Weekly Challenge #638 – Chance

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.

We’ve got stories by:

Towel nest


Take a chance, she said, perhaps you’ll win. And he took a chance, so full of himself. After all, he was super fit. He was given a small boat and told to row South, that he would find the beach. He did. The place was amazing. First few days were easy. Then, a terrifying storm arrived. Everything was damp. He couldn’t find any food anymore. Instead of building a shelter while he was strong, he sunbathed. And then they couldn’t find him. He was in the wrong beach. Take a chance… He almost died. He did win his life back.


Chance has been my support dog for the last five years. He was a former detection dog for the local police department, but was retired when his handler made detective. I knew Chance when he was a pup, fresh from the breeder in The Netherlands.

Chance is solid black, weighs eighty nine pounds, and has an IQ higher than most of my friends.

Chance alerts me when I am impolite to strangers, when I backtalk my superiors, and when I feel like slamming some pissant in the face. He saved me a couple of times from flying off the handle.


A typical game of chance in my town, is riding a bicycle on the public streets. We have an inordinate amount of over or under medicated seniors driving around. They go the wrong way on city streets, drive peeking through the spokes of the steering wheel, don’t use signals, drive with impaired vision, and with deficient reflexes.

Some of the poor devils leave the house and get lost at the store a half mile away. They forget why they are there, lock their keys in the ignition, leave their lights on, and leave their pets sweltering in the hot car.


What am I thinking? I am writing a story with the cue word, chance. I am not intimidated, nor am I worried that I will not be able to come up with 100 words that include “chance” in the text.

I went to a summer camp when I was twelve. It was for rich kids and was called “Chance Ranch”. We were given guns when we got off the bus. Everyone had their own Kevlar vest. For the next two weeks we learned how to get along, control our tempers, and discourage counselors from cupping our balls in the pool.


Beyond Laid Back

My favorite line from Lord of the Rings is: A Chance Meeting, as we say in the Shire. It reminds me of life in Santa Cruz, California’s idea of the Shire. Once I witnessed the following on a bus ride. A young man looks up to see a young girl get on, breaks into a wide smile. They talk for a few minutes. It is obvious from their conversation they have lost track of each other’s whereabouts. As the guy departs the bus, he asks for her phone number. She declines, tell him, till we meet again. So Shire, fursure.


No chance

“No chance!”, I said when they asked me to join the office lottery syndicate.

“Seriously, do you realise just how much the odds are stacked against you? You’re more likely to be hit by lightning, or die falling out of bed!”

I decided to save my money, and laughed at the stupidity of the rest of those fools, throwing theirs away in the hope of those elusive numbers coming up.

Of course, I was laughing on the other side of my face when they did.

“Give me a break guys… You won’t miss a few thousand.”

Their response?

“No chance!”


Some of the most momentous, life changing happenings occur completely by chance.

The chance encounter whilst stood at the bar: An encounter that leads to romance, and a lifetime partnership.

The chance remark in the heat of debate: A remark that starts the thought process that leads to groundbreaking innovation.

The chance interruption… The traffic jam; the diversion; the spilled drink; the wrong turn. The interruption that saves you from the disaster that lay, unseen in your future.

But not today.

Because today, chance has brought you my way.

I am your destiny, and I never leave things to chance.


Game Show: Chance or Quit


Jon DeCles

“Mr. Kelly, you have a chance to win twenty billion squgwarts! Is that exciting?”

“Very exciting, Sir.”

“If you fail at this stage of the game, you will fall a thousand feet into an oubliette at the bottom of which are millions of ravenous, flesh-eating accountants? You got that?”

“That makes it all the more exciting!” said Mr. Kelly, who was already covered with a dark green fungus from the previous round.

“Here’s the question then: Why is a Raven Like a Writing Desk? Will you take the chance or will you quite?”

“It’s a chance I have to take!”


The Final Adventure
by Jeffrey Fischer

The starship shuddered from another blast from the plasma monster. “Captain! Shields are down to 20%! If we don’t find a way to reverse course, we’re finished!” The captain drummed his fingers on his command chair, considering the options open to him. Direct remaining power to the engines? Tried and failed. Ditto blasting out. The bridge crew looked expectantly at their leader, but the captain’s expression was grim.

“Gentlemen, we’re out of options. It’s been my honor to work with every one of you. Comms, send a final message to HQ, warning other vessels to avoid this system.”

As the close-up shot of the captain faded and an ad for Ivory soap took its place, Allison gripped my hand. She asked “How will they defeat the monster? This is the end for all of them, isn’t it?”

“Not a chance. This season’s ratings have been through the roof. I expect to see previews of next season any day now.”


“Well. You’re welcome to come, if you want,” Linoliumanda said to Roderick.
“Not a chance,” he sneered and moved to the back of the bus.
“Is it really just us two at the party?” Billbert gulped.
Linoliumanda joined him.
“Yeah. I don’t have many friends.” She sighed.
“Why not? You seem nice to me,” Billbert said, discretely sniffing the air for unusual smells.
“Thanks.” She smiled. “I think most kids are afraid of my father. Sometimes he shouts and threatens.”
“Really? Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Oh, no. He never threatens or yells at me,” she laughed. “Only people I’m with.”


There’s always a chance of a bird strike at an airport.
Tens of thousands of starlings live in the woods and ravines around the airport, and they sometimes fly into the runways and the engines of planes taking off.
So, we send out the Falconmaster with his team of falcons.
Birds naturally avoid birds of prey, so they stayed away from the runways.
There hadn’t been a bird strike in over ten years.
The university came up with a technological solution.
A robotic falcon drone.
It worked well, until someone hijacked the signal.
And ran it into a plane’s engine.

Weekly Challenge #637 – Stab

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.

We’ve got stories by:

Sleepy Tin


I was willing to take a stab at it. I had never done anything anywhere like it before, but I had enough whiskey in me to try it. The prize was two hundred dollars and a week of free drinks at the bar. It started slow, but the contest attracted a dozen more contestants in a few minutes.

The rules were clear. If you agreed to participate, you had to go out into the busy street and start singing Cindy Lauper’s True Colors in a high, falsetto, while Twerking in a tight, knit, pink, thong.

Naturally, I won, hands down.


Stabbing has become a team sport in many large, metropolitan cities in Europe and the United States.

You can be shopping or taking a leisurely walk with your sweetheart and some maniac will run up to you and jam a long blade into your back or your neck.

They will take a couple of shots at it, making sure they have done enough damage to end your life. They might yell some incoherent words at you, or the familiar Allahu akbar!

If some fool tries this with me, I’d put a few holes in his head with my umbrella sword.


The two men sat on the porch, looking at the inferior ones, they’d say. The porch became a symbol of power, of dominance. Only those who ruled could sit there and watch the others while they went about their lives. Ron felt like he was in jail and those two men were the guards.
One day, in a moment of lunacy, Ron took over the porch. He stabbed one of the men and knocked the other one out. He was king of the porch for 10 minutes. The best 10 minutes of his life. After that, it was all downhill.



I thought I’d take a stab at the hundred word story writing thing.

At the time, I had no idea of the evils of the drabble – in fact, if you’d told me at the time that it can become a habit as addictive as crack cocaine, I’d have laughed at you.

Shows how much I knew!

It’s nowhere near as bad as crack though, obviously…

Apart from the compulsive need for more, ever more; the cold sweats; the rage; the mood swings; the feverish nightmares and the inability ever to let it go.

No, nothing like crack at all!


Pole Position
by Jeffrey Fischer

The big-boned woman at the other end of the bar winked at him. She wasn’t his type, but he was a “two at ten and a ten at two” sort of guy and the bartender had already shouted for last call. He made his way to her and decided on the direct approach. “Wanna see Mister Stabby? Let’s go somewhere private and he can come out and play.” She agreed and they drove to a cheap motel.

As he started to undress, she stopped him with a hand on his arm. “You don’t want to see what I have under there?” he asked, leering drunkenly.

“I sure do,” she said, discarding her skirt, and the bulge was obvious, “but me first. Meet *my* Mister Stabby.” He yelped and ran unsteadily to his car.


Addictive Damage

“I’ll take a stab at it,” said Jerome. The ‘It’ was six feet four, weighed in at 290 pounds. Jerome, no piker himself, was well over 11 feet and 400 plus. He had to make his way over a few bodies to get to ‘It’. If ‘It’ had a superior mental capacity there would probably have been twice the bodies, this was not the case. Dumb as a boot, just mean as junk-yard dog from LA. So when Jerome got into the bit radius ‘It’ lunged forward. Jerome dropped to one knee raised his blade upward. ‘It’ provided the force.


You know what? I’m starting to get tired of your constant failure to leave your husband and move in with me.

You tell me you don’t want to cause him pain and that every time you psych yourself up to do it, you lose your resolve and realise just what a special person he is.

You tell me about all the wonderful things he does for you, and that even though you want to be with me, he’s done nothing wrong; nothing to deserve being dumped.

You tell me, you just can’t stab him in the back.

But, I could!


The eagle lands with a thud knocking the wind from the lamb’s body. Its front talons clamp around its ribs, and the rear talons stab it through. It heaves its prey into the air, and eventually returns to me, deposits the body, and goes to its recharging station.

Eagles are almost extinct, but these are the next best thing. We’re also working on a pack of robotic wolves that can bring down a man. The military are interested in that one.

The lamb will not go to waste. I have a recipe for new-born lamb that is to die for.


Roderick looked about to hit Billbert when Linoliumanda climbed on the bus. She sat behind the two.

With a gentle stab of her finger into his shoulder, she said, “Billbert. You’re still coming to my party tomorrow night, right?”

“Hey. No one invited me. Are you disrespecting me?” Roderick grabbed a handful of Billbert’s shirt.

“Come on, Roderick. You don’t really want to go. It’s just seventh-grader stuff,” Billbert begged.

“You could come if you want, Roderick. It’s just me and Billbert.” Linoliumanda shrugged.

“What?” Billbert gasped.

“Forget it. I don’t want to go to any seventh-grade party,” Roderick sneered.


A Simple Inquisition


Jon DeCles

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

“Hmm, I’ll take a stab at that. Because Poe wrote on both of them!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, you understand, Edgar Allan Poe wrote on the subject of a raven, and he also wrote the poem, on paper, which was on a writing desk. So he wrote on both a raven and a writing desk.”

“I am afraid that both of them being utilized by a poet in completely different categories of usage is not the same thing as a case of similarity. You fail! Now, the pit or the pendulum?”


Fuckin’ beer guys, are they on strike?
Frankie got up and went to get beer, but he never came back.
He felt a stabbing pain in his chest while waiting in the line, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.
The medics got him to the hospital.
They checked his pockets, but Bill always held on to the tickets.
And he never took his phone to game.
“Where the fuck is Frankie with our beer?” growled Joey. “God damn Frankie!”
The doctors called Frankie’s wife, she called us with the bad news.
We had to get our own beer.

Weekly Challenge #636 – “Never Say…”

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.

We’ve got stories by:

Sprawly Tinny


Never say you have the answer. You don’t know enough about the topic. You have no life experience, nor do you have skills to research the topic. You are a bloated gas bag, and you don’t have the sense to keep your mouth shut. Stop prothletising. Stop being a pedant and a poophead.

No one cares what you say, as you have already demonstrated many, many times that you are intellectually average, and you do not have the respect that you think you have.

Can you find a place in your heart to raise my grade to an A, please?


Never say you will be happy to donate to the church. They will hound you for your lifetime. If you move, they will find the church nearest you, and dispatch cadres of missionaries, door-knockers, pamphleteers and personal visits by elders or the pastor hisself (sic).

I moved from California to avoid a congregation. They sent people to my workplace, the gym, the massage parlor, and my grocery store. They would catch me buying produce and engage me in ways that were terrifying.

One day, I was shocked to have the Deacon’s wife lay hands on my backside at the spa.


Goonies never say die.

And I can never say accurately that I can visit the Goonies house next time I go to Astoria.

Last time I went there were signs, neighbors telling visitors where not to park, and at the house itself some info, and some tape to not cross, because people live their.

And a donation box, because, why not?

But now public access has been revoked due to people crossing the line, going on porch, peering in windows, not respecting the owners.

Hey you guys, you ruined it for everyone! Great job. No Big Willie’s treasure for you!


Never say…

There are some things you should never say to a woman, even if you’re only being helpful:

‘Your bum looks big in that’; ‘That really isn’t your colour’; ‘Your hair is a mess’ – it really is asking for trouble, maybe even a slap across the face.

However, if you hold your tongue and fail to mention she’s not looking her best, you’ll be in the doghouse for keeping silent.

Either way, you’re not going to win.

This is something I’ve learned the hard way.

Something else I’ve learned you should never say to a woman…

‘Will you marry me?’


The countdown started. 10, 9, 8… She closed her eyes and tried to come up with ways to stop it. 7, 6, 5… The place was deserted. She didn’t know what to do. 4, 3, 2… It was all over. ONE. Perhaps not. It’s not over till the fat lady sings, they say. ZERO. And nothing happened. She opened her eyes and remained sitting. What an anti-climatic moment… The director of the play clapped. She… she just stared at the small candle on the floor. It flickered. Never say I just love this theater company, can I join you guys?


Saints do not move

You never say I love you. Yes, I do all the time. No you don’t, not the words. But I show you in every way possible isn’t that enough? Why can’t you just say the words? It’s because every person who has ever said it to me has lied when they said it. My mother yes, my father most certainly. All the fancies of my youth. That is them, it is not me. He turned and mouthed the words, in a breathless silence. So she to, to him in return. Never spoken were they again, yet daily in breathless silence


Never say, “let’s go and check out the old haunted house” – it’s simply asking for trouble.

Never go to investigate the strange sound in the middle of the night.

Never leave the safety of the house to peer into the darkness, whilst calling “is somebody out there?”

And, when the lights go out, never back away, with the unknown behind you.

And please, don’t ever go down into the cellar.

Most of all, never, ever check a body to see if it really is dead…

Oh, alright then, maybe just this once.

Just come a little closer…




Two Anniversaries
by Jeffrey Fischer

They say that one of the cardinal mistakes a husband can make is to buy a home appliance for his wife for a birthday or anniversary. Good advice, really, right behind not answering the question “Do these pants make my butt look big?”

On the other hand, what can a guy do some times? The washing machine that came with the house broke down in late June one year. We bought a new one on what turned out to be our wedding anniversary. When *that* machine failed, years later, once again it happened the day before our anniversary. “Ha ha,” I said, “Now we have *two* anniversaries to celebrate.” Ignoring the glare from my wife, I called the appliance store to order the machine’s replacement. “This one is a deluxe model. Never say I don’t get you nice presents.”

Fortunately, the house has a spare bedroom, as I’m too long for the couch.


And You Shall Never Say…


Jon DeCles

Never say I did not love you. Never say that.

Never say I did not give you all that you asked, no matter how much or how too much it might be. Never even consider saying that.

Never say we did not grow close, as close as a vine climbing is to a wall, and never even imagine saying that you did not cling to me as such a vine does, sending in tendrils to suck my mortar to dust.

Never say my stones do not protect you, below, on all four sides, above, from light and dark and air.


The next morning Roderick surveyed the students as he climbed the steps into the bus and made a beeline for the empty seat next to Billbert.

“If you’re smart, you’ll never say anything about what happened yesterday,” the bully said as he sat and jammed an elbow into Billbert’s ribs.

“I wouldn’t think of it.” Billbert tried to move away from the other boy.

Roderick squinted at him. “How come that bag worked for you but it didn’t for me?”

“I have my theories, and I’d share them with you, but I just promised to never speak about it again.”


When I was little, I was told never to say fuck.
Or shit. Or damn.
So, I said those words a lot. Especially at dinnertime.
“What the fuck is this damn shit?” I’d say, holding up my plate.
“Go to your room!” my mother would shout.
I spent a lot of nights without dinner.
I learned to eat big breakfasts and lunches.
And eat as much of my dinner as I could stand before mouthing off.
When I grew up, I still used swear words.
But I also hired a cook, so I wouldn’t need to use them as much.

Weekly Challenge #635 – PICK TWO: Prompt, Screech, Future, Gyrate, Frustration, Majestic, Fired, Packer

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.

We’ve got stories by:

Groggy Tin


Fired Future

She sat in the water, looking at the horizon. The future promised to be as bright as the brightness of that bright summer day.
She smiled.
Perhaps what happened would not mean anything.
A few seashells swayed with the tide.
Perhaps no one would notice.
The seashells bumped against her thigh. She watched them for a moment. Then she swatted them away, just as she had swatted him away, that greasy fucker who had got her fired.
Shame she swatted him too hard…
This was such a bright day and he would never ever see another bright summer day again.


We were promised a majestic future. We got no such thing. Someone dropped me here, and left me with no guidance, no promise of majestic accomplishments, and no way out.

A remote radio prompt was sent every hour or so. The last one had me engage the drill and gyrate enough to jar a rock sample loose for inspection, photos and subsequent transmission.

The frustration grew by the day. I’d beep and screech so earth station personnel would be alerted.

As the last iteration of the Mars Rover, my time was almost up, after fifteen long years. I was dying.


#1 – Performance Review

I always got a bad feeling whenever I was called into the Managing Director’s office for one of his surprise performance review meetings, but this time it seemed I had nothing to worry about.

Almost the first words out of his mouth were, “I see a rosy future for you!”

“Yes indeed, you’re talented, very capable, and you pick things up very quickly. Not only that, you get on well with your colleagues.”

I couldn’t help but smile a little at his praise.

“Yes, you have a great future ahead of you. Unfortunately though, not with this company…”

“You’re fired!”

Hard Candy

After getting the sack from what I’d imagined would be my permanent career I went into a decline.

My father tried his hardest to snap me out of my depression: “Son, you can’t let life’s little trials get to you – there’s plenty of other jobs out there, you just have to go look for them.”

So I took his advice, securing a place at a sweet factory.

Proudly, I told my dad.

The horrified screech he let out brought my mother running… “What on earth did you say to him?”

“I only told him I was a fudge packer!”

Chocolate Bunnies

Funny how you can get bored with any job.

I’d only been fudge packing six months and frustration was already setting in. Everyone thinks working in a sweet factory is the perfect job, but you rapidly go off it when you’re surrounded by candy day, after day.

The prompt for me finally deciding to quit was the nightmare called Easter. I was transferred to chocolate bunnies and all was well until the sudden, majestic, explosion of the cocoa vat.

It’s not the first time I’ve ended up deep in the brown stuff.

But I vowed it would be my last!


Thanks a million for lending me your time machine. It’s been so long, I’d forgotten what it was like back at the start of the 21st century. I mean, you’ve heard about them burning up all their complex hydrocarbons just to get from one place to another, but you can’t really appreciate the scale of it until you’ve seen their big cities in the rush hour. And chemical space rockets! There’s a sort of majestic absurdity about the Shuttle. To think we’re descended from these apes!

Back in a few weeks, or centuries, depending how you look at it,



For Special Celebrations


Jon DeCles

Matilda fired the first rocket, and with a screech it did its gyrate dance across the night sky until it burst and made a majestic nebula of multi-colored pinwheels that brightened briefly the blackness of the sky. The report of popping shot sounds was prompt, coming back from where the fireworks exploded in a concatenacious sound array. Matilda felt some frustration that she had not been the packer on that particular display, but she knew that in the future she would be allowed to build the loads on the fireworks, and someday, perhaps, even invent new ones to shoot off.


If you’re going to die, I’ve always thought you should plan for the future.

Let’s not have any half arsed, poor excuses for a death – if you’re going to go, then make it majestic, make it memorable, make it worthwhile.

After all, it’s not as if you’re going to have more than one shot at it.

And let’s not have any excuses about not knowing when your time will come… What you need is a consultant, somebody skilled in such matters. Someone who will handle not only the time, and the place, but the method as well.

Guess who!


My Time and Your Time
by Jeffrey Fischer

The singer was ready. The players ran onto the field to cheers for the home team and boos for the visitors. Both sides lined up for the anthem. As the singer started her off-key rendition of the song, a half-dozen home team players turned their backs and made the Black Power salute. The fans booed lustily.

The general manager emerged, whispering two words to each protesting player: “You’re fired.” Security led the players off the field.

One didn’t go quietly. He engaged in colorful gyrations, shouting, “I got my First Amendment rights!” The GM said, “The team acknowledges your right to protest on your time. And we have the right not to hire people who disrespect the anthem, the flag, and the fans on my time. Now clean out your locker.”



Billy Clark was your average Midwestern corn-feed kid. 4th gen Lutheran Farm Family, really nice kid. When he got on the bus to LA everyone thought he was headed to the Lutheran seminary. Billy had other plans. Seems Bill was never that religious nor scholarly. What he lacked in brain power he apply made up in penis power. Billy was a carnal prodigy so when he got to LA Mr. Happy Productions got him a fake ID to add four years to his new identity and he got a great stage name: Majestic Packer. And so a legend was born.


With a screech, Billbert’s mother jumped back. She rubbed her eyes before she fired off a barrage of questions, which ended with, “What on earth is going on?”

Billbert gyrated in frustration, trying to return to his seat, though the bag refused to let him.

“I’ve got this superpower, Mom. When I wear a grocery bag, I can fly,” he said as his hold on the table slipped and he headed for the ceiling.

She folded her arms and looked up at him hovering above her, and said, “I’d suggest, in the future, don’t wear that bag in the house.”


“I’m glad I got fired!” shouted Betty, dancing on the bar again, gyrating her hips and waving her arms without any regard to the beat of the music blaring from the jukebox.
Her frustration with her job had been all she’d ever talked about.
Tomorrow, she’d be washing down aspirin and antacids with Gatorade to kill the hangover.
She’d pick up another job quickly, because she was that good.
Too good. In time, she’d go back to bitching about the new job.
And the next one. And the one after that.
Eventually, she gave up looking, and bought the bar.

Weekly Challenge #634 – WAFER

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.

We’ve got stories by:



After three flights around the backyard Billbert went into the house.

Sitting in the dining room, he ate butterscotch pudding with vanilla wafers, when his mother walked in and dropped bags of groceries on the table.

“How was your first day of school?” she asked.

“Okay,” he said and slid his chair closer to the table. He hadn’t thought to take off his bag before sitting down.

“Good. Help me bring in the rest of the stuff,” she said, waiting for a response.

How could he explain flying in grocery bags? he thought before he levitated off of his seat.


What’s in a Name?


Jon DeCles

The old textbook said you were supposed to consecrate a wafer and it would turn into the blood and body of Christ. As ‘Christ’ was a word that meant ‘light,’ Tolund thought it would be an amazing and beautiful thing to achieve: but although he could readily picture a body of light, he had a hard time imaging what the blood of light might be like.

Nevertheless, he was determined to cast the old spell, and he set about gathering all the ingredients. There was water in the time vault, and some Thunderbird wine. For the wafer, a peppermint patty.


A Little Bit of Treason
by Jeffrey Fischer

Hillier looked at the wafer-thin USB drive before scooping it up and placing it in a pocket. His contact within DoD had come through, copying the design of plans for the next-generation of nuclear missile technology from an insufficiently-secured laptop and leaving the USB memory stick at the designated drop point. Hillier just needed to verify the contents of the stick before passing it to his buyer. He didn’t think of it as betraying his country. It was just a way of making a living.

Once in his apartment, Hillier placed the USB drive into his own laptop. He double-clicked on the icon. But instead of seeing a schematic of a new missile, the drive launched a video of Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up.” Rickrolled by some Defense Department geek.


Straight to hell

Raise Catholic it is reasonable to say I’ve eaten my fair share of wafered waffles. It’s on art to get each wafer fully filled with equal amounts of butter and maple syrup. Since we’re talking decades of Friday meatlessness, damn near everything you can imagine had gone into the batter. Nut, bananas, rock candy. There were various vegetables, but those general sucked. The acme of wafer delight had to be ice-cream and waffles. Messy, but so sweet. Once my kid sister dropped in a bunch of cut-up hot dogs. So for 12 hour all of us were going straight to hell.


The boundary between life and death is rarely as distant as we’d like to believe. Death loiters beside us, sometimes far too close for comfort. Indeed, that boundary can be barely perceptible… it can be practically wafer thin.

A split second’s indecision when crossing the road; the ill-advised swim just a little too far from shore; a moment of distraction when driving; or perhaps choosing to take that short cut home along the lane tonight.

The lane where I am waiting, cold steel in my hand and blood lust in my eyes.

And with every step, death grows ever closer.


Pink wafer biscuits

One of the constants in my life – ever since my earliest days. My grandmother used to serve them as a treat if I’d been good. You’d always see them wheeled out at church socials, reposing on china plates along with the chocolate digestives.

Yet, there was nothing to them – a couple of layers of pink cream filling, sandwiched between those unassuming delicate pink wafer fingers. And the taste… Well, even to this day, I can only describe them as the flavours of pink, and wafery!

Even so, a single bite can transport me effortlessly back to my childhood.


Mr. Probitas stared at the store window.
The new notice was titled Antisocial Behavior Order, an anti-sugar diatribe.
Ever since the intake of sugar became controlled by decree, Mr. Honey’s store was in a financial crisis.
Mr. Probitas walked in.
“What’s that all about?”
“I have to close. Or I’ll be arrested…”
Mr. Honey shrugged.
“For being antisocial. Here, have a wafer. Be antisocial while you can.”
It was then that Mr. Probitas and Mr. Honey started an underground movement to import wafers.
But it was not really about the wafers, was it?


That’s all it took. A wafer, containing all the circuitry, was placed under the skin of the top of the hand. It was close enough to the surface so any luminescence would provide enough power.

It was still in beta, but the first mechanical brain stimulator on the market. The device would excite the cortex immediately, when activated.

My device was a transplant from a deceased donor. His device shorted and blew out a piece of skull from just above his ear. For a few seconds, the donor had an I.Q., estimated at 400, and his eyes shown like lasers.


The wine represents the blood of Christ.
The wafers represent his body.
Dr. Odd pondered how to obtain both.
He ran some experiments and ended up with what he called Quantum Duplication.
With a simple set of nine-dimensional coordinates, he could flash a copy from the past into the present.
The short, hairy messiah babbled endlessly in Aramaic.
Dr. Odd smiled, and made a few more copies.
Then, he tasked the Jesuses to stomp grapes from his vineyard.
“Wine made from grapes stomped by the feet of Jesus himself.”
The ones who became exhausted or uppity went into the dough.

Weekly Challenge #633 – RATCHET

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.

We’ve got stories by:

Tangly Tinny


The Economics of Architecture


Jon DeCles

It was such a wonderful invention, thought Giles as he turned the ratchet just a notch and listened to Geoffrey’s screams. Before some clever torturer had invented the rack, this kind of pain could only be inflicted on a prisoner by hanging him by his wrists from the ceiling and slowly adding weights to his ankles. That, in turn, required a pretty high ceiling from which to do the hanging, and that meant you had to build a dungeon with a vault as high as the average great hall, which was a very wasteful use of stone, wood, and mortar.


Bilbert took the plastic grocery bag and cut two holes in the bottom. He pushed his legs through the holes and carefully pulled it up.

“Only a homeless person would wear a grocery bag,” he said as he walked to the back yard.

He knew he must look completely ghetto, or ratchet, as his cousin from New Orleans used to say.

Not wanting to hit his head on the ceiling, he stepped outside and looked up into the branches of the maple tree above him.

Next thing he knew, he was hovering among the leaves, twenty feet above the ground.


Rat Chet

Chet had no honor. Everyone who had taken him into their confidence were soon betrayed. When maximum density was reached in his small village he was strapped to a pillory and the letters R-A-T were branded on his forehead with a red hot iron. His last remaining friend gave him money for passage to France. Settling- in in Paris he took up the profession of rodent exterminator. If paid well, he became rich, and soon a member of the French court. Marquis Rongeur never lost his tendency to rat folk out, thus, an early victim of the reign of terror.


Few people appreciate the difficulties those of us in the hurting and killing professions face daily.

It’s not just the constant hiding of evidence and running from the cops that make it such a stressful occupation: Blood soaked clothing means sky high laundry bills, for a start; and you’d be amazed at how prevalent repetitive strain injury is, as a result of constantly hacking away at bodies for easy disposal.

That’s why I invented the ‘Ratchet Hatchet’™ – a labour saving device that takes the strain out of removing limbs.

Not coming to a home shopping channel any time soon!


When I grew up in New Orleans, everyone thought I was a ratchet, and that I would never make anything of myself.

Today, in my early twenties, I am a Certified Arch Support Technician for the largest woman’s shoe emporium in town. When a customer comes to my kiosk in the back of the store, I can see their problem before they say a thing. Most of those that have bad feet are a hundred pounds over weight.

I ask them to sit, and then I slather on hand sanitizer up to my armpits, and under my watch and bracelets.


I had to borrow a ratchet to tighten the main universal on my dildonic device. It had loosened way outside of spec after the bachelorette party with the ladies.

I torqued the base, arms, grippers to spec, and plugged it in. Next, I called the main sex hub and asked them to run a test series on the device. It whirred, spun, then, when warmed up it went into full operation.

Myrna was at the house for the day, insisting on testing it. She had me wait in the other room. A minute passed and I heard a frenzied scream.


by Jeffrey Fischer

“It was night.”

No, you need the opening to be punchier, more suspenseful. Give it another try.

“It was a dark and stormy night.”

Better, but maybe ratchet up the suspense even a little more.

“It was a really, really dark and especially stormy night.”

That’s not exactly what I…

“As soon as it got dark, the frustrated author killed the annoying editor with his pen.”

Better, better. How about changing “killed” to “stabbed” – or even “slaughtered”? Wait, we can talk this over… “killed” is just fine… what are you -”


Slow and sure

Growing old and slowing down never suited grandpa – especially the slowing down bit.

He used to grumble constantly that his stair lift was too slow, and that he had a good mind to make his own modifications to speed it up. I told him to leave it be, but he never took any notice.

I’ve no idea what he used to replace the old ratchet mechanism, but I do know it was way too powerful, and that somehow he got the gearing all wrong.

Last we heard of him, he was headed for the earth’s core, at breakneck speed!


Rest assured. This will not happen again, you said.
Aim for the future and don’t look back, hey? May those sorrows stay in the past, you said. Bury them deep. What you did cannot be undone, can it?
Time will tell, of course. Time will tell.
Call upon the meek, you must. Their sorrowful, all-forgiving smiles will free you.
Haul and cry if you must. Haul and cry. They’ll forgive you.
Each new day will bring new hope, we hope. You hope.
Then, it’ll be the end. Where? Right there. Find the place. Rest assured. This will not happen again.


She picked up the ratchet off of the garage workbench, walked up behind Bobby, and smacked him in the back of the head.
He fell to the ground, dead.
She washed off the ratchet and put it back in the set,
Then, she called the police.
By the time they got there, she was gone.
The police took photographs and measurements, collected things to check for fingerprints.
But they found nothing. No sign of her.
Bobby got zipped up in a body bag and hauled into the back of a van.
The house went on the market, are you interested?

Weekly Challenge #632 – TIP

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.

We’ve got stories by:



Bad Advice

“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.

Thanks dad!


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.”
Nothing happened.
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


Jon DeCles

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.

Weekly Challenge #631 – PICK TWO DWARVES

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.

We’ve got stories by:

Myst and Tinny


Doc was cursed with having the remainder of his troupe of elves as test subjects. Grumpy in a rage had to be put down, Happy was manic and had to be strapped down, Sleepy has been in a coma for over 9 1/2 weeks, Bashful is scared and won’t come out of the closet, and Sneezy hemorrhaged to death from a nosebleed after an allergy attack. “I’ll never find a cure for Snow White,” Doc lamented. So, when Prince Charming dislodged the poison apple from Snow White’s throat, the story became “Snow White and the Five Dwarfs.” Walt Disney was not amused.


Sneezy Tom went to the bookshelf and picked up a book.
“Wanna hear a story?”
Grumpy Doc nodded.
“But read a happy story.”
“Doc, what’s a happy story?”
Grumpy Doc turned to look at him, frowning.
“Something that ends well.”
“Then I have to grab another book. This won’t do.”
With the second book in hand, Sneezy Tom started reading.
“… and the two lived happily ever after, her head chopped off and stored in a jar.”
“That’s happy?!”
“Yes, my wife drives me crazy. It’s a shame I can’t do this…”


#1 – Grumpy

There’s one thing that’s guaranteed to put me in a grumpy mood: Dealing with jerks who are perfectly happy going through life acting eternally dopey.

The sleepy heads who sit at green lights, seemingly unaware that it’s no longer red… Only moving, thanks to the blast on my horn behind them.

Or the parents of sneezy, dribbling, mucus-encrusted kids, who think it’s cute to parade them in public; and all those around them, too bashful to tell them to wipe those snotty noses.

“Take one of these, three times daily” said the doc.

It worked… Now I’m the dopey one!

#2 – Twist in the tale

Snow White and the Seven Dwarves… At least, that’d how it used to be. Now, in these days of rampant political correctness, we can’t have any of that.

It’s ‘vertically challenged, differently-abled people’, and – thanks to racial equality – she’s now ‘a person of non-ethnically definable skin tone’.

As for ‘Snow’, forget it: Acknowledging climate change dictates she’s now ‘Seasonally typical precipitate’.

We can’t even keep the ‘Seven’, since it’s offensive to Roman numerals. And hexadecimal. And octal. So instead, we’re stuck with ‘fixed numerical quantity’.

And just wait until you see how they’ve butchered the poor dwarves’ names!


I was very surprised to find a real dragon at the cherry blossom festival. I was not sure if when it picked me up and started flying me over the city, it was being friendly or just taking me home to be eaten by its family.

It was grumpy when my body’s involuntary act due to all that pollen in the air snottified its talons causing me to ooze off, I was relieved it decided not to come back for me.

That is why I have decided not to start a career in the foodservice industry. I’m just too sneezy.


Look on the Bright Side of Life
by Jeffrey Fischer

“Why do you have to be so grumpy all the time?” Susan asked her husband.

“I’m not grumpy, I’m just particular in my likes and dislikes,” Mark replied.

She rolled her eyes. “Just this morning you complained about the toast being burned, how Junior parked his car too close to yours, and how the neighbors started mowing too early. Is there anything you feel happy about?”

He thought for a while. “I suppose I’m happy nothing bad has happened to the house this week. Oh, and that I still have a job.”

Susan smiled. “Good. For a while I was concerned you had nothing. Well, keep those things in mind. We have a meeting with Junior’s guidance counselor in fifteen minutes. And I changed the chores list so that you’ll be making breakfast from now on. And I convinced the Smiths that eight a.m. was too early to start mowing, so he agreed to do it after dark.”

Susan took secret pleasure at the scowl on Mark’s face that stayed in place the rest of the day.


My name is Doc. I took the name when I got my Ph.D. from an online school. Since I moved into an elder care facility, I’ve made some acquaintances with several of the residents, including all of the Greenley brothers. Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy, Dopey, Bashful and Sneezy.

Grumpy was grumpy because of his persistent double vision, preventing him from driving. Happy was doped up, Sleepy was addicted to Halcion, Dopey gobbled downers like M&Ms. Bashful was on the autism spectrum and Sneezy had bad allergies.

We made up word games and created a chart for Santa’s reindeer. It’s listed, below.


Name of Reindeer Trait(s) Special Skills


He loves to go fast!

Sewing and knot tying


Completely extroverted

All kinds of dance
including pole dancing


A bit vain, though affectionate

Prancing and cross


Slightly tricky, slightly sneaky.

Magic and slight of hoof


Handsome and easy-going,

Good with kids and
close to Scout Leaders


Affectionate satyr.

Bringing people together



Singing in choirs


Goes down on himself

Can electrify others
with RV batteries


A little down on himself

Nose glows. Drinking


Admits when she’s wrong

Good at hide-and-go-seek

and fellatio


A Fairy Tale


Jon DeCles

Cole Black looked like his Daddy, so his Momma sent him with her new boyfriend to hunt drugs and told boyfriend to kill the kid. Cole got away, small kid, delicate, met some big muscle boys name Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy, Dopey, Bashful, and Sneezy (‘cause of the cocaine). He figure he put out, they protect him.

Momma found him, done up like a Mary Kay lady, shared her poisoned chitlins with him, best he ever had: he went to sleep.

Muscle boys find him, put him in a glass box, sit around praying. Ain’t heard yet that Prince is dead.


Do No Harm

Doc had finish this second rotation. Linda found him in the break room stuff in a chair. “Sleepy?” she inquired. Doc opened one eye and raised a hand to his temple. Hand never quite got there. Eye flutter shut. Linda got a blanket and pillow from housekeeping. Tucked him in. Made her way back to ER. It was a full moon, there would be plenty of customers. When he woke the sun was about to arriving or about to departing. He couldn’t tell if it was dawn or dusk. Didn’t really matter. Long as the coffee flowed he was good.


You are feeling sleepy, drifting away, eyes slowly closing; entering the realm of dreams; your happy place.

But tonight, it won’t be your happy place – it will be mine. A space filled with fear and pain, a space filled with anger and hate, a space of infinite darkness.

Tonight, you will dream, but only nightmares – horrors from to run from in terror, then wake screaming, drenched in cold sweat.

And you will scrabble to turn on the light.

And then, when the darkness clears.

I will still be there: Reaching out to you from the foot of your bed.


Linoliamanda’s face went bright right, though she looked happy.

“What’s the matter?” Billbert asked as they headed up the street.

She fiddled with her cat-ear headphones and shrugged. “I’m usually too bashful to talk to people I don’t know.”

“Linoliamanda is unusual,” Billbert said. “Is it a family name?”

“No. My father sells floor coverings and my mother wanted to name me something French. Here’s my house.”

A van pulled up with the words, ‘Carpet Doc’ on the side. An angry looking man climbed out.

“There’s my dad,” Linoliamanda said. “Don’t worry. He just looks grumpy.”

“Sure thing,” Billbert muttered.


Obama said that if you like your doctor, you can keep your doctor.
Well, he lied. And he lied about medical costs going down, insurance premiums going down… he lied about everything.
It’s so bad, you know Doc from the Seven Dwarves?
Instead of dealing with the bullshit, he retired.
Happy stopped getting his pills, became grumpier than Grumpy.
Dopey went through withdrawal and stabbed Bashful.
Sneezy stopped getting allergy treatments.
And Sleepy?
Well, that was a side effect of the chemical castration regimen he was on.
Snow White had to brain him with a skillet to maintain her virtue.

Weekly Challenge #630 – PIZZA

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.

We’ve got stories by:



As I child, I was lucky enough to have the pizza bones any time we ordered a pizza. We had the pizza on a Saturday night, as we gathered in the den in front of the television. Mom would trim the crispy end pieces for me. She would grate some additional Mozzarella, and pop the pieces into the oven until the cheese melted and joined the circle of bones together into a large circle of crispy, cheesy, chewiness.

Dad and I sometimes shared the Bone Ring as we named it, but he usually was happy with eating the regular slices.


The First Glorious Thing I Ever Ate.

Many years ago challenge topics were chosen by the winner of a weekly poll. The first time I had a majority of listens votes I chose the topic: Pizza. This choice totally drove Andrew Ian Dodge crazy. He said it was the stupidest topic he had ever seen and end a run of 22 stories in a row. He refused to write a story. I feel confident in the decade that has follow pizza has not been the worst topic. Further I think it’s fair to say all 630 topics have been it their way inspiring, as was Mr. Dodge.


“This looks awful. Are you sure they have pizza here?”
“How did you find this place? There’s no one else here.”
“I got an email. They sent me an 80%-off coupon.”
“80%?? Let’s go. Now.”
“Haven’t you heard of the 80% club? They’ll shrink your brain by 80%.”
It was too late. The doors closed.
The next morning, they were found barely alive.
The number of these cases had been growing lately. No one knew how it was done, but everyone knew the consequences.
Discount coupons can be hazardous.


Food of the gods

That sublime combination of tomato, cheese and a light, doughy base, suffused with an infinite variety of flavours and textures. Mushroom, chicken, sausage, onion, fresh herbs and olive oil… I could talk forever of its merits.

Food of the gods indeed, but there’s a downside to this culinary marvel – I can’t eat more than a slice without suffering the most appalling heartburn.

Might explain why the gods always seem to be hurling lightning bolts and in such a bad mood.


Pizzas are not popular in China, and imported Western pizza chains have met with indifferent success. This is despite the fact that pizza was invented there, more than two thousand years ago, during the Qin dynasty, and had many regional forms. But one day, at a great state banquet, one of the guests suddenly picked up his pizza and flung it, frisbee style, at the Emperor. The circular blade concealed inside by a treasonous cook decapitated him.

Pizzas were henceforth banned throughout the Middle Kingdom, pizza ovens and recipes were destroyed, and the very word was expunged from the language.


Wrapped in Wool To Keep It Warm


Jon DeCles

The first pizza is speculated to be that of the Ancient Romans, who baked it on the hot bricks of the hearth after raking back the coals. The dough was made simply with water and chestnut flour. Chestnuts were plentiful, and easier to process than wheat or barley. Pine nuts rather than anchovies provided a contrasting flavor, and a sprinkling of fresh rosemary was covered with a drizzle of olive oil before baking. It was a very rich desert.

Flavius the attractive slave delivered it from the baker, and was subject to the same advances as his attractive contemporary counterpart.


Hotter than the surface of the sun!

That first bite of a fresh pizza that sears the roof of your mouth, instantly flaying the skin in peeling layers from your palate; bubbling blisters erupting from the corners of your lips.

It’s excruciating.

Yet you’re compelled to continue through to the bitter end.

Bite after bite.

Slice after slice.

One piece after another; until, bleeding, torn and blistered, tongue swollen and useless, you collapse, whimpering and broken.

Would you like another slice?


Weekly Challenge 630: Pizza
Posted on May 14, 2018 by dannydwyer
Vito tried to calm a customer outraged at his brother slapping the dough on his bare chest to make pizza by saying, “you think that’s bad, you should see how he makes the doughnuts.” The customer stormed out in a rage. Over the next week, Vito and Tony were shocked at the sudden decline in business. They had NO customers at all.

They agreed to be on “Gordon Ramsay’s 24 Hours to Hell & Back,’ to figure out what was going wrong. Gordon screamed after walking in on Tony making the doughnuts, “Start by taking your dick out of the food, dumb-ass!”


Billbert leaned over, held his stomach, and stared at the ground, waiting for the pain and the students to go away.
When the nausea passed he looked up to find a single student standing there.
She smiled. Neon blue cat ear headphones perched on her blond head matched her blue eyes.
“I’m Linoliamanda. I’m sorry he hit you.”
Billbert gathered up the shreds of plastic. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Do you want to come to my birthday party on Friday? We’re having pizza.”
Billbert shoved the remains of the plastic bag in his pocket and said, “Yeah. That sounds like fun.”


I like to watch the How It’s Made television series.
The episode on Frozen Pizzas is fascinating, showing how much automation there in is the process.
The machines they use are fascinatingly complex.
If I had become an engineer, I’d have liked to have designed machines like that.
But what I find most fascinating is that instead of having to watch The Discovery Channel when they air this show, I can watch any episode by searching for it on YouTube.
On Demand is so fascinatingly complex.
If I had been a software engineer, I’d have liked to design that too.

Weekly Challenge #629 – ORGAN

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.

We’ve got stories by:

  • Richard
  • Charlie Lacrosse
  • Lizzie
  • Serendipity
  • Tom
  • Jon
  • Norval Joe
  • Danny
  • Paul Camp
  • Planet Z
  • Sleepy



    Mavis plays the pipe organ in church every Sunday.

    She’s not particularly good, but the vicar won’t let anyone else try their hand, despite having a few candidates who could play equally well, if not better.

    There’s Albert, who was a music teacher; Henry, who plays keyboard on a Friday night at The Smokehouse Blues Bar; and Jake, who’s young, but can play better than most twice his age.

    We reckoned the vicar just didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

    Until we discovered the vicar’s own ‘pipe organ’ was also getting the Mavis treatment in the vestry before every service!


    When I went to South Africa to shop for my organ, I brought Bessie with me. I trusted her enough to help me pick out the organ I would have the rest of my life.

    She was not a stuffy, snooty type. She would pick one out that was simple, not ornate in any way, and she would tend to pick something that was practical and easy to maintain.

    We arrived at the showroom and the director took us into the private display salon.

    There were about a dozen on display. A couple of them had mirrors reflecting several views.


    If you have an aging organ, you have several options: 1) rebuild the existing organ; 2) replace the organ with a suitable electronic substitute; 3) purchase an entirely new organ; or 4) make do with a compromised tool.

    Trading in an existing organ for an electronic substitute can be much like tossing out an heirloom gold watch bequeathed by your grandfather and replacing it with a Walmart 6 dollar watch. Most organs, even those neglected and in greatest need of repair, have parts of considerable value to someone.

    The pipes, casework, console shell, and many other components never wear out.


    When we arrived for dinner at the neighbors, a man was playing a song on an old pipe organ. One of the notes was off-key, but he played on. When the host invited us to go outside, I was happy to escape that torture. The problems started when she explained that they needed meat and that they took some of his organs . I was shocked, and was about to ask how he could even play when I felt a sharp blow to the back of my neck. Officer, do you think this scar is what I suspect it is?


    I’m all in favour of organ donation, but I do think that it’s a shame so many die because the demand for organs so frequently outstrips the supply.

    So I thought I should do my bit to solve the problem. I’ve been working on growing human tissues in the lab, with some very encouraging successes to date, I’ve even managed to create a functioning human kidney!

    You see, I’m not all bad.

    I bet you thought this was going to be a story about harvesting organs from unwilling victims, didn’t you?

    That’s just a hobby I pursue on the side!


    Even Educated Fleas Do-s It

    Birds got this organ that lets them know exactly where there are in space. You’ve seen Humming Birds target a space that was once a red feeder and hoover there in surprise. Well modern science has discovered a logic organ in male humans. It seems a matrix of Y-chromosomes somewhere north of Mr. Happy and bit south of the hippocampus is responsible for mid-level discord processes. Researchers at the Mayo Clinic have dubbed this new structure the Y-organ. The triggering mechanism is the sound of the female voice. The response is a long string of the word: WHY WHY WHY.


    Bach’s Royal Instrument


    Jon DeCles

    The organ is the biggest, most powerful instrument ever built. Pipes from teeny tiny to pipes 28 feet long. In San Francisco there is an art gallery that is one gigantic organ, the pipes inside the walls. Churches tremble as if in earthquake when the mighty organ sounds its orgasmic chords under fingers and pedals. People who have only heard the organ recorded are like those who have read pornography but never had sex. Properly played, the organ can make you tremble right down to your core.

    That’s the very kind of big-piped, powerful, orgasm-inducing, mind-shattering organ that I want.


    A dozen students, including Billbert, gathered around Roderick as he put his feet through the holes in the grocery bag and pulled it up.

    “Watch this.” He put his arms out like superman, jumped forward, and belly flopped in the dirt.

    The kids wouldn’t have laughed harder if an organ grinder with a dancing monkey had suddenly appeared.

    Fuming, Roderick got to his feet, tore off the grocery bag, and threw the shreds of plastic on the ground. He walked to Billbert and slugged him in the stomach.

    “I think he ruptured my spleen,” Billbert said, watching Roderick stomp away.


    Jezebel was a musician, who liked to make instruments out of human organs and body parts. There were the Bagpipes made of lungs, piano keys made from bones, piano wire made from hair and muscle, and his favorite, a harmonica made from a larynx. Jezebel would bring his grizzly musical instruments to the town square every Saturday, where the crowd favorite was his portable Organ made solely out of organs. It would make disturbing squishy sounds with every key he hit. “What on earth does that sound like?” most would ask. I don’t know, but it sure does sound expensive.


    Time For the Game

    “Daddy, why do they call it the Organ Trail?” The game is about to start. I mute the car radio.
    “The Organ Trail?”
    “You know, with the covered wagons.”
    “Oh, sweetheart, you mean the Oregon Trail. Oregon is a place.”
    “No, Daddy! Mrs. Lindholm says it’s the ‘Organ Trail.’
    Who am I to contradict her first grade teacher?
    “It’s because the Indians would cut out everyone’s hearts and livers. You know, their organs.”
    A look in the mirror of horrified silence. We can straighten this out later. I turn up the radio. This is going to be a great game.


    People settled Red Creek about two hundred years ago.
    They built houses, a school, and a church.
    More people arrived. And they built more.
    They raised money for a pipe organ for the church.
    Wells Fargo wagons brought the pipes and machinery out to Red Creek.
    But the assembly instructions somehow got lost.
    Instead of waiting for a new copy to arrive, the town blacksmith did his best to put the thing together.
    At the celebration party, the pipe organ exploded, killing everyone in town.
    Wells Fargo paid the newspapers to cover it up and call it a meteor strike