Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number Two Hundred and Nineteen, 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… was…. um…
Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):
I’m Sylvester, a Cat.
I live on the streets.
One sees, and experiences, a lot here.
Your mind can play tricks on you.
For instance, Saturday, passing near a Ballroom, I saw a white creature in some bushes.
Mother always warned us about Goblins, saying they were worse than Coyotes, though she never said what they looked like.
I warily watched the bushes, ready to run if need be.
There was no need.
It was a Rabbit, and as it dashed across the lawn it looked over its shoulder, in my direction, with a look of terror on its face.
Once a human fell in love with a goblin woman in a land where goblin woman were very beautiful and goblin guys were ugly a sin. She grew to like him. They spent much time together. One day the human guy somehow got this beautiful goblin gal pregnant. He decided to ask her parents for permission to marry her. She tried to tell him that goblin culture was different and she begged not ask nor go anywhere near her family but he wanted everything done properly. That night her family invited him to dinner with great pleasure. He was delicious.
Unemployment is only one aspect of the oft cited Misery Index. Inflation
is another. Some researchers stop there, but I believe my metric is more
accurate. It pulls in air and water pollution, hate speech, bad movies,
sick days, breakup songs and the quality of daytime television. Some
breakups are better for everyone and some sick days are actually
shopping days, so to balance it all out, my numbers adjust for goblins.
It’s simply a fact: The more goblins we have to deal with, the more
miserable we are. Especially when we overcharge for that sweater.
That’ll be $42.50, please.
“Whoever heard of a blue goblin?”
The three women stared at the lumpy figure. The darker-skinned one
kicked him. Not too hard, but he grunted anyway. A small arachnid
dancing on top of the goblin’s head started to smoke.
The palest woman flipped a small mirror between her fingers, flashing
glints of her dark hair. “It could be dangerous if there are more.”
The blond woman smiled down at the goblin. “I think he’s kind of
cute.” The other two stared at her. “Cute in a creepy way.”
As they walked down the tunnel, she glanced back. “But cute.”
“The Golbins are coming.” I looked at the man with the unwashed hair and the seven day beard and was sorry I set next to him at the bar. I had to correct his mistake though. “Don’t you mean Goblins?” “No – those are completely different creatures. Goblins are little and green and they are are only after your money. Golbins are furry and cute looking until they go for your throat.” I gave up and went home. Later that day, when I went to bed a little furry creature attacked me and gave me a good bite at the neck.
Gormfindle wrapped a boney-fingered hand around each of his long pointed ears and pulled them hard. They stretched enough to overlap across the top of his head. He twisted them around themselves unitl they lay across his hairless head like an absurd tiara.
Fardtweezer stretched his puffy green bottom lip down over his chin, exposing three rows of crooked, yellow teeth.
They looked at one another and giggled.
Their teacher turned in time to see the display, and barked, “that’s enough, boys.”
Diurnia, the dark elf they tried to empress, only rolled her eyes and muttered, “goblins are so stupid.
The goblins lowered the bucket down the wishing well to steal the coins.
“We’ll be rich!” said the one with the bulbous nose.
“Hush you, and keep a look out for the trees!”
In the forest where they were trying to rob the well, a group of walking trees kept guard.
The bucket hit the bottom, coins clinking.
“It’s not sinking into the coins, how are we supposed to scoop it?”
“Why didn’t you send someone down there to fill it up?”
The trees waved and the ground shook. The lookout pulled the other goblins away.
“Cheese it, the copse!”
Jacob Golbin had a goblin’s taste for gold.
Literally. At every party, he’d insist on kissing the hand of the hostess and her guests, his tongue darting across their rings.
He’d dance closely, nibbling earlobes to savor each earring.
He wasn’t kissing the back of Lady Montclair’s neck… he just wanted her necklace.
But rings were his favorite, I warned you, didn’t I?
Let him get a taste, but withdraw your hand before he bites.
Just keep the icepack on your hand and stop looking at your finger in the plastic bag. It’s fine.
The hospital’s right up the street.