Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.
This is the Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
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“Take a tip from me”, my father would say. “Never get involved with women, drugs, gambling or booze, and you’ll live a long, healthy and happy life, just like me.”
Unfortunately, it seems you can take advice too literally…
My mother threw me out on the streets when I refused to have anything to do with her; I refused medication when I contracted pneumonia; and when consequently admitted, unconscious to hospital, my lack of health insurance – which you’ll agree, is gambling – saw me back on the streets almost immediately.
And I can’t even drown my sorrows.
I’ve got a tip for the warden that will be in charge of the imprisonment of Weinstein, Cosby and Freeman. “Above all, avoid letting anyone near the three named prisoners. Don’t let anyone pump them full of meth, steroids, sildenafil, and B-12. After a few days pass, they will be at each other like Spanish Pirates on native women in the Caribbean.”
This, of course, would be a very cruel deed, and the staff would have to keep things on the down low.
The female officers could be trusted to be discrete, and would have access to professionally produced DVDs.
What should I do? The green is fading away. The red is taking over. A man is hanging from the big oak, swinging horribly. His blood is pooling on the ground. And I don’t know what to do. I just hide in this tree. The magic is gone. The magic is gone… The man has been there for a while. I didn’t see who did it. I was hiding, hiding in this tree. And I hid for so long that I am now the tree. I am not hanging, but I am dead too. Tell me, what should I do?
At the Track
by Jeffrey Fischer
Alan leaned over the rail, urging his horse to victory. The horse finished dead last, and Alan tore his betting ticket in two. So much for the great tip he had gotten from the old guy who looked as though he spent his days at the track, studying each race with great intensity. This was the fifth race in a row the old guy had whispered a name to Alan, and the fifth race in a row where that name had finished out of the money. A Magic 8 Ball would have been just as helpful.
A second old man materialized at the rail, next to Alan. “Let me guess,” Alan said, “you have a tip for me.”
“Yeah,” the old man said, “I do. Don’t take betting advice from strangers.“
I like to keep the cops on their toes – give them a little something to keep them occupied; nothing of much consequence, but a steady stream of minor crime to tie up their resources and embroil them in paperwork. Because whilst they’re distracted by the small things, it keeps them off my back, and me off the radar.
So I lower myself to the occasional break in, the odd burglary and casual mugging, tying up police resources, time and energy.
They never realise that it’s only the tip of the iceberg.
Below which lies blackmail, extortion, torture and murder!
A 100 years ago my grandfather attached to the 2nd division was fighting in the Belleau Woods. His division met up with the 5th Marines. They moved on Hill 142. In the middle of this a jarhead from NY starts talking about what he’s going to do when he gets home. Pretty normal practice. “Hey Kosick, got a tip for you. ATnT.” A Year later my grandfather’s a junior accountant in the ATT Chicago office buying ATT stocks pennies on the dollar. Didn’t work out a well for my other grandfather, who lost his shirt trying to corner the wheat market.
Dad flinches as the tip of the dialysis needles are placed in his arm. “Get me out of here,” he laments, not understanding he still has over 2 hours left on the dialysis machine. The fidget monster sits restless, irritable, and discontent in a persistent state of wide awake stupid, not knowing the date or where he is. I sit with him for the full duration of treatment to prevent him from getting up and tearing the needles out his arm. When Dialysis is over, I take a content Dad home, because he is unable to remember where he has been.
Linoliamanda ran and hugged her scowling father.
When she looked back, Billbert tipped his head and said, “See ya Friday.”
On his way home, he pictured the shreds of plastic in his pocket and said, “Fly.”
Standing in his kitchen, he held the shreds in his hand and said, “Fly.”
The plastic only settled to the floor.
He threw the remains of the bag into the garbage beneath the sink.
“Fly in there,” he muttered.
To his surprise, something behind the garbage can buzzed.
“Fly?” he asked.
The exposed tip of a white plastic grocery bag fluttered wildly.
A Titanic Romance
The trouble with the tip was that it was going to tip the balance of what was in his wallet in favor of his not being able to afford the ride home. He could walk her from the restaurant to her house, and walk from there to the subway, but he could not walk to Germantown where he was living, a distance practicably reachable only by train.
If he didn’t tip the waitress he would be a schmuck, which would tip Mary off to the fact that he was out of work. Hope punctured by the tip of the iceberg.
Back in college, I had a summer job delivering pizzas.
I could have been a pizza maker, but it was summertime in a building with one wall unit air conditioner and a huge pizza oven.
Better to risk getting attacked or robbed.
Besides, that’s how you got the tips, right?
The store had a computer to track customers and orders.
And if they were good tippers or not.
The owner didn’t like it when we tracked tips, so we disguised them in the fax number field.
Nobody ever faxed in an order. Heck, we didn’t even have a fax machine.