Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.
This is Weekly Challenge Number Three Hundred and Four, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
The topic this week was Crack.
And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:
Jessi Firethorn
Tom
Thomas
Lizzie Gudkov
Tura
Chris Munroe
Zak Claxton
Jeff Hema
Buttermilk
Steven The Nuclear Man
Zackmann
Bonchance
Guy
Botgirl
Danny Dwyer
Cliff/Uncle Monster
RedGoddess/TalkWithMarie
Norval Joe
TJ
TREED
Planet Z
And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post.
The more people see this on Google Plus, Facebook, and Twitter – the more explaining you’ll have to do with your loved ones, coworkers, and parole officers.
JESSI
CRACK IS
WHACK
The storm sirens had been going off all night. The wind had been gusting up to 50mph for a couple of hours. Drenched and shivering, I was throwing newspapers, envying these who had jobs that allowed them to sleep until daylight.
“Crack.”
The sound above me was not loud, but it was distinct and ominous. One of these 1942 shelterbelt tree branches was about to come crashing down, but which one? Which way should I run? I froze.
“Whack.”
As the lights blurred and the pain came, I wondered if they would tip for the paper on the porch.
TOM
A CODE OF HONOR
Crack. It sounded like a cow’s rib getting hit with a baseball bat. She dropped to the floor of the kitchen. I always thought Timmy was a dick, but stepping purposely on that tiny crack in the driveway was just plain cold. Mrs. Franks wasn’t the nicest mom on the block but you just don’t break your mother’s back, thus the sing song rhyme. There was only one thing the kids could do to set things right. We bury him in the ground up to his head and pour honey over it and let the fire ant go to town
THOMAS
There was a crack in the fabric of time. Johnny had been putzing around with the equipment in his dad’s workshop, and he cobbled together a device made up of three, usually independent devices.
After he put power to the main unit, he heard an enormous roar, and when he looked out the window he saw a jagged tear in the horizon, and each half of the panorama fell away to reveal a deep, black rift,
seemingly empty and going on to infinity. He examined it more closely with his telescope, and noticed some licorice jellybeans.
##
Pouring the glass of vodka, she popped Zoloft, and morphine, and stirred in an ounce of elixir of turpin hydrate; neat. A couple of lines of Bolivian marching powder off the tub’s shelf, then a
large rock of crack in her pipe, taking off the edge. She ran scales, warming her voice for the concert, and started to feel better. She spun around a few times to the left, to the right, then sank
beneath the bath water. The last thing she saw before she drew her last breath was the bottom of the rubber duck floating above her head.
LIZZIE
Special Valentine Special
Valentine’s Day is such a chocolaty day. It starts with kisses and… chocolates obviously. There are “I love yous” Forever-and-Ever and Never. Candle light romantic dinners and kisses and… chocolates, of course. A nice piece of jewelry in a velvety box magically opens way for more kisses and more “I love yous”, while the romantic candle burns lethargically. I have nothing against Valentine’s Day, mind you. Cuddly arms waiting, drab kisses and velvety forevers are just so special. Never will come back tomorrow in harsh tones of reality. But, yes, Valentine was great, thank you for asking.
and…
(No text sent – check her site)
TURA
The crack of doom shall swallow up this world
And all that is upon it be destroyed
Resolved into– yes, what?
Uncle, if this is a sonnet, you’ll never fit it into 100 words at that rate.
Tish, attention span of young people these days… Ok, the first quatrain says the world will end, the second lists some ways it could happen, the third says we’d better get to the stars before it does, and the couplet ties a Shakespearean ribbon on it. Howzat?
But now it isn’t a poem!
This conversation’s just 100 words though. I’ll send it instead!
(And for anyone who can stretch to reading 113 words, the whole sonnet is at turabrez.blogspot.com)
MUNSI MUNSI!
CRACK
If I understand correctly, people with cancer cook meth.
Right?
I mean, that dude from that show that one time had cancer and he cooked meth like crazy! By the end of the second season the cancer was in full remission.
I don’t completely understand what the connection between the two is, I’m not a doctor, but it was pretty clear.
Cooking and selling meth cures cancer.
I think that’s how it works, anyway. There could be something I’m missing…
But it’s all very abstract. I don’t have cancer.
I just have a lingering cold.
So: Wanna buy some crack?
ZAK
One year, our company rented a white van to get around Vegas during the trade show, figuring it would be cheaper than taking cabs everywhere.
Arriving in the morning, we parked in the convention center lot and went in to do our business-like schmoozing and bullshitting that one does at a show. That evening, we walked out to find that about 50 identical white vans were parked in a row, and none of us could recall exactly where we’d parked, nor identify any distinguishing features of our particular van.
We all took cabs back to Caesar’s Palace.
JEFF HEMA
SCOLDING
‘We are not just hanging out here. We have aims to reach, buddy! Last time you had an A was at the first semester.’
‘I am a tough cookie but I can’t help it, the exam was tougher than me. I will catch up teacher.’
‘That’s because you have tunnel vision toward my explanations.’
We can tell since that day that he saw the light. He was convinced that only hard work and discipline are keys to success.
The whole incident happened when he got the worst grade in class, so a wake-up call was necessary.
BUTTERMILK
Alone. wandering a wasteland, dragging my heavy, frozen heart through the dry sand. The thick layer of ice around it, a necessary precaution against the brutal mutilation it had endured. I thought I would never be so vulnerable again. I was a strong stoic, heaving my burden across the desolate landscape. I went to see the sacrifice everyone was so enthralled with. There, a gorgeous beacon of light stood by the entrance, offering guidance and direction. You spoke truth to me, and i heard the groaning of the ice around my heart just before it shattered with a loud CRACK!!!
STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN
”That woman was very nice. You were very polite to that woman.” I am talking to myself. Just to keep my social skills in practice. There are few visitors since the highway moved.
I glance out the window to the motel, to her room. “You shared supper with her. Maybe you really were… sexually interested.”
“No!” I yell as I hear the woman scream down below.
“Oh God, Mother,” I yell, running for the motel, “Oh God Mother, what have you done?” I step on every crevice in the sidewalk, but I know Mother will never, never, leave me alone.
ZACKMANN
Hey, did you see that news article that Paul Cooley guy posted about the underbelly of The Street? Apparently cookie dough is to puppets what crack is to humans. Like many of our favorite shows of childhood there was an unknown drug problem behind the scenes. Cookie Monster often came on set so toasted on cookie dough that he couldn’t complete a sentence in proper English. Do you you think they started only letting Cookie eat fresh produce on screen because the network cared about children’s health? So what do you know, it wasn’t George Lucas who ruined your childhood.
“Oh my, Nicky, you look like you look like you got the stuffing beat out of you.”
“Oh Rod, I couldn’t tell who it was. It was so dark but when he demanded my wallet he sounded so much like Ernie”
“Let me stitch you up before you make a mess.”
“Rod it must have gotten really bad for a Street puppet to come all the way to Avenue Q”
“Nicky that is what happens to a neighborhood after cookie dough additions. I don’t know how we can ever feel safe in
this city again. I hate the Street Puppets”
BONCHANCE
CRACK!
The US economy was finally starting to rebound thanks to another influx of the yuan. The year was 2046. The United States was no longer involved in any wars of any kind. They forfeited their role as the world police. George was going over the current events. He needed to determine the signature color of the day, in support of the new government initiative that started this month. George half heard the restaurant clown on the television commercial say “and remember boys n girls about our limited time deal, you get a free side of McCrack with every meal!”
GUY DAVID
A crack opened at the edge of the universe. I took out the key and closed it since that’s what I do. I track the cracks and close them with a matching key. I have a key for every crack. Once I close the crack I sniff the vacuum of space for another one. There is always another one. My job is never done. The universe is not merely curved, it’s cracked. Here – I can smell another one. Guess I have my work cracked out for me. Someone managed to hinder another part of this universe. Won’t they ever learn?
BOTGIRL
NEWT ON CRACK
Crack.
“Ouch!”
Crack.
“I want you stop, goddamn it!”
Crack.
“How can I remember the safe word if you dont let . . .”
Crack.
I’m warning you. I’m a fucking attorney. I will sue your . . .”
Crack. Crack.
Sorry. I was joking. You know I could never let this go public. My wife. My constituents. My . . .”
CRACK.
“Ow!”
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
“Shit. Is that blood running down my back? You could scar me permanantly. What if some papparazi shoots me on the beach?”
CRACK.
“Oh my god. Oh my god! What was that fucking safe word?”
CCCCCCRRRRRAAAAACCCCCKKKKK!
“Jesus H. Christ!”
“Finally,” she said.
DANNY
Bubbles, the high class prostitute, back from Holland and her insane search for the Hollish, is back in her upper east side condo in Manhattan. Relaxing in bed nude, with her statuesque boyfriend John, she grinds up crack cocaine, then snorts it out of the crack of John’s ass. Bubbles states, “I can’t believe there are no Hollish people in Holland, just all of these Dutch.” John responds, “I can’t believe you keep snorting crack cocaine out of my ass after what happened to Whitney Houston.” “Your right, John,” states Bubbles, as she sprinkles the crack into a joint instead.
CLIFF/UNCLEMONSTER
TAKING LIBERTY
I used to think being obsessive compulsive helped me be a better thief. After all, I never ever left fingerprints.
If I break in, I fix it on the way out. I leave NO evidence.
The last job I did was in Philadelphia. It went so smoothly that I had time to see the local sights. Betsy Ross’s house. Independence hall. Then I saw it. The crack. I knew I had to fix it. I had to. I really have no choice. Which is a problem. How am I going to get a one ton bell back to my garage?
REDGODDESS
She’s dubbed the golden voice of her generation. Her songs make you feel emotions you thought were buried deeper than your heart. This rag to riches diva found herself seduced by the traps of hollywood fame. She had access to all chemicals with a price tag. She married and divorced a bad boy, the epitome of crackish. In spite of her demons, she remained beloved by fans pulling for her. Countless failed rehab attempts, she became disillusioned by sustained wealth to declare “crack is whack” to the media personalities, who judged yet admired her as another “gone too soon” celebrity.
NORVAL JOE
Owen peered through a crack in the door.
His uncle spoke with Cindy’s grandfather and a slender, dark haired woman, dressed entirely in black.
“Owen,” Uncle Fleck called. “Get out here.”
“Yes, sir,” Owen said, stepping through the doorway.
“Not much time, boy,” Fleck said. “Listen. We’ve been hiding you here from an evil wizard. You’re a prince, heir to the throne.”
“Ummm,” Owen said unsure what to say.
“Turns out, your friend Cindy is a princess and heir to a throne of her own,” Fleck continued. “You two were betrothed as babies. Problem is, the evil wizard has her.”
TJ
The MUSEUM of FAMILY HISTORY – GOING UP
We picked our way through to what turned out to be a stairwell although
it resembled nothing so much as a tunnel defined by old dingy clothes
and piles of garbage. If the second floor had a ceiling it wasn’t in
evidence, although it certainly wasn’t open to the sky. But as we left
the main floor I couldn’t shake the impression that we weren’t alone
in Grandma’s house. And what she referred to as Uncle Jake’s
collection of 83 jelly jar glasses – some with jelly still in ‘em!
she said – wasn’t the only thing creeping me out any more.
The MUSEUM of FAMILY HISTORY – DOLLIES
The second floor clutter was more organized, placed when Grandpa was
able to get around up there more easily. An inventor, he held onto
anything that might be useful. But what use was a room lined floor to
ceiling with shelves of creepy baby doll heads? The limbs had been
configured along a towering armature, hundreds of cracked and naked
plastic doll limbs arranged so as the door was opened, a ball rolled
down along a track among them and they sprang unnervingly to life,
waving about and what was worse, the eyes in the heads flickered open
and shut.
TREED
“OH! BOB!”
“Oh geez. What is it now Dave?”
“LOOK!”
“What, Dave? Look at what?”
“I can’t describe this, Bob. You just have to look for yourself. But, HURRY!”
“Dave, I have told you, things that get you this excited tend to cause me some kind of pain. Physical, mental, emotional, psychic pain.”
“But Bob!”
“Don’t push it Dave.”
“OK, but can I tell you something?”
“Sure, Dave.”
“Whitney Houston’s right.”
“What do you mean Dave?”
“Crack is whack.”
“What?”
“You know that plumber that moved in across the street?”
“Oh, no.”
“Yep. Seems there’s a new moon a risin’.”
PLANET Z
CHIEF
The chief tapped me and my partner.
“Go get him,” he said. “Now.”
We grabbed the kid out of a restaurant on Main Street.
He didn’t resist.
Chief took one look at him, smirked: “Put him in the hole.”
So, we put him in the special isolation cell we’ve got in the basement of the station.
The chief collected up keys. “This one’s mine.”
He won’t let anyone down there to check on the kid.
It’s been a week.
“I don’t tell you how to raise your kids,” he growled.
He went back into the basement.
And locked the door.