Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.
This is Weekly Challenge Number Three Hundred and Six, 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 Game.
And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:
And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post.
The more people see this on Google Plus, Facebook, and Twitter – the more explaining you’ll have to do with your loved ones, coworkers, and parole officers.
Oh, and let’s all have a heaping plate of…
The game was played with alcohol and chainsaws. Each contestant was to drink 6 ounces of Vodka, fuel and start a chainsaw, and run with it, barefoot, around the city park. The first one to stumble and remove one of their own body parts was the looser, of course, while the last one left standing and remaining out of custody of the police, was the winner. This game was invented by the local crowd at Gateway Tavern in Port Angeles, to celebrate logging. Last week, the game was played, and brought out the State Patrol’s swat team and tac squad.
My 7 year old daughter caught me copying another one of her stories, so the game is up. I have no imagination of my own, and relied on little Rachael for all my submissions. Rachel is home schooled and has a social and intellectual IQ that is off the charts, in spite of her autism. Therefore, I cannot participate in 100 word stories because of my deep shame and embarrassment, much less the ribbing and scolding I’ve had to endure these last, few days. So, with this, goodbye to 100 word stories and the dozens of you that contribute regularly.
My opponent had considered her move for fully two hours, while I no less intently studied the position, tracing out glimmers of possibility.
“Ah,” she adumbrated at last. “Do you see?” She rapidly sketched on the blackboard a braided Diaconescu quincunx.
Thunderstruck, I gasped, “Excluded by Hammersmith duality!”
“Negated by Favisham’s Little Theorem.”
“But the Fronsky diagram–” Her genius burst on me like a large hadron collider, “–is obstructed in quine!”
“Precisely,” she gesticulated, “so! Mornington Crescent!!”
We warmly shook hands. “Thank you,” I said, in the traditional acknowledgement of superior play after a hard-fought game, “for enriching my understanding.”
“Oh, come on. You didn’t know him; he was just a cat.”
“No, he wasn’t. I have seen photos of him, watched videos with him and heard his voice in the podcast.”
“Aren’t you being overdramatic here?”
“No, all the way across an ocean, I did know him. I felt him drift away. Anyone who has ever shared his life with a cat knows what I mean.”
“Ok. Fine. But wasn’t this supposed to be about games?”
“Yes. But I just don’t feel like it.”
“And you don’t have one hundred words either.”
“Yes, but who cares?”
“Game is over” she told me crying as I entered home from work.
“What do you mean?” I replied
It was ten o’clock. I had had a special bad day and I was really tired. I didn’t want to fight with her: she always won this kind of matches.
I left my wallet on the floor and let her to explain. She admitted her love affair and she wanted me to be comprehensive.
And I was. In fact I knew something.
Today I had just fired him and now I had a free hand to ask her for the divorce.
First Rule: You are playing The Game.
Second Rule: every time you think about The Game you Lose
Third Rule: Lose of The Game must be announced
No one wins
“I told you forget about that stupid game you cant win. It is over. I am not playing” says Dylan
“You wish you could forget about the game. You are too, everyone is playing even if they don’t know they are” I retort
You know what Crap Mariner did, he picked Game for this weeks topic making you think of The Game. Now repeat after me
“I lost The Game”
“I’m game.” said jack and raising the Henny shot gun over his shoulder. He and Frank moved along the waterfront following the trail of body parts. “Do you ever get tired of Zombie stories?” inquired Frank when he heard the pack moving to his left. Frank sensiblely froze as Jack leveled the shot gun, then he dropped and rolled towards Jack. The first round took out five of the closest the second the three to the left. From the ground Frank picked off the two on the right. Lifting him to his feet Jack said. “You got game bro.”
“Carl I haven’t seen you in ages!
I heard you were laid up and stuck in the house.
Still playing that Misty Realms thing?”
“Yes it is all I have to pass the day.
I am worried about Abraxis though he keeps trying to reach 10th level mage and gets so depressed when he fails.”
“George and Martha the neko couple are divorced again and I’m not so sure they will get back together.
“You do know it’s just a game, right?”
“What? Oh, yes of course.”
Alex looked at Carl, he was not at all convinced.
Chronic House of Cards Syndrome, a condition that occurs
post-Parkers-Brothers-Monopoly, broke George Liptom in two, creating
an empty fragment of a child touched by both physical and
psychological pain derived from a nexus of crippling isolation,
self-absorption, paranoia, and the overwhelming anxiety of potentially
landing on Boardwalk or Park Place after a recent hotel development,
which eventually led to drug abuse, a host of sexually transmitted
diseases, chronic inflammation of the bladder, and premature death.
George’s story eventually led to federal legislation to demolish the
architecture of all card houses. George’s mother could only muster up
these words, “…gingerbread houses.”
As the assassins kicked in my bedroom door, I knew the game was up.
“Don’t hate the player,” I called as I bolted for the window, “hate the game!”
But they wouldn’t listen.
“You think we’re playing games with you?” Their leader asked as they wrestled me to the floor. “This is no game!”
I thought it was game over for sure, but before they could finish me off, my alarm clock sounded!
I woke just in time to see the team of assassins kicking in my bedroom door. And that’s when I realized…
I was still inside the game.
She maintained exactly 5,000 Facebook friends, thousands of Tweeps, a massive FriendFeed, and Klout. Oh, her Klout. She could Plurk, Digg and Buzz while voting, stacking, and Stumbling.
One day, she had an original thought.
She wanted to share it, but she knew it wouldn’t re-tweet (it was too complex). Reddit would hate it. Hundreds of Facebookers would unfriend her without actually reading it. Digg would bury it, and it wouldn’t help her Klout at all.
Realizing she had followers and “friends” everywhere, but no one to talk with, she logged off with a simple hashtag.
No one noticed.
Baseball. Football. Basketball. Hockey. I loved them all. Trading cards. Sports Illustrated. Radio play-by-play. My childhood resonated with the unfolding drama of each passing season. That was a long time ago.
I haven’t watched a single game since my bookie skipped town and disappeared with my winnings. I was eighteen. Now I’m fifty. Seems like an overreaction. But I don’t regret it.
The decision gifted me with tens of thousands of hours over the last three decades. Time that would have otherwise been squandered on trivial sports-related pursuits. I’ve found much better ways to waste my time.
The soccer ball careened across the pitch, smacking up a spray of mud
as it hit the ground in front of Mitch. Mitch didn’t move, just
The opposing striker ran past, kicking the multicolored sphere into
the goal. John, his words a cursing stream of consciousness mixture
of Joyce and a drunk sailor, ran to Mitch. Mitch didn’t respond, even
as John’s spittle sprayed across his cheek. Mitch just kept staring
upward, sweat beading on his forehead.
John’s cursing slowed. John slowly tilted his head upward just in
time to see the gigantic foot slam into the ionosphere.
I stretched the line of my bow and shot a straight arrow using magical fire. The Rakuda fell down dead. I looted it. Got some Soft Fur and some coins. I looked for more Rakuda. Only six more to go. I spotted a few more of them, but then I saw it, the majestic Kirin, so rare and beautiful, his long neck towering high above me and his innocent eyes wise, timeless. I fitted my finest arrow and called up all my magic into it, air, water and fire. It shot straight through, killing him on the spot. Epic drop.
Now – I wanted to point out that if this story comes in a little late this time, it’s all Philip ‘NarvelJoe’ Carroll’s fault. You see, I started to listen to The Price of Friendship this weekend and I just can’t stop. Darn you philip for writing such an excellent story. You, gentle listener should listen too if only to understand my predicament. Just follow the cat over to podiobooks.com, look for The Price of Friendship and give it a listen. I guaranty you too are going to miss your deadline. Incidentally, this recommendation is exactly one hundred words long.
There are countless reality shows about celebrities, famous wannabes and housebound attention hungry strangers. This onslaught is commercial goldmine for media networks and Ryan Seacrest. Survivor is the most successful show that took watching a packaged game to a heightened level of guilty pleasures. Imagine a bunch of misfits and type A personalities competing for cash or love. They do ANYTHING to win. Most gamers lie, cheat, deceive, bully and outwit their competitors. The worst in people, is captured then spoon fed to consumers. If anyone questions such damaging behaviors, there is only one true answer, “it’s just a game.”
Our rowboat glided towards the dark beach along the shoreline, as Dr. Strange-Exotic/Cookie’s castle at the top of the cliff loomed over the beach, lit only by the light of the full moon overhead. The good Doctor greeted us as we landed on the beach, adorned with many weapons, including an AK47 and a Bazooka. The Doctor looked like a bloated Rambo about to go deer hunting on Dick Cheney’s farm. “I take it we will be hunting humans,” I stated. “No, your thinking of the MOST dangerous game,” Dr. Strange-Exotic/Cookie responded. “This is the LEAST dangerous game, we’re hunting mosquitos.”
I watched them sitting round the table. Five faces, impassive behind the cards, determined to give nothing away. A tell could be anything. A twitch. A smile. To a real player, the eyes could be read like a roadmap.
The red headed kid was the new one in the group. He thought he was playing a friendly game of cards. The regulars saw him as easy prey. He adjusted his cards and then looked at Tina.
“Got any fours?”
My ten year old daughter threw three cards on the table in disgust. Looked like they had a real game now.
Owen crept through the underbrush, an arrow ready in his bow. Across the meadow, he saw the largest doe of his life.
“An animal that big would feed my uncle and me for a year,” he thought and raised the bow.
“What’re you doing?” A girl’s voice asked from behind him, and the deer ran away.
Owen turned, furious. A girl his own age, maybe seven or eight, frowned at him.
“This isn’t a game,” Owen shouted. “My uncle and I needed that deer to eat.”
She glared and said. “This is my Grampa’s meadow, and that was our cow.”
There once was a cat who liked to play Fetch.
If you threw his toy mouse, he’d chase it, pick it up, and bring it back.
Sometimes, he’d bring you a toy, expecting you to throw it for him to chase.
When his toys were piled up, he’d take them away from the pile.
People watched him play this game on a webcam, trying to guess which toy he’d take next.
When the Christmas tree went up, he’d put his toys under the tree, one by one.
Now that he’s gone, the toys sit on a shelf, just gathering dust.