Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.
This is Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
The topic this week was STAB.
We’ve got stories by:
- Cliff – Uncle Monster
- Tura Brezoianu
- Norval Joe
- Planet Z
The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of VOICE.
Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:
Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.
Questions and Answers
by Jeffrey Fischer
Sweat trickled down Billy’s armpits as the time ticked away. He needed a good grade on this history test to avoid failing the class and being sent to summer school. That one question, though… he didn’t want to leave any blank answers, so he took a stab in the dark.
Mrs. Henderson asked Billy to stay after class. “This -” She waved his answer sheet in his face. “- shows that you have no command of the material. What were you thinking when you wrote that Custer’s Last Stand was, and I quote, ‘That shack on the beach that’s now a t-shirt shop’?”
Billy mumbled, “In class, you always say there are no stupid questions.”
Mrs. Henderson replied, “Yes, but there *are* stupid answers.”
The Stabbing Game
by Jeffrey Fischer
When we were young and, yeah, maybe a little foolish, my friends would play what we called the Stabbing Game. Remember “Name that Tune”? Contestants would bid down the number of notes in which they could name some popular song. “I can name that tune in two notes.” Insane, I used to think.
Our version involved a pen knife and a dare: where would you be willing to stab yourself? Highest bidder got to do it and won…well, our admiration. I was a wimp and always picked some small body part: a little finger, or a foot. I never won. Yvonne occasionally got to stab her palm. But the biggest winner was the kid we later called one-eyed Pete.
A Stab at Bats
by Jeffrey Fischer
The Animal Control guy emerged from the attic, covered in dust and ancient cobwebs. “Ma’am, I hate to say this, but I’ve looked everywhere in your attic and I don’t see any evidence of animals. Usually there’d be droppings at the very least, and most times we’d catch the critters napping at this time of day. But I found nothing.”
The woman put a hand on her hips, lit a cigarette, took a drag, and stared at the man. “Didn’t you see an entire bag full of Louisville Sluggers up there? My lazy ex-husband left them behind and I want them gone.”
“Why would you call Animal Control for something like that?” he asked.
She replied, “It says quite clearly on your truck: bat removal. Now get to it!”
Anyone that has read my previous work surmises I will use “stabbing pain” in at least one of my submissions. Nope. Sorry. I won’t. I will, however, take a stab at some stories that do not use “stabbing pain”, and see how I do with a couple of rollicking fables. Let’s see. Maybe a story about how a friend was stabbed in the heart as a result of losing the love of his life to a cabana boy during a short vacation in Baja. Better yet, an erotic animal fable about the turmoil between two pigs on my uncle’s farm.
The stab method of Japanese book binding was taught by an older woman in her home studio near the shore. She charged a modest fee for the day, which included all the materials, snacks and drinks, and plenty of personal instruction. I made two books that day, and started on a third. The little books are covered with cloth, have end papers, and are sewn or bound together with waxed sail twine. I treasure them, and keep them safe on my bookcase in plastic bags. Some day, someone will be going through my possessions and use them for grocery lists.
It just wasn’t the knife in my back, it was the size of the knife in my back. Stabbed in the back over a minor quibble with the sister of a student that was visiting my classroom. I asked her what she was doing there, and why couldn’t she stay home by herself. She was college age, but there must have been something wrong at home. She had no business being there, but I was in trouble with the female dean, guilty of some trumped up charge of harassment, so I found myself being asked to resign, immediately. I refused.
As counselors for the summer camp, each of us was issued a stab vest. A stab vest, or stab proof vest is a reinforced piece of body armor, worn under or over other items of clothing, which is designed to resist knife attacks to the chest, back and sides. Last summer, one of the campers was angry with the lunch menu and attempted to stab three counselors with a sharpened butter knife. The camp, sponsored by the Mormon Church, was used to rehabilitate those that toppled monuments in the ancient desert rock formations in the Goblin Valley Park in Utah.
STAB (Stupid TA Bastard) is British Army slang for a Territorial Army soldier. Territorial Soldiers come from all walks of life and work part-time as soldiers for the British Army alongside regular soldiers. Lucy Vallender spent years denying her feelings of being “in the wrong body,” joining the Territorial Army when she was twenty one in an effort to become more manly. Laurens “used to love firing guns,” and drank regularly with other members of his squad. Now, as a transgender, Muslim Woman, and married to a Muslim man she met on line, Lucy no longer plays with her gun.
I thought; “With the right catch; you are sure to become successful, wealthy
She was a perfect specimen. Young and strong, and in this day and age I must
add; free of disease.
I looked down on her nude body adorningly as she lay peacefully.
My peaked anticipation was such that I had to steady my hands from
I opened my bag of “toys” that I had brought for this evenings desire.
The ice in her bathtub began to melt where she lay face down.
After the precise incisions, extracting her kidneys was easy; a perfect
“Welcome to Mandania General. Please tell us about your injury. Oh my you are bleeding and your leg has turned white as paper. Tell me what happened as you fill out these forms.”
The receptionist returns Charlie’s insurance card attached to a clipboard.
“I had to fight the evil wizard, who may not actually have been evil but still thought it inconvenient for me to live. As I thrust my blade through his chest he plunged the tail of a small demond into my calf. I fear it has to be amputated because I wasn’t just sliced, I was imp-paled. “
A Pep Talk (part II)
By Christopher Munroe
Waiting tables isn’t tough, once you get the hang of it.
When things become stressful, just remember my simple, four-step process, and it will get you through.
See to your guest’s every need, want and desire.
Treat them like you’d want to be treated, were you in their place.
Anticipate requests, so you can give them what they want before they even know that they want it.
Be friendly. Above all else, be friendly.
In short: S.T.A.B. them.
S.T.A.B. the customers who sit in your section.
S.T.A.B. every single one of them.
And make it clear: “I will S.T.A.B. you.”
Nipping It in the Butt
It was a strange twist of fate that left John living a life of clichés but he managed to go with the flow.
Like when his Dodge Dart died on a backwoods road, of course he found the farmhouse… with the farmer… and the farmer’s daughter.
You probably guessed it, one thing led to another with the daughter, until a stab in the dark by the farmer abruptly ended that roll in the hay.
You should have seen the look on John’s face: caught with his pants down, pitchfork protruding from his posterior.
That’s one picture worth a hundred words.
#1 – Back down to earth
Pondering how he should proceed with his conquest of Emily, George found himself unexpectedly reeling when a sudden stab of conscience brought home to him the realisation that he was thinking like a savage.
“This is how society breaks down”, he admonished himself, shocked at how easily he’d allowed his morals to fall victim to baser instincts. Silently, he cursed his weakness – if he and his comrades were to survive, it wouldn’t be through indulging in selfishness – they’d need teamwork and a common cause.
It would be difficult, but he knew it was possible.
At least, he hoped it was!
#2 – Watch Your back!
Be careful how you choose your friends – be sure you can trust them and they won’t let you down in a crisis.
Do as I say, not as I do… I’m a hopeless judge of character – many times I’ve relied on so-called ‘friends’ who turned out to be the complete opposite when the going got tough.
These days, I expect to have my trust betrayed and be left shouldering the blame… I can spot the signs a mile off.
And when I do, rather than protest, plead and reason, I simply turn my back…
and wait for the knife.
#3 – Well prepared
Packing for the holiday was proving to be more traumatic than usual:
Clothes, sunblock, toiletries, mosquito repellent, stab vest…
“Honey, why the stab vest? We’re going to Disneyland, not Afghanistan.”
“You can never be too careful – who knows what we might come across when we get there. I’d rather be over-prepared than caught out in an emergency.”
“Don’t you think you’re taking things a bit too far though? It’s Disneyland, for heaven’s sake – nobody ever got stabbed in Disneyland. You’re not going to get stabbed in Disneyland!”
“Damn right I’m not – just as long as I’m wearing this baby!”
That Was the Last Thing On His Mind
He felt a stabbing pain in his arm sufficient enough to make him pause.
That was followed by a stabbing pain in his chest that brought him to his
knees. The world turned all shimmering gray, then black, then a dull red.
A stabbing pain in the shoulder caused him to snap his head backwards. A
trolly looking creature was prodding him forward with a spear. “OH HELL,”
said Timmy. “Got that right Slim,” chortled Troll-boy applying another
jab. Sulfur and brimstone blurred his vision, through his tear he could
make out their destination. A flashing neon sign read B-I-N-G-O
One day last year, you fell while walking the dog. “I am just dizzy,” you said. “Inoperable brain tumor,” the doctor proclaimed.
Rachel fed you while your companion went to work, or chose not to deal. She curled in bed near you, stabbing your favorite food, and kept your mind off the inevitable. That is what sisters do.
It happened too fast. 49 days. She didn’t leave and held your hand when you died.
Rachel sent off sparkly red balloons into the sky, along with your ashes into Long Island Sound. We will pretend it is the Aegean.
Zack was a hustler. He’d do anything for a buck as long as it was illegal, as he felt that honest work was for suckers. He cheated at cards. He ran small cons in bars. He once sold a truck to three different people. It wasn’t even his truck. His conscience finally got the better of him. He convinced Sarah that he loved her and would marry her if she could just help him pay off a debt. She did, and the guilt made him commit suicide. Stabbed himself in the chest thirty times, according to Sarah’s dad, the sheriff.
Mr. Anderson, the owner of the hardware store, stared me in the eye.
“Guns are for cowards. Anyone can shoot a gun. Point, pull the trigger, bang! There’s no art, no sport to it. If you really want to know what death is like, you gotta stab him. You gotta watch his eyes as you slide a blade between his ribs and into his heart. If you want it to last a while, try to just get the lungs. Slow and painful. You know, if he deserves it.”
“Thanks, but I need a caulk gun. I’m fixing my bath tub.”
There was once a fisherman, who fell on bad luck. He vowed to make one last trip to sea, and if he caught nothing, he would drown himself. All day he cast his nets and drew them back empty, but on his last cast it took all his strength to haul them in. Yet he found nothing but an old bottle sealed with lead. In rage he shattered it on the deck, and from it emerged a genie.
“Your wish is my command,” it intoned.
“Well, stap me vitals!” exclaimed the astonished fisherman.
And so his luck finally ran out.
From “Foreign Madam and the White Yogi”
It was clear that Yogi had some work to do.
The collapse of his grass castle was perhaps
a blessing, she thought, although she would not say
outright and crush his heart. The winds had come
and kicked him in the gut, but had they knocked
sense into his head? Calamities were a stab
in the back of a farmer’s faith in clement weather
whose turbulent face hid the will of God.
Here, they were next day’s business to be set straight.
But what would Yogi do? Return to the river,
clear his mind of clods and plant fresh thoughts?
And so the women got down again with gobar
redoing compound surfaces, restoring chullahs,
the squat-down ovens made from mud and dung.
They fetched and carried, picked up and put down,
they shunted husbands off to the fields and brought
some food and drink at midday. Then they came
back to eat some, scrub pots with ash, take a nap
before the sibling squabbles would start up.
They were the domestic goddesses of grit
with shit up under fingernails, and yet
lost it washing and scrubbing daily clothes
which also gave them time alone with water.
Revived they came back to peel the vegetables,
crush the ginger, onions, garlic and chilli mix
to be fried flavour for the evening pot of dhal.
They cooked on hot plates, throwing down their rounds
of chapatis made from wheat ground on a stone.
Margot still held back from kitchen gossip time.
She had come to teach, not be the slave of dough.
After all, Yogi was deft with food. She washed
the dishes, cups and steel pots, while he sat down
on the bed of thali wood with a thin mattress
and pulled out from its dusty case, his guitar.
But what to do with Yogi? Next morning
she brought him to school. “Now play on your guitar,”
she asked. He settled on a hessian bag
and sang a self-made tune for Hari Krishna Hari Ram
Krishna, Krishna, Hare, Hare — the mantra
he had learned from devotees at an North Coast ashram.
He had busked his way across the continent
and had arrived here now to sing with Krishna’s kids.
It was a charming switch, a stab in a new direction.
He had a knack with groups and just maybe
he might also be taught to teach. She planned ahead.
So he became a hit
with school kids after lunch.
He chanted simple sanskrit
mixing in his English.
to the elephant surrender
surrender to the elephant.
They parroted back
singing out of tune.
to the elephant surrender
surrender to the elephant.
Squirrels ran up and down
the tree trunk where he sat
and minah birds were busy
keeping tabs on bugs,
while out on the fresh fields
where the tractor had just ploughed
the herons stepped and stabbed
into the sandy land
with beaks like darning needles
threading strings of worms.
Stab victims are boring.
Give me a juicy gunshot through the head, or a decent drowning, with a bloated corpse and fish-nibbled flesh. Better still, how about a good old fashioned plunge from a high-rise? You just can’t beat a nice splat, with a generous helping of scattered body parts.
A simple stabbing though? – Not that much to it: entry wound, a nick to a vital organ and that’s all… finished.
Unless you can give me a proper, frenzied, all out knife attack, with multiple wounds and plenty of blood… Now that’s what I call a stabbing!
“I’ll take a stab at it!” George exclaimed, pulling out his carving knife and taking a stab at the pumpkin. The pumpkin screamed back, “My god! You stabbed me!” The pumpkin suddenly sprouted arms and legs, grabbed George’s carving knife, and started to stab at George, who started to run. “It’s time for you to die, meat-bag!” the enraged pumpkin screamed. “Who are you?” George screamed back. “I’m the devil,” sneered the pumpkin, “here for your soul.” “As long as I can run faster than you, pumpkin, I’m grateful you do not have an AK47.”
Smoke hung thick against the low ceiling of the inn’s common room. Two assasins bent across a small table, so close their hoods almost touched. No one paid their whispered conversation any heed until the smaller of the two drew back and stabbed a knife into the table top.
They turned back to their own business when the second stood and pulled the knife back out.
“You’ll be sorry you chose as you did,” he said, dropped the knife onto the table, turned and left the inn.
“You’re likely correct,” the other said, slipping the knife back into her belt.
I peered from the vent shaft into the room. There was a desk and chair in the subterranean chamber. Two people walked in wearing hoods. The spoke, their voices mushy, speaking of plans and machinations. These were the evil behind Innsmouth and the Marsh Refinery. After a minute, only the tall person remained to see me fall when the grate broke. He wasn’t human, not with that face. I pulled a knife from the desk and ran around the room, dodging claws and teeth, then in a moment, I used all my strength to shove the blade into its heart.
Stabbing that pile of rubbish wasn’t such a brilliant idea… It looked like a harmless heap of trash, leaking a gooey matter that seemed like something coming from the remains of a dead animal. The kids goofed about, throwing the knife they stole from the butcher’s at each other first. Then, considering the real danger of such a game, they decided to stab the stack of unusual bags. When it suddenly turned around, spitting gooey stuff all over them, it was already too late. They were all the nourishment that alien needed to complete its transformation to become a human.
In Dungeons and Dragons, thieves and assassins get a damage bonus when they stab someone in the back.
However, they can only use certain weapons, like daggers and short swords. They cannot use polearms. Or crossbows. Or sofa cushions.
That’s right. You cannot backstab someone with a sofa cushion.
But if you want to kill someone with a sofa cushion, you need to catch them asleep. Then, smother them with it.
You can’t do that with a dagger or a short sword, can you? Or with a polearm or crossbow?
And you can’t cushion your sofa with them, either.