Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.
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.
We’ve got stories by:
- John Musico
- Norval Joe
- Tura Brezoianu
- Planet Z
The Fate of Intellect’s “Evolution”
They were from many light years away. Their brains had “evolved” to a level of logic where emotion was seemingly no longer useful and became atrophied, unavailable, in their ancient civilization.
Supreme beings, seeking to fill an empty void, though vicariously, came to Earth….
They watched intently, eagerly absorbed by what was once deemed a purposeless endeavor; emotion, and felt joy, once again. The visitors reciprocated their gratitude by using their godlike powers to aid mankind. They spoke to man, unseen, in a unified voice, as if from the sky, and were viewed as one being. Mankind worshiped their Lord.
By Christopher Munroe
I try to be a good host.
Whether I’m having people over for a night of b-movies and beer or an alien parasite has burrowed its way into my brain in order to control me like a puppet, I do whatever I can to make my guests comfortable. That’s just hospitality.
Some find this old-fashioned, but that’s how I was raised, it comes as naturally to me as breathing used to previous to finding that crashed alien ship out in the woods.
So, fellow normal human, may I offer you liquid? A beer-drink? Something to get you off your guard?
by Jeffrey Fischer
The pain is with you all the time, day and night. Sometimes it’s a dull ache, tolerable if never fully out of your mind. Sometimes it’s stabbing agony, leaving you gasping for breath. Most of the time it comes as waves of torment, crashing against your mind’s shores, eroding your will to live.
My friend, your expression of sympathy suggests that you believe I am speaking of myself in the second person. On the contrary, I use “you” in its usual meaning. Ah, I now see understanding dawning. Don’t try to move; when the paralytic wears off, you’ll find yourself securely bound.
And remember: when I say “This won’t hurt a bit,”… I’m lying.
Part of the Hospitality Industry
by Jeffrey Fischer
Why, thank you, sir, for opening the door for me. You’re too kind. These little kindnesses are ignored far too often. Look, my bed is all made up, and I have towels as well. The hospitality of my host is unparalleled. I’m told there are exercise facilities on the premises as well. It’s the little things that make a stay more pleasant.
Why do I keep prattling on like this? Sir, you have your little fictions and I have mine. You insist on calling me a “guest of the state,” so I insist on believing that I’m being treated as one. May I see tonight’s dinner menu?
The Country Retreat
We were an eclectic group gathered together, as we waited to be called for dinner.
I glanced around at the guests – the major, all handlebar whiskers and ramrod straight posture; the haughty socialite, frostily eyeing her companions; the young married couple, utterly besotted, and the grumpy old dowager, frowning at having to wait for lunch.
All strangers: All anxious to be seated at the table.
At last, the final guest was announced, and the room fell strangely silent.
“Mr Hercule Poirot!”
Strangers maybe, but before the night was out we would become intimately familiar.
And one of us, would die!
John’s only grandniece had six children. At family gatherings, John was always somewhere else with his old buddies, a tropical island, a cruise, a religious peregrination. He wasn’t religious, but any excuse worked. This time, his coward friends decided to visit their families. So, when a choir of kids asked John why he looked all wrinkled, he showed them his gold teeth. “See this? You won’t get any. You’re out of the will.” Little did the family know that he had already spent all his money and that he had no intention of parting from his teeth, even after dying.
They came early.
Now Roger does not mind when folk show up early for one of his dinner parties. Roger uses the term ‘bit’ to mean half-an-hour or so early because half-an-hour means that all the food is prepared, the table is set, and the house is clean. Most importantly the bathroom is sparkling clean and, if the need arises, his guest can eat off its floor. When the door bell rang Roger was in the shower and was not pleased that his guest were three hours early.
At least that is what he told the police when they arrived.
Well Met on the Great Plain
Lindow Laxor was their guest, which meant the greater part of hospitality was due to him despite his habit of non-reciprocal return. He arrived with the first crush and bid us farewell with the draining of the last cask. The children found his talk of the Dunelands awe inspiriting. Grandma just as soon shoot him in the eye. So it was odd that as harvest approached no sign of Laxor. When the last cups of summer were raised we toasted his absence left a thimble aside in his honor. My family has been collecting Laxor’s Thimble for 600 years.
I am the unseen guest at every dining table, the unwelcome visitor who calls in the night. I am the one of whom you do not speak, the one who lurks in hospital wards and loiters in dark alleyways.
I am the shadow on your lung, the faulty brake pipe, the falling branch.
I am the thin ice, the ruptured artery and the prank gone horribly wrong.
I am the fatal mistake, the sudden bend, the unexpected rip tide; I am bullet, bomb and burns, drugs, disease and disaster.
And I invite you…
To be my guest!
Some people hate having their in-laws visit. I don’t mind but I do hate all the extra cleanup and that we really have to clean up for the relatives who come from overseas. I can’t just shove stuff into the closet all Fibber McGee like when the pastor comes by since when they come, they stay for weeks. I actually miss having my father-in-law visit because as long as I made sure there were at least two beers in the refrigerator in the morning before I went to bed things would magically be fixed around the house in my sleep.
Guests and fish start to smell after three days, so Babe made excuses so they would leave in the early morning of the fourth day of their yearly visit to the Burroughs home. Babe and her pal, Mary, had an odor about them anyway, and it grew stronger in time. Both of them were on a strange diet which consisted, largely, of grains and assorted roughage. When they sat on the patio or deck, the Burroughs always sat upwind of their guests, not letting on or grimacing every five minutes or so when they caught emanations of the silent winds.
Over the years, I’ve made every excuse I could muster to avoid having guests visit my home. The last time a visitor from two states away called while in town to ask directions to my house, I pretended I picked up the call on a cell phone in far-away Canada, saying I wouldn’t be home until the following Thursday, but pleased they made it to my special, little village. Next time, I’m going to say the house is being fumigated, and has a large tent over it, so we can gather at the local hotel if they insist on meeting.
“Mr. Picklehacker. This is your last chance to share some information,” Aphasia said. “Unless you want to become a guest of our airport security cell.”
“No big deal,” Bufford said. “You already know it weighs more than it should. It’s dark matter.”
The agent narrowed her eyes at him. “It doesn’t look very dark.”
“It’s an expression,” Bufford said with a shrug. “Is it illegal to have or transport an unknown element?”
“It depends, Picklehacker. What do you plan to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” Bufford said and sat back with a laugh. “Maybe I’ll make invisible paper weights.”
The horizon’s just crossing past the sun when they show. Two people. Look like men, but that don’t mean much.
“We have come far, and are weary,” says one. Weary? They’re not even breaking a sweat. Must be packing some mighty fine implants to be just walking across the badlands. No stuff with them, not even guns.
“This shack ain’t no hotel,” I say. “But plenty of rocks to lay on. Be my guest.”
Well, there’s no fire from heaven coming down. Guess I passed God’s secret customer test. I didn’t let on, but the wings really give them away.
I call it the spare bedroom.
She calls it the guest room.
The blueprints call it the basement.
The girl we kidnapped and locked up down there calls it a prison.
The cops called it a dungeon.
The media called it a slaughterhouse.
The prosecutor called it the scene of the crime.
I suppose we should call the girl the victim.
And me and her the accused.
Oh, and the cops, well, they’re still the cops.
But the media are jackals.
And the prosecutor is their whore.
Showing off for the cameras, as he runs for mayor.
God damned semantics!