Welcome to the forty-fourth 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 selected by Ted from Ted’s Podcast, and it’s Whiffle Balls.
Eleven stories were submitted this week.
More of the Smith Family joined in as rookies!… yay!
An interview with Tom of Footnote about his story!
And, once again, some disturbing madness from Planet Z.
Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):
The winner will determine the next topic in the series.
WE GOTS PRIZES:
I will be sending the winner a prize… it’s a packet containing a round refrigerator magnet, a rectangular refrigerator magnet and a CD with the archive of the entire 100 word stories podcast. (Well, minus promos and junk)
Normally, it is your voting that determines who wins. But this week, I’m going ahead and giving them out to all participants, past and present. Send me your address via email and I’ll mail it out the packet to you.
But the offer is open to people who respond this week and this week only.
The full text of each story:
ELISSON
Dr. Cox never missed an opportunity to harass the new first-year residents.
As he led the group of newbies on rounds, he made a point of seeking out patients with the most revolting, horrific conditions. Mrs. Finster, a 300-pound woman with a prolapsed rectum. Mr. Jones, who suffered from the increasingly rare Hansen’s disease. Leprosy had eaten away half his face. Nonetheless, the residents were unfazed.
But when they saw the guy in 303B, half of them retched on the spot. His scrotum was perforated, a mass of weeping sores.
Cox laughed inwardly. Wiffle balls – gets ’em every time.
[Please note that the WIFFLE® Ball is a registered trademark of The Wiffle Ball Inc., Shelton, Connecticut.]
to4m
Having left home in her parallel universe, every day was a challenge.
After her physics class project went awry she found herself trying to make sense of her exceedingly similar new world. She was able to speak and understand the language but it was the subtle differences that were so difficult. She was used to celebrating the mid winter not with
trees and material gifts but with loving gestures. There were the elbow rubs, which the people of the new world didn’t mind but it was the ball whiffing that confused the men and got her arrested
CLAYTON
The warm Sun shone down on Cedar Park, Texas, the small field, the thousands of spectators, and little Timmy. Timmy stood in the batter’s box, plastic yellow bat in hand. This was the national whiffle ball championship, and he was going to win the distance competition. The warnings from family and friends that he was too small and too weak, that he would embarrass himself, did not discourage him. He had mowed endless lawns for 2 summers, saving every penny for the entry fee.
This was his one chance, his dream, and he believed in himself. A full two weeks after his body was found hanging from the ceiling fan, Timmy’s mother was still locked in her room mumbling to herself “Four feet, four inches, the shortest hit in history. Why didn’t he listen? Why?”
TOM
Brother Liberwitz moved away from the edge of the excavation. A 1000 years ago this had been Connecticut. At the bequest of the Duke of Montreal the good brother had begun the great work of locating the reliquary.
Liberwitz had never actually held any of the relics. From the manuscripts he had pieced together a ruff description and a crude test of authenticity. It glowed in his hand. The holy markings matched the Illuminations. To the horror of the monks he through the relic across the field. It curved and whistled. The monks chanted “Wiffle ball wiffle ball whiffle ballallallallall”
ANDREW
“Wiffle ball?” He paused, ” Does it have anything to do with a crushed
testicle? Or something gay men do…”
“What?” I replied, “What the hell are you on about mate? How did
testicles show up in this conversation?”
“What pray tell is a wiffle ball then?” He asked flustered.
“Well beside a rubbish topic to write about it’s a plastic ball that
children learn to baseball with so they don’t brain each other.” I
replied.
“Ah yes, your equivalent of health & safety have banned real baseballs
for under 10s I guess?”
“Probably, they tend to meddle in everything.”
PATTI
Mother thought it unladylike for me to play ball with the boys. Basketball, football, whiffle ball … it didn’t matter; it was too dirty, too rough, and having a tomboy for a daughter was not in Mother’s plan.
“You’ll get your good shoes dirty.”
“But I’m wearing my Keds.”
“You’ll p-p-perspire.” She looked faint.
“I’ll take a shower before bed,” I yelled, slamming the front door and running down the street to where the boys gathered.
A few minutes later Mother appeared, looking very disappointed.
“Mom,” I said, stomping my foot, “I’m 46 years old, let me play!”
CALEB
You see that faded antebellum mansion there? It’s long abandoned but that used to be the whiffle estate. One time, they was the most celebrated family around. You see, the lord blessed them with many children but nary an heir. So they used to have coming out parties year after year. Now they was charming girls, bright and well mannered but they never did marry somehow. They just kept throwing coming out parties.
The last one died a couple years ago left the whole estate for anyone who would bring back those magnificent whiffle balls she missed from her youth.
LAIEANNA
I’m going to vent. If you suffered with my shit on the Valentine’s Special, here’s why.
I was stupidly under the impression it was going to be full of 100 stories. So I asked how many to send, response was “I’ll take as much as you got.” I asked if I should take out the intros or send text copies (Still thinking 100 stories) Response? Nothing! Who’s to blame? None other than Laurence whatever middle initial Simon. Now, I’m not typically mean so if I ever meet Laurence in person, I will throw a whiffle ball right at his head.
HOUSTON KEYS
Marge – Mr. Burns, I need to talk to you.
Burns – Smithers! Who is this saucy blue haired lass?
Smithers – Simpson sir, wife of Homer Simpson in sector Seven G.
Burns – Simpson eh? Fetch the hounds Smithers!
Marge – I can hear you!
Burns – Oh, very well. What is it?
Marge – Well Mr. Burns, my Homie has been having a problem lately. He can’t… You know.
Burns – No, I don’t.
Marge – Well, uh.
Burns – Spit it out woman! These genetically engineered organs of mine aren’t getting any younger!
Marge – He can’t, you know, perform.
Burns – Ah, Excellent. He has “Whiffle Balls.” Fetch me my blue pills Waylon.
Smithers – With pleasure Sir!
Burns – Not for me Smithers! For Simpson!
TED
I got the call at 5am. It’s never a good sign when Don Giovanni sends for you. My heart pounding in my chest, I flagged down a cab and gave my destination.
As I arrived, I wasn’t greeted by the usual niceties I had been used to since I became a made guy.
My last job was easy. All I had to do was grab some whiffle balls and mail them to the Charmin Toilet paper Company.
“I trust you did that which I asked of you?” said Giovanni. “You mailed those guys both of Mr. Whipple’s balls?
TERRANCE
The dogged bounced around my legs with joy. His tail wagged so fast it was a blur. I looked around for the owner but the park was empty.
“Get out of here.” I yelled.
The dog stopped and looked up at me with large brown eyes. It dropped a ball at my feet and barked. I reached down and picked the ball out. I looked at ball and then threw it as hard as I could; the ball few about ten feet before hitting the ground.
“If I find the man that invented whiffle balls, He will eat that ball.”
Z
Susan dropped the dodgeball in the back yard.
“You will be the sun,” she said to it, smiling proudly.
She was going to be an astronomer. Or an astronaut.
Many seven year-olds have those dreams.
Few went to such lengths, though.
Susan looked at her notebook, and placed other balls around the dodgeball to represent planets.
She had to sneak outside of the fence for the whiffle ball Juipter.
A tennis ball marked Saturn sat in the Nelson’s lawn.
The next day, the police found Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto in the street.
They never found Susan. Or her dreams.
Thanks to everyone for sending in their stories, and I look forward to what you’ve got to write (and say) next week.
The theme for next week’s Weekly Challenge will be posted shortly.
(In case you’re interested, I’ve settled on “Clair de Lune” as the opening music and “Moonshine” by Michael Oldfield from the Tubular Bells II album.)