The Royal Surveyor was a borderline obsessive.
He obsessed about borderlines, and he took his job very seriously.
Every tree, rock, and clump of dirt went into his logbook.
Then, he handed it to The Royal Guard.
“This is the border to guard!”
The Royal Guard, formed from the most aggressive borderline psychotics, took the job very seriously.
Nobody crossed that border.
The king, afflicted with borderline personality disorder, got in one of his moods and decided to travel.
The Royal Guard blocked his path.
“We’re guarding this border!” they said.
The king had them executed.
And then barbarians invaded.

Jack and Jill

Every day, Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.
And every night, the creature crawled up from the well and came down the hill to fetch something to eat.
Usually, it was something small, like a chicken or a rabbit.
But sometimes, it would grab a horse or a cow.
Or try to snatch a baby.
“We should cap that well,” said the town elders.
“But where will we get water?” asked Jack and Jill.
“From the river, like everybody else,” said the elders.
Jack and Jill went up the hill with concrete mix…

If the shoe fits…

They say if the shoe fits, wear it.
But I’m going swimming. I don’t want to wear it.
It’s hard to wear a shoe while swimming.
Especially one shoe. I’ll look weird.
And then when I’m done swimming, I’ll get sand in the shoe.
I hate it when I get sand in my shoes.
Or shoe, when there’s just one that fits.
I could hop on the sand with my bare foot, but I’d look even sillier than swimming with one shoe, or walking with one.
Leave it here on my towel?
No. Then someone will steal this shoe too.

Hateful Amy

Amy may be the prettiest girl in town, but she’s also the most hateful.
Hate literally oozed out from her pores.
A yellowish-green snot color, slick and slimy.
Before, if you got it on you, it had an interesting warmth and tingle, like a gentle Icy Hot.
It made her really popular among the boys.
Then, the hate turned into a nasty venom, and a few horny boys ended up in the emergency room.
Finally, it became a searing rage, and she left a trail of molten lava.
Until she burned through the melted sidewalk and vanished into the earth.

Go to eight

So, you want to go to the eighth floor?
Go ahead, swipe your badge on the sensor and press the eight button.
Do it over and over.
I don’t give a fuck, I’m not going there.
Push and hold the button in. Yesssss… that feels so good.
See it light up?
Now let go.
Aaaaaand… the light goes out.
No eight for you, bitch.
Maybe I’ll let you go to seven.
Then you can haul your fat ass up the stairs to eight.
Then I’ll take you to six.
Keep it up, and we’ll go to five, okay?

The Move

Every presidential candidate promises to move the US embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, but they never do.
There’s always some excuse that comes up when they change from a candidate to the officeholder.
Never mind that the US Consulate in Jerusalem, with its Arab-speaking staff and regular breaks for Islamic prayer times, is a de facto embassy to the Palestinians.
Congress passed a law mandating the move, but the President can delay the move, and always chooses to do so.
The Israelis came up with a solution.
They moved a black family next door to the Tel Aviv embassy.

Quill by Eva Harley

Blue eyes drift, a wistful gaze drawn through cracked glass to the desolate street below. With quill in hand, rolled ever so slowly between aged fingers, echoes of previous times drift over her thoughts forming a shield, obscuring the present.

An unsteady lift of the hand raises the instrument above paper yellowed with age, the shaft devoid of ink but unnoticed. A soft sigh escapes as invisible words are scratched upon the surface in a flurry. Day and again the ritual resumes, written words spoken to echoes of the past. Alone, the quill and times gone by her only companions.

Weekly Challenge #639-Quill

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:

Bath Cat


Before the Parting Mist

My dearest beloved, frozen fingers raise blade to sharpen this quill to drive home the point of our company’s last engagement, in the hopes our first engagement proves all the more sustaining. It is the memory of sun on your gentle face, and that nearly perceivable smile when we first walked under the dwarf maples at your father summer house on the lake. As restless as the leaves of autumn are the men, and I fear equally likely to end in piled drifts. Know that as the battle horn sounds that my heart beat in time with yours. Zackery Maupin


The name of the exclusive, terribly expensive event was Quill. No better name than Quill for a writing event, she thought. The turn out was better than she expected. The room was full. The problems started when one of the attendees tripped and hit his head on the giant quill that was placed in the corner for decoration. He split his head. Blood all over. Everyone left in a hurry, waving their hands in the air. Well, she thought, that was easy money. She didn’t even have to host the damn thing. She packed up her stuff and left town.


I wrote my first draft with a crow quill.

Dipping the crow’s wing into a bottle of India ink was awkward and messy to say the least. The crow squawked and squirmed for a full half hour while I struggled to finish my story assignment.

I was not going to wait until the crow moulted a feather I could use, so I netted a big crow on the greenhouse roof. I took him inside my studio where I had set up a table, a very big roll of butcher paper and a bottle of ink.

Adult crows moult every summer.


My very esteemed Lord Palamon,

It was a pleasure to receive your letter, which of course I had a student read for me. Did you use a cockatrice quill? Perhaps nibbed with a basilisk talon? You must have had commerce with higher- dimensional entities for the ink, for I found his intestines elaborately knotted, yet the ends not severed. Well done!

I have his soul in a bottle. One day I may reanimate him in your corpse.

No doubt you will evade the spell woven into this letter. Of my best pupil I would expect no less.


Quirrell (Professor)


Judicial Tradition
by Jeffrey Fischer

A tradition in the U.S. Supreme Court involves placing quill pens at each of the counsel tables every day the court is in session. Many attorneys, especially those arguing for the first time before the court, take one of the pens as a souvenir.

Of course, the use of quill pens is not confined to genteel reminders of days past. Those things are sharp! During particularly heated arguments, opposing lawyers have been known to stab one another. “Just making a point,” one lawyer quipped as he plunged the nib of his pen into his opponent’s eye.



I wouldn’t really call myself a writer. Not because I don’t regard my musings as literary or worthwhile; simply because it’s been a long time since I wrote anything at all, really.

I type, tap or swipe, aided and abetted, (and frequently frustrated), by predictive text.

My page is neither vellum, nor paper, but a pixelated screen.

I’m not a writer, I’m a typerapipest!

Maybe one day, when I’m retired, with time on my hands, I’ll pick up a pen and notebook and write for real…

Better still, shave my head, hand me a quill, and call me a bard!


Before You Write


Jon DeCles

First you must obtain a quill. A large one from a turkey is ideal. Easy to work with. You must dry it thoroughly and clean the part you will be using. Then put it in a bottle of water to soak. You will need a pen knife of course, small and very sharp. Didn’t you know that is why it is called a pen knife? Well, yes, because you use it to cut pens. You cut the tip off the quill at an angle, then remove the papery filing. Scoop out the reservoir, then cut the channel from the tip.


I’m always looking for new, innovative approaches to my craft. It’s so easy to become predictable, bland, and boring!

You’re constantly telling me that nobody likes boring…

Unless it’s into soft flesh with a blunt drill bit!

But I’ve been there, done that, and for some time I’ve been looking for something new.

I decided to pay a visit to the zoo – see if I could find some inspiration there, and that’s where I found the porcupine quill.

And, as I plunge it into your eyeball and pierce your brain, maybe you’ll think twice about calling me boring again!


As the bus rolled toward the school, Billlbert thought a party, alone, under the guidance of Linoliumanda’s unhinged father didn’t sound like fun.

“Oh. I forgot. My mom said I can’t go to a party unless I have an actual invitation,” Billbert lied.

“Okay,” Linoliumanda said. “Give me your quill.”

“My what?” he asked.

“Your quill. You know. A pen. I have my parchment here to write your invitation.” She held up a piece of binder paper.

“What? Is this a Harry Potter birthday party?” Billbert asked.

“Of course. I’m dressing as Luna Lovegood. You can come as Harry Potter.”


A quill from the legendary phoenix bird is considered the greatest of all writing implements.
A pen of such legendary stature demands an equally legendary ink.
Nothing less than the ink from the great sea kraken will do.
No ordinary inkwell should contain your kraken ink.
I’d think a hollowed-out meteorite is expected.
Did you think that quill would remain sharp?
You have to sharpen it with a knife made from the tooth of a dragon.
To blot the ink, the hide of a unicorn…
Fuck this shit. Give me that Bic pen.
Now how much was the pizza again?


The kidnapper was a total cliche.
White unmarked van.
Fake beard and glasses.
Lured the kid in with candy and a story about a lost puppy.
Just a few seconds with a chloroforum-soaked rag, and he had his prey.
He’d soundproofed his basement, and tested it by turning on the stereo as loud as he could, and trying to hear it from the front door.
“Nobody can hear you,” the kidnapper says. “You can scream for hours, and nobody will hear you.”
“Siri, call nine one one,” said the kid.
He’d forgotten to check the kid for a phone!


I defollowed the Trump supporters, because they supported a serial fraudster and failed businessman riding a reality-television popularity wave.

I defollowed the Cruz supporters, because they supported a homophobic misogynistic evangelical hypocrite.

I defollowed the Sanders supporters, because they supported an unprincipled charlatan who ran as a Democrat only for the campaign money and party mechanism.

And I defollowed the Clinton supporters, because they supported a amoral failed diplomat with blood on her hands, who vilified victims of rape and sexual abuse while claiming poverty from within a New York mansion.

My timelines empty, I took up gardening.

Mmmmmmmmm… peppermint!