Night Watchman

I am a night watchman.
I watch the night.
My job begins when the day ends.
And ends when the day begins.
The hours are good.
Really good in the Summer, when the days are longer and nights shorter.
Not so good in Winter, when the days are shorter and nights longer.
But I get time off for the holidays, which takes care of the worst of the Winter nights.
The long, cold Winter nights.
Makes it hard to watch the night, with all the snow. And cold. And holiday lights.
I am a night watchman.
I watch the night.

The Football

People say that the president has his finger on the button, but there isn’t an actual button.
Or a switch. Or throw-lever. Or keypad. Or mouse to click.
Nor is there a voice-command terminal. Or fingerprint sensor.
Or gesture-based wand, like you get with the Nintendo Wii game console.
Not in your wildest dreams would the military provide such silly interfaces for a person to cause global annihilation.
It’s a pair of Marines.
You know, the guys who carry “The Football.”
It’s is really a briefcase full of nuclear launch codes.
Which the President must French-kiss the Marines to use.

BONUS STORY: George the Party Animal

George was a pirate, but he was not a very good pirate.
The crew did not like George very much, and that made George sad and lonely.
So, George left the ship, and he took a vacation
All night, way past midnight, he was a party animal.
And he drank. And threw up. And he passed out.
Then, he would sleep off his wicked hangover on the beach.
Over and over and over.
After a month, he returned to the ship.
The crew still did not like George very much.
But George was too drunk to care what they thought.

(Created with Shatoetry and The Hit Crew’s “Sailors Hornpipe”)

The Treasure

The dentist’s office had a treasure chest. In the chest were all kinds of cheap plastic toys, stickers, and trinkets.
I have no memory of what I took from the treasure chest. I never kept anything from it. Nothing on my shelf, and nothing in my drawers.
Just a memory of the treasure chest itself, there in the dentist’s office.
Maybe I could make my own?
The party supply store has those things. Plastic rings, string necklaces, and other cheap amusements.
All I need are pliers, a drill, and some floss.
Alleyway dentistry, we’ll call it.
Sounds good?
Open wide.


I am a scientist.
I work in a science lab, and I make science.
I wear a nice white lab coat. I have a badge pinned to my lab coat.
I conduct experiments.
Experiments take questions that begin with “How can you…” and try to find the answer to them.
The government gave me a big lab.
And a really nice new lab coat that’s really white. And a badge pinned to that coat that lets me get into really cool places.
“How can you make lots of enemy soldiers stupid?” they asked.
I think I found the answer.

The Last Straw

That’s the last straw.
No, not the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Or some ordinary straw, like the straw from a broom
The last straw is a bendy straw.
And I need it for my drink.
It would have been nice to have had a silly straw, because those are really fun, but someone used the last silly straw.
When the last silly straw broke, they reached for the last bendy straw.
And I smacked their hand.
They whimpered, and scuttled off to buy some more straws.

Weekly Challenge #569 – Dry

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at

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.

We’ve got stories by:



Our Darkest Hour
By Christopher Munroe

And then, in the middle of the desert, miles from refuge or civilization, the party bus went dry.

Oh, we didn’t run out of fuel, we’re better organized than that, we had plenty to get to the next town.

Similarly, plenty of water, we knew we’d be in the desert and had provisioned ourselves accordingly.

No, I’m referring to the on-bus bar. In the middle of the desert, we ran out of liquor.

And there was great wailing and gnashing of teeth, because this was the greatest tragedy a party bus could face.

I mean, it was noon, but still…


He was an expert at promotions and artistic events, and his next exercise would be at one of his favorite coffee houses. He asked the owner permission, and was given the go-ahead to throw a dry humor party.

The dry humor wit describes the act of displaying a lack of, or no emotion. Delivery is meant to be blunt and sarcastic.

The exercise would be by invitation only, and those that wished to participate would join with the regular patrons, not indicating their participation.

They would speak a little louder than usual so everyone attending would be able to hear.


The Perfect Martini
by Jeffrey Fischer

The waiter asked how I would like my martini. This is always a good sign: when they just write down “martini” on the order pad, what comes back is usuallty cheap gin drowned in cheaper vermouth.

“A measure of your best London Dry gin, a hint of Martini & Rossi dry vermouth, and three plump Spanish queen olives – no weird stuffings, either. Shaken well, please.”

“Yes, sir.” He scribbled.

I waited for the masterpiece. When the waiter returned, he shook the shaker vigorously and poured the concoction into the glass. It came out pink. I stared with horror. “Wha…what is this?”

The waiter said, “I did just what you said. I know that slow cooking is in vogue, so I figured the best gin we had was sloe gin.”


I Like…

I like my Martinis dry, my women hot and my cars clean.

It just wouldn’t work any other way – a hot Martini would just be disgusting; the best women are always dirty; and a hot car – whether in terms of temperature or being stolen – is just not cool to drive.

Dirty Martinis are pretentious; and dry women… Well, let’s not go there!

Some things just work – and if you ask me, there’s a natural order of things that you shouldn’t interfere with.

Sadly, I what I like and what I get, are two entirely different things!


When I Say Dry


Jon DeCles

“This martini is wet,” said the man at the bar.

“Too much Vermouth?” asked the bartender. “I’ll make you another.”

Two sips and the customer shook his head.


The bartender took down a clean shaker and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, so beloved of his favorite Dr. Who character. He added ice and the gin. He rinsed a clean martini glass with vermouth, threw the vermouth away, shook the gin and ice, and poured.

The customer sipped, then said: “A dry martini is made by carrying the vermouth once a week past the closet where you keep the gin.”


Pay Back’s A Bitch
During Prohibition ever state was dry. After it was repealed some cities remained dry. But in the odd little town of Dinkton they actually had streets that chose to be dry. Realtors there tended to gloss over this salient fact to prospective buyers. Much to Dan, surprise, who found out about said hype-locale ordinance in the middle of a family reunion barbecue. The cops locked up the entire Bender family. Luckily Grandma was in the water closet at the time, and was able to bail them all out. No one ever found out who exactly burn down the Reality Office


It’s all nice and dry at the moment; cosy, if a little uncomfortable, but kids will be kids. You have to let them have their fun, even if being buried up to your neck in sand isn’t quite as much fun for you as it is for them.

Wonder whose kids they were anyway? And where the heck have they disappeared to?

That sun is burning – you’d kill for a cooling wet towel on your face right now.

Not to worry though: The tide is coming in fast. Soon things are going to get very wet… Very wet indeed.


No land in sight, no end in sight, no peace.
The ship sailed through the rough storm, and most disappeared quickly. The dread and the roar fought furiously as wind and rain slapped against the sides of this frail vessel, a growing fever of force subduing even the strongest will.
And the thunderous darkness fed on the fears inside, witness to an ominous dance of threats and horror.
And all she wanted was a warm, dry place where she could be in peace, an inner peace of rainless boredom, that carefree nothingness that without warning lets the warm sun through.


After painting the stroke, sit and examine it closely.

In the first few minutes, the surface “sets” into a liquid crystal. But the real drying process begins from the wall and proceeds outwards. As it approaches the surface, the appearance makes its second change, as the subsurface scattering is reduced in solid paint. Finally comes the moment that watchers live for, when the topmost layer, a few molecules deep, transitions into amorphous glass, giving the glossy reflection a rich, fractal complexity.

If you share our enthusiasm for Watching Paint Dry, help us lobby for it to become an Olympic sport!


Clearing his dry throat sounded like a gunshot in the empty office. Benny wished he could unmake the sound which may have alerted his assassin to his location. He dried the sweat beading on his forehead with the back of his sleeve.
“Romeo. Oh, Romeo,” a dry, female, voice rasped over the intercom. “Wherefore art thou, Romeo?”
He knew that voice–his former partner, Juliet. She must have been assigned his elimination.
He also knew the only place to access the intercom system was three floors up.
Benny ran for the stairwell and burst through the door.
Juliet stood there, smiling.


The Story:

I have this dry flap at the back of my throat. Right there, do you
see? It’s been there since I got sick. I’ve tried all kinds of
tricks to fix it, but I can’t get moisture where it needs to be. When
I use a flashlight to get a good look, I swear I see the flap moving.
See? Just like that. Wait…is that a little man opening it?

“Hey turn that damn light off and stop slobbering on my house! This
damn neighborhood is going to hell.”

Oh my god, I think I need a doctor or exterminator.


Is there a unit of dryness like there is for distance, time, and temperature?
What would it measure? Parts of moisture per million?
What would the unit of dryness be called?
Is there a scientist famous for experiments and research into dryness?
It would probably be named after them.
And you’d see it on clothes dryers and hair dryers and martini mixes.
And bath towels.
Oh, and humor. Dry humor.
Maybe the unit of measurement could be named after them?
Wrights, for Steven Wright.
The driest comedian in history.
Well, driest humor.
I bet he sweats like a goddamned pig.