Jason and the soup

It’s not a good idea to get between Jason and his vegetable soup.
Jason really likes vegetable soup, and he’ll do anything to get it.
Sure, Jason is in a wheelchair, and he has a robot that spoons vegetable soup to his mouth, but that robot arm can do some nasty things.
Once, this nurse got between Jason and his vegetable soup.
She isn’t his nurse anymore.
She barely survived, and ended up in a wheelchair, also being fed soup by a robotic arm.
Jason likes to park his wheelchair between her and her soup, just to rub it in.

Costume Crafting

Popular culture moves so quickly these days.
It’s hard to manufacture relevant and topical Halloween costumes in time to reach the market.
By the time something hits the shelves, it’s already passe and out of date.
Sure, you could make your own, but that takes effort.
And, once again, by the time you finish sewing and gluing, it’s already out of date.
That’s why Melvin uses his 3D printer to manufacture his costumes.
He uses a series of colored resins to fabricate the suit and mask and gloves.
Directly on to his body.
That way, the painful screams are genuine.

Edgar the Whacker

They called him Roger the Butcher.
Never mind that he went by his middle name “Edgar.”
Or that he wasn’t a butcher. He was a plumber.
Nor was he butchering his victims.
He preferred to just whack them on the back of the head with a pipe.
But the papers didn’t like the name “Edgar the Whacker.”
So they call him “Roger the Butcher” because that sounded better.
Edgar had already picked out a domain name, registered a trademark, and established a social media presence.
So he started whacking reporters.
“WHAT’S MY NAME?” he shouted.
“EDGAR THE WHACKER!” they screamed.

Witch Hunt

Teddy got his first witch hunting license when he was thirteen.
Before that, Teddy’s dad would bring him along, but wouldn’t let him do more than carry an equipment bag.
“Thirteen is old enough,” said Teddy’s dad, handing Teddy a torch and pitchfork. “These were your grandfather’s, and now they’re yours.”
They set up a blind in the old creepy woods by a growth of deadly nightshade.
The witches came to harvest under the full moon.
Teddy bagged two sorceresses, and his dad tied them to the roof of the jeep.
They burned them at the stake in the backyard.

Weekly Challenge #649 – PICK TWO: Minefield, Fountain, Angle, Craft, Sodium, Salute, Engine, Candle, Case

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:



The minefield skirted the fountain. If the careless crossed at the wrong angle, the chemistry and the genius behind the craft of the sodium incendiary would remove anything above two feet off the ground.

The giant salute would drive the engine that extinguished each candle in the troop.

In case anyone survived the blast, the entrenched squad would take them out with fifties.

The war started because two idiots disagreed about the demarcation between the two countries.

In reality it was a simple fence line that was at the basis of the war that killed thousands and maimed thousands more.


The case held the candle that was used to start the kindling in the boiler. The boiler produced the steam that drove the engine. As the operator steered the heavy device, he would salute the officers in the stand. He’d throw a pinch of sodium in the boiler.

The heavy machine would later evolve into a seagoing craft. The angle of the bow could slice through the seas, leaving a fountain of spray in its wake, and a veritable minefield of surf at the stern.

Surfers would cheer any time the craft put out to sea or circled the bay.

-Music: Crazy Glue by Josh Woodward


The train left the station. It was empty. No passengers.
Halfway, the engine exploded. There was only one casualty.
No one knew that the train was packed with cases of secret files, the kind of files that would have been talked about for weeks.
The explosion was not reported in the media.
When John, the farmer, picked up a bunch of bits and pieces of paper off his land, a reporter showed up.
The reporter was told to get the hell off his property.
John packed it all in a box and burnt it.
He knew when to shut up.


Journey’s end?

After many days of trekking through this God-forsaken rainforest, half eaten by biting insects and fearful of the ever present threat of venomous snakes, scorpions and who knows what other terrors lurk in the shadows, we finally attained our goal.

Too late for Robinson, lost to the rapids and crocodiles; but it has been worth the cost, and we salute him for his sacrifice.

There before us: The Fountain of Youth.

The only problem – the map for our journey home had been lost with Robinson.

But at least we now have a lifetime in which to retrace our steps!


He was a most creative child. Built these Mindfield Fountains. Started out with strings of buried firecrackers, made his way up to rings of TNT. Finally with the help of the Turkish government he cover an area about the size of Rhode Island. It was pretty hard getting volunteers for the project, but the Turks were more than happy to help with that one. Good to the last Kurd. Last I heard of him he was working closely with a sleeper cell in South Africa. Or maybe it was Angola. Some call him gifted, I call him a fuck.


I stood beneath the amber glow of the sodium streetlamp, lit up another cigarette and drew upon it contentedly.

In the darkness across the street, a body lay, rapidly cooling, lifeblood draining thick and warm, into the gutter.

It’s these moment’s I live for: The quiet, reflective peace that comes in the aftermath of violence. Time to dwell upon a job well done.

Finishing my cigarette, I made the call.

The Police would be arriving soon.

And I’d be back too… Only in my official capacity, as detective inspector of homicide.

Although this is one case that will remain unsolved.


The Art of the Spiel
by Jeffrey Fischer

Kirsten uncapped the fountain pen and tapped the barrel against her teeth as she stared at the blank page. Slowly, word by word, the draft of her speech emerged. This was to be the most important talk of her career and she wanted to craft every sentence perfectly, highlighting her thoughts and avoiding the subject’s minefields.

Unfortunately, Kirsten was a bad writer with incoherent ideas. Even the most exquisitely crafted pen could do nothing to improve the quality of the words on the page. The definitive word on “Sodium Chloride: A Salute to Salt” would have to wait for another day.


The test for the Controlled Variable
The spacecraft, pretending to be an asteroid, drifted on a path calculated to cross the asteroid belt.

The minefield watched the incoming asteroid and calculated its path. It had a nearby mine send a puff from its ion engines that would nudge it into a very slightly different path, that in half a million miles would crash into another asteroid.

The spacecraft sensed the impulse. It puffed gently with a thruster, to avoid the predicted collision.

The mine observed the change of course. Coincidence? It puffed again.

The spacecraft corrected its course again.

The mine exploded. Twice is enemy action.


Anchovies and Extra Cheese

The candle in the window was a ruse, you know. Men in pristine dark suits following the book by rote crouched behind bushes. Step one, have you rebooted? Step two, is it plugged in? No deviation, ever.

The flame quivered as she laughed, allowing a quick glimpse of the case through the window. Like a scamper of rats they were as she made her way downstairs.

Ding dong and a quick exchange. Moments later a scuffle and the empty pizza bag lay shredded. Domino’s delivers, she thinks.

The documents? On the cat of course, sliding unnoticed into the storm drain.


Held Inside the Magical Craft Case

Bits N Bobs, tacks and threads contained within a tiny space.

Sitting by a fireplace the aged lady, nearing the end of life, had but one enjoyment left. Though the task heavier an ordeal to complete, the mere happiness from within it created was magical. A pin here, a stitch there, buttons for eyes and locks of golden yarn for hair. A doll is born from contents within, to be passed to a child to comfort N love, grow with and hold dear.

A forever friend to hold secrets unbearable to share, created from the contents inside Grannys Craft Case.


Billbert walked toward his home. When it occurred to him he should fly–it was dark and no one would see him–the sound of an engine approaching stopped him in his tracks. He turned to see a car angle toward him.

Though the driver rolled down the window, glare from a sodium-vapor street lamp obscured Billbert’s vision. He raised his hand to his forehead like a salute, blocking the light, and asked, “Do you want something?”

Mr. Withybottom growled, “Yes. I want you to come talk to Linny. She won’t stop crying.” In a much softer, gentler tone he added, “Please.”


I love floating candles.
My cat Piper loved them, too.
She’d drink the water from the floating candle bowl.
So, I took out the candles and she used them as water bowls.
I needed a place to float my candles.
So, I opened the back of the toilet and floated them in there.
But they’d capsize and go out when the toilet was flushed.
Or clog the pipe if they got past the flapper.
Finally, I’d float them in the spare bathroom’s bathtub.
And they looked really cool in there.
But I rarely went in there to enjoy the lights.

Four legged friend

Most people are referring to their dog or cat when they talk about a four-legged friend, or maybe something exotic like a pony, but when I say it, I’m talking about my pal Murray.
Look, Murray’s had a hard life, having four legs.
When he was born, his parents gave him up for adoption.
His dad was a gambler, and everybody thought he was weird when he’d say “Baby needs two pairs of shoes.”
And instead of getting a decent education, he spent most of his childhood in carnival sideshows.
So, back off, or Murray will kick your ass. Twice.


The Western Ukranians want closer ties to Europe and to have a Western democracy.
The Eastern Ukranians want closer ties to Russia and to have an Eastern democracy, which is really just a socialist autocracy.
Both point their fingers at each other and accuse them of being servants of the money-grubbing Jews.
Me, I want them both to fuck themselves and die.
Let them have their wars. Their massacres. Their war crimes.
The more, the better.
My people can move on to Spain or Israel or wherever they want.
And leave these Jew-hating scum to their mutual prison and cemetery.

Tom that’s toast

Tom is always buttering up his bosses.
Literally. He carries around a butterknife and an insulated cooler with butter in it.
The challenge is keeping the butter soft enough to spread, but not to allow it to spoil.
Nobody likes the smell or taste of rancid butter.
He could melt the butter and spray it with a power painter or a spray bottle, but he wants to butter up his bosses, not scald them.
What do the bosses think about Tom’s attempts to butter them up?
Security escorted Tom out the door this morning.
I guess it’s Tom that’s toast.

Early release

Centuries ago, the British would transport criminals across the oceans to Australia.
Recently, scientists came up with a plan to transport criminals to the moon.
Well, just the dangerous ones. The ones with life sentences and no possibility of parole.
The prison was automated, with robot guards, hydroponic oxygen and food generation farms, and so on.
The inmates were put to work building a moon colony for future residents.
Do a good job, and you earn a release.
And the plan worked. The colony was completed quickly,
The prisoners were all released… to the cold, airless surface of the moon.

Best seller

After years of trying to write The Great American Novel and failing, Fred gave up writing.
“Why?” asked Joe, Fred’s agent. “I know you have it in you.”
“No, I don’t,” said Fred. “But you do.”
Fred became Joe’s agent, and when Fred finished writing his novel, Joe shopped it around and got it published.
Best seller. Fifteen weeks.
Joe’s next nine novels were also best-sellers.
Joe got famous, and Fred booked him on talk shows and book tours.
They both made a good living.
These days, you’ll catch them on the golf course.
Joe lets Fred keep score.