walter, Walter. Please Walter.”

How the hell did this guy know my name? I turned around and started running.


Billbert explained Roderick’s prank to the coach.
In an unprecedented break from character, Coach Slaughterball wrote a note and said, “I’m sorry that happened to you. Boys your age can be cruel. Take this excuse to the attendance office so you don’t get in trouble for being late.”

Billbert stood, took the note, and stepped around a puddle of water on the floor.

“What would be more embarrassing than slipping in water while wearing a plastic grocery bag?” He thought.

He found out when the PE class ran through the locker room on their way to the outdoor basketball courts.

Suggested prompt….Intimate