Weekly Challenge #615 – Why Not?

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.

This is the Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

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GOODBYE (Please Tiger)

Goodbyes are difficult. From getting dumped by text message, to just being ghosted. Excuses are all bullshit that become blurry after one realizes the truth of it all.
“Hello Mom, Pick up its me.”
“Hey Dude, its me again, Please pickup.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to talk to someone, anyone… even you.”
“Hi, Call me back bro, if you want.”
“Whoever listens to this, I don’t blame anyone, it’s what I needed to do. Please tell mom I love her and I’ll always be her little tiger cub.”


I was rubbish in the scouts. I hated camping, orienteering, gang shows and all that other nonsense.

As for earning badges: I was the least decorated boy in the troop.

How ironic, that it was thanks to me one of the most challenging badge tasks ever was created.

I was attempting my knotwork badge, and when I handed my efforts – a terminally tangled mess of rope, never to be untangled again, to the troop leader, he told me… “That’s not how you tie a knot?”

“Why?” I responded.

And that’s how the ultimate knotwork challenge – The Why Knot – was created.


“Why not the head first?” asked Paulie.
“That’s not the way we do it,” replied the boss.
“Why not?”
“Because. Go grab the leg for me and shut up.”
Paulie crossed the yard, grabbed the leg from a bucket, and dragged it back.
“Here.” And he dumped the leg on the kitchen table.
“Hey. Remember the arm.”
The acid would do wonders, but last time he had to deal with an arm, it flipped in such an odd way he didn’t sleep for a whole damn week.
“Why not the head…?”


In To The Words

I’m not inclined to take my clothing off in public, but when camping in the woods with a 100 or so pagans the line between public and semipublic sort of blurs out. And it wasn’t like I got buck naked. I was sort of half-naked. This allow me to keep a close watch on the fire circle without scorching Mr. Happy. Those around me were layering themselves with commercial grade clay. A particular earnest young woman approached with two fist full of clay. Why not, I thought. So I became a member of the Clay Tribe. Damn cold though.


A 100 word story – “Why not?”
By Dr. Alex

Around the bend came the first set of headlights I’d seen since starting this late night hours journey.
The unknown Packard slowed beside me. Yelling out, he called: “Hey, Buddy, need a lift?”
My socks – no dryer than a used kitchen sponge and the blisters about to pop before completing my walk ahead. “Sure,” I said, “why not?”
Then did I notice poking my right hip a bulge in the map holder. “What’s this?” I asked.
“Oh, that pistol it’s just in case I run into trouble.”
I wonder what sort of trouble we were now looking to find.


You know how you sometimes get those feelings? You know… The ones where you toy with the idea of doing away with your partner, bumping off your boss, or wiping out the idiot who just cut you up in the street.

Everyone has them – those flights of fancy when we plan the perfect murder: Rat poison in the pudding; the severed brake pipe; the anonymous stabbing in a dark alleyway.

Don’t pretend that you haven’t.

We all have.

The only real difference between you and me, is that when you say “Why would I?”

I say, “Why not?”


Tell them they’re all special. Make sure there are quotas for those who would otherwise not make the grade. Ensure they can take humanities classes – never mind exposing them to science – and the eliminate the traditional Western history and literature courses because they foster the “patriarchy.” Add Black Studies, Feminist Studies, Queer Studies, insisting that life is nothing but identity politics. Emphasize fantasty concepts such as “queer math,” or 72 genders. Provide safe spaces so students never have to come into contact with a countervailing idea. Tell them that they can change the world, then let them loose into it. Watch society go up in flames.

Why not? What could possibly go wrong?


Sir Edmund Hillary, the first man to climb Mount Everest, was asked why he climbed mountains.
His not so famous initial response was, “Why not?”
Vocal environmentalists and human rights activists responded on social media citing many reasons why people should not climb mountains. Such as: The irreversible damage caused to fragile alpine ecosystems, the accumulating detritus of climbing equipment, materials, and human waist, and the exploitation of local indigenous peoples.
Tenzing Norgay, Hillary’s Nepalese Sherpa guide was asked the same question.
His philosophical response, “Because it’s there”, was so much more succinct that Hillary claimed credit for the quote.


Unlike other children at the age of wonder, Dinah’s questions revolved
around why not each time I declined her demands, and what a range of
demands. If my reasoning was not satisfactory to her developing mind,
I felt her wrath. Not some standard child’s tantrum, but fire. Real
fire blazed from Dinah and I would receive the burn. After a year of
dealing with this demonic power, I realized I was ill equipped. I
took little Dinah to the fire station for a no questions asked
abandonment of my child. I mean, they have better tools for dealing
with her.


We selectively bred plants and animals to improve them.
Make them useful. Better.
We gathered bacteria and viruses, tested them, to make medicines.
Why not humans?
The law? Really?
You expect me to believe that?
Once, alterations cost a fortune.
And those who could afford them were above the law.
Now, anyone can afford them.
Which makes it impossible to police them all.
Pure is so rare.
You and me, unaltered.
But we’re not pure.
After all, I’m a copy of you.
Or are you a copy of me?
It doesn’t matter.
After I eliminate you, I’ll be perfect again.

In the pink

Baseball started with pink ribbons for breast cancer awareness.
Then pink bats, And pink gloves.
Pretty soon everything was pink.
Their uniforms, the bases, the balls, and eventually the grass and dirt.
Even the hot dogs and beer were pink.
“A portion of proceeds will go to cancer awareness,” said a spokeman.
After two seasons of the pink, scientists noticed an upsurge in cancer rates.
The pink dye was a carcinogen.
Thousands more died, and millions suffered.
Except for the spokeman, who had taken the money and retired to Bermuda.
Keenly aware of skin cancer, he used plenty of sunblock.


In order to appear sophisticated and savvy, whenever there’s a company dinner at a restaurant, I go to the restaurant’s menu online and decide what I want to have before I get there.
Then, I memorize the items.
Instead of accepting a menu from the waiter, I say “I already know what I want.”
And I order from memory.
“Have you been here before?” people ask.
Yeah, I come off looking so damn sophisticated. Except when I get food poisoning.
Then, I go online to the hospital’s website, and decide which doctor I want to have before I get there.

Names are names are forever

Piper was my baby.
Edloe was my Grumpus.
Frisky was my fluffball.
Bruwyn was my Boo.
Myst is my Missy.
Tinny is my squeaky.
And Nardo was my buddy.
Every cat gets their name, and their own special name.
When I give them their special name, it’s for them to keep.
Okay, so I wanted to name Myst “Baby” when we got her.
And both Bruwyn and Myst were the baby panthers.
But nobody ever again will ever be my buddy.
As much as Tinny asks for hugs, and Myst lays in my lap and purrs.
Some things are forever.

Up in the garden

For the first few years, things were pretty rough for the orbital colony.
We worked out the pumps and hydroponics working, and achieved near-sustainable levels of efficiency.
There were still some issues with trace elements, nutrient loss, and other problems inherent in a closed entropic environment.
So, we started a marketing plan for the elderly. Invited them to spend their golden years in orbit with reduced gravity.
And they came.
Most didn’t survive the boost to orbit. We fed them to the composter.
The crops come in great now.
But just in case, let’s order up another shipload of geezers.

Jackie Fucking Collins

Jackie Collins the writer died recently.
She made a fortune off of writing tell-all novels about her friends and the gossip they spread about their friends.
If any of her friends pissed her off, their shit appeared in her novels.
Especially if they dished shit on her. Including her skank of a sister.
I know that it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but in her case, what’s wrong with dishing shit on her now? What a bitch!
Now her shit is appearing in the tell-all gossip rags.
Because nobody had the guts to say it at her funeral.


Jack. He was my grandmother’s second husband. He had a little dog from his first marriage named Whiskers. It was a Schnauzer, or was it a Terrier? The dog was really old and slow, and it wasn’t aware of us or anything.
The first night we were there, the dog let out a huge groan and laid down, and it released a puddle of shit. No, a lake of shit. Jack walked through that lake of shit, got down on his knees, and hugged his dead dog. “Good Whiskers,” he said.
If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.