The Democrats run primaries and caucuses to choose delegates to go to their national convention, and those delegates will select their party’s presidential candidate.
But they also have superdelegates, who are party leaders and elders who can choose whoever they want to choose.
The irony of the Democratic Party using anti-democratic election tactics is amusing.
And inspiring.
Because I’ve started my own party.
It’s the “We know better than you” Party.
Our primaries and caucuses are just meaningless polls and debates.
Every delegate is a superdelegate.
Because we know better than you.
And if you don’t like it, fuck you.
Author: R.
Weekly Challenge #640 – PICK TWO
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:
TOM
You Never Know
Timmy was an Unfortunate Elephant. He never got the knack of marching in line with the other elephant in the circus. So regrettable the circus owner had to find someone willing to take him off his hand. In a small town in Iowa an elderly farmer spent a considerable time sizing Timmy up. After a fashion an agreement was reached, a fair amount of corn feed in exchange for Timmy. As the circus train pull out, Timmy shed a tear. When news of the circus train’s deadly destruction just outside of Chicago arrived Timmy was no longer an unfortunate elephant.
CHARLIE
My mug was the result of an unfortunate accident. There was an profusion of global grime and chemicals in the atmosphere. My poor, expectant mother was exposed to such pollution, as the official elephant tender at the town zoo in Cape May. This was determined to be the most significant cause for my deformity.
My nose did not grow nor form naturally from the center of my face. It was more of a careless splat of flesh and gristle that “the dread designer” chose for me .
I survived as a bit player in off-off Broadway productions of Russian playwrights.
#2
I came to dread the splat I would often hear on the walk outside my tent. They would parade the elephant by every morning on the grime covered walk, as they strove to raise funds for the global unfortunate that were addicted to drugs and were usually gathered on corners in the city to beg for change with an undernourished dog and a Starbuck’s Mug in their laps.
My time in Seattle as a volunteer was frustrating, as most of the homeless, drug addicted, and mentally deranged refused housing and counseling, preferring to get an airplane ticket home to Kansas.
RICHARD
Muck
Okay, I know it isn’t going to go away… Let’s talk about the elephant in the room.
I dread people asking how I became what Time Magazine called ‘The Self Made King of Dirt, Splat and Gunk’; because frankly, it was all down to an embarrassing mistake.
I’d planned to go into organised criminal activity – a mob to rival, if not better, the Mafia. I even had millions worth of promotional material made up, like this mug.
However, thanks to an unfortunate typo that wasn’t picked up by the proofreader…
Well, read it for yourself:
Richard’s Global Grime Syndicate’
LIZZIE
Unfortunate Mug
The fast plane took off with ahhs and ohhs of exhilaration. It was the inaugural flight of a new model. Heads of state, ministers, members of parliament, journalists, an array of dubious reality TV personalities, even football players were invited. Each received a commemorative mug to display at home for curious visitors. When the plane crashed, a few miles short of the airport, the horror was only surpassed by the relief that there were no casualties. Except for the mugs. Nobody cared for the mugs. And no one noticed that each mug had a little spying device. Close call, huh?
JEFFREY
Part 1: Battle Zone
by Jeffrey Fischer
The line “don’t take a knife to a gun fight” was never more accurate than the time I was robbed during the night shift at the convenience store. The guy sauntered in, asked for a pack of Kools, then pulled a knife on me. I handed him the contents of the till, but he had a surprise coming as I pulled my elephant gun from behind the counter. I say elephant gun, but it was really a toy modified to shoot elephant dung over the unfortunate victim. The police had to hose him off before taking him to the station.
Part 2: Cleanup
by Jeffrey Fischer
I’m no idiot: I chased the robber out of the store and waited until firing the dung gun. Splat! It was a very satisfying sound. I knew I’d have to wash away the grime before the morning shift arrived, but hosing down the parking lot was much easier than washing any affected merchandise inside. Our customers weren’t the pickiest. Nonetheless, even they would have objected to dung-covered malt liquor cans and snack food bags. I made a mental note to gather more ammunition from my contact at the zoo before my next shift. I love the global economy!
SERENDIPITY
Two hundred years ago, there were around twenty six million elephants on the planet.
The total alive today, is around one point nine percent of that figure.
The majority: Hunted down, and killed for their ivory.
Let’s turn that on its head and imagine that elephants hunted people for their teeth, instead.
You, your family, friends and acquaintances would all, almost certainly have been killed, and this world of six billion human beings would number less than the population of Japan.
Twenty years, and the last elephant will be gone.
Far more sickening than any story I could make up.
—
Music credit: Louis Gordon – “The Anatomy of Melancholy – No Beginning and No End”
JON DE CLES
Swifter and Swifter Justice
By
Jon DeCles
It was unfortunate they had decided to show his ugly mug on the global feed one last time. There was dread on his face, and grime, and he was as gray as an elephant. He knew what was coming.
Yet he had persisted in his gross political crimes, opposing the rightful government of the unimaginably rich. What could he expect?
The planet watched in fascination as he stood under the lights atop the tallest tower of the city. They watched as he was pitched into the pit, and watched in flashes as he accelerated downward ever faster, and then..
Splat!
NORVAL JOE
Dressed in a bathrobe, round rimmed eyeglasses and a mascara lightning bolt drawn on his forehead, Billbert approached the door, his stomach filled with dread. He checked the address, 36 Dancing Elephant lane, as the door opened.
Mr. Withybotham glared at him.
“I’m here for Linoliumanda’s party. It’s tonight isn’t it?” He held up the handwritten invitation.
The man handed him a large mug of yellowish liquid, said, “Butter Beer”, and waved Billbert into the living room.
He sat to the crinkling of his hidden plastic bag.
Linoniumanda entered smiling like a myopic fairy princess wearing a single tennis shoe.
TURA
Global Dread
———
We used to call them terrorists. Violence from nowhere, to sow terror. They would be simple things. Set off bombs. Fly planes into skyscrapers. Drive trucks into people. Mail anthrax to politicians.
But that was before. Before smart contracts, decentralised crypto, autonomous vehicles, and not-quite-human AI. Now, anything can happen, anywhere. Mysterious outbreaks of deadly plagues. Random assassinations. Rogue vehicles. Some say that terrorists give missions to autonomous AIs, and they spiral out of control. Others blame secret government agencies. But nobody knows. All they know is we no longer have shocks of terror, but pervasive, global dread.
PLANET Z
The global ivory trade is responsible for the deaths of hundreds of elephants a year.
That ivory mug you’re drinking from? Yes, Dave, that’s illegal.
The unfortunate grime you call coffee should be illegal, too.
I dread drinking this swill. Tastes like the reeking splat from the back of an elephant.
I’d throw it out, but I’d be cited for contaminating the water supply.
Why can’t you just get a pod coffee maker like everyone else?
Sure, brewing a whole pot traditionally is less expensive, but when nobody wants to drink this swill, it all goes to waste anyway, right?
Borderline
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?
No.
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.
No?
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 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:
TOM
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
LIZZIE
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.
CHARLIE
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.
TURA
Quill
———
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.
Cordially,
Quirrell (Professor)
JEFFREY
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.
RICHARD
Unwrote
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!
JON
Before You Write
By
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.
SERENDIPITY
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!
NORVAL JOE
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.”
PLANET Z
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?