Author: R.

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

This is 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
• John Musico
• Munsi
• Jeffrey
• Richard
• Charlie
• Lizzie
• Serendipity
• Danny
• Zackmann
• Norval Joe
• Tura Brezoianu
• Planet Z

TOM

Promontory Summit

Six Pinkertons rode in the coach, at their feet rested the oak box lined in velvet. “Are thet really going to drive that thing into a tie? Asked Patrick O’ Connor. “Stanford won the honors in a poke game.” Said O’ Malley. “I’ll give you six to one he misses.” Said Michael Bennet. “I’ll give you ten to one he hit his foot.” Said Brian O’ Sullivan. They all started laughing, till the Captain enter the car, then fell silent. Captain dropped a double eagle into O’ Sullivan’s lap. “On the feet,” he said. Sure enough Stanford hit his foot.

JOHN MUSICO

John
Angel of Venice

Everyone knew Angel, gliding by on his rollerblades, adorned in an all white Indian wrap and turban, contrasting his African American skin, playing his electric guitar, amp in a backpack, while singing. He had that “not here-ness” that the 60’s acid days left some with. On the way to a concert, we saw him hitchhiking and picked him up. He played in the back seat all the way to his apartment where he reciprocated with a joint. It was by far the strongest weed I’d ever smoked. It seems that it wasn’t acid that fried Angel: the dubbie was dusted.

MUNSI

On the Topic of Spike

By Christopher Munroe

I hate to choose, but if forced to make a decision, my favorite Spike of all the spikes is Spike from My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.

You heard me, Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, but you’re just going to have to live with it.

You’re just going to have to be undead with it.

You’re just going to have to continue having no idea who I am, and not caring what my opinion on the matter is.

Yeah, now that I consider it, probably that last one. Never mind…

JEFFREY

Health Food
by Jeffrey Fischer

Sammy drove the spike into his arm and pressed the plunger. He waited for the solution to take effect. After ten years addicted to heroin, throwing away countless thousands on increasingly-cut stuff, he decided he needed to get healthy. His new dealer promised him this mixture would do the trick.

When, after a half hour Sammy still felt nothing, he concluded Pedro had ripped him off. Sammy found and confronted the dealer.

“I didn’t rip you off, man. You got exactly what you paid for.”

“What *is* this shit?”

“A mixture of kale and broccoli juice. It’s healthy for you.”

“Kale? Aren’t you supposed to eat it, not put it in your arm?”

Pablo shrugged. “I figured injecting would intensify the effect. The guy at Whole Foods agreed.”

“Just give me a gram of China White.”

New Job
by Jeffrey Fischer

When Tony played pro football – that’s the American game, listeners, not that other football where the modal score is 0-0 – he was known as a passionate, driven competitor. He played hard on every down, whether running the ball into the defensive line or blocking for his receivers, and he celebrated with equal gusto.

After his playing career ended, Tony took a job with the local Babies R Us store. His manager told him, “Tony, we want you to work here with the same can-do attitude you had on the field.”

Later that day, Tony made his first sale, a crib for young parents and their infant son. When the couple said they’d take it, Tony celebrated. The entire store went quiet.”

“Tony, what did you do?”

“It was my end zone routine: dance, point at the fans, and spike the ball.”

“For God’s sake, Tony, you’re not supposed to do that with the babies.”

RICHARD

#1 – Marauders

Every harvest the Dark Marauders come and we’re forced to fight for our livelihoods. Savages, they are; ruthless, without pity or respect for the law.

The elders gathered the townspeople together: “If the Dark Marauders act like savages, then they must expect to be treated as savages”.

It was decided that every marauder captured would be executed and their head displayed upon a spike in the fields over which we fought.

And so it has been for many years.

Yet still the Dark Marauders come.

And still we lose our crops.

And our supply of spikes is all but gone.

#2 – A date to remember

I’d been chasing Sandy for weeks – eventually she gave in, agreeing to a date, a quiet drink in the local pub.

Everything was going perfectly: Witty conversation, plenty of laughter and we seemed to connect, but I wasn’t taking any chances – when she excused herself for a moment, I slipped a Rohypnol into her glass.

When she returned, she looked at me curiously: “You’re not the sort to spike a drink, are you?”, I shook my head, “You won’t mind drinking mine then?”, she laughed.

What choice did I have?

And how did I end up in this gay bar?

#3 – Scientifically flawed

They told us the spike in temperatures was because of the Gulf Stream; when it became apparent this was wrong, they blamed climate change and global warming.

When people starting getting sunburn in the middle of winter, we knew something was seriously wrong, but still they fobbed us off, explaining things away.

When, finally, they told us the earth was plummeting into the sun and we were all doomed, it became apparent why the scientists had set up their community on Mars.

And they’d told us it was because of the low gravity and lack of light pollution.

Bad science!

#4 – Tom

I was going to miss Tom.

I wouldn’t miss the constant chases, the heart-stopping moments and endless fights, but I would miss the satisfaction of seeing the broom handle descend upon his stupid, furry head and watching him being kicked bodily from the house, with me safe in my bolt hole with a belly full of stolen cheese.

The Mistresses’ fat legs appeared and she called hopefully: “Thomas! Thomas!”

But Thomas was nowhere to be seen.

I gave Spike the bulldog a grateful thumbs up, he gave me a knowing wink, before returning to his suspiciously furry pile of bones.

CHARLIE

My friend Ted had a large, fluffy, behind. We teased him about it, but he said “You can’t drive a spike with a tack hammer.” It had something to do with carpentry or rug laying, I think, but I asked around and found out it meant something different…something a little impolite. As a demure young woman, my sensibilities were roughened and scuffed. As a teen, I suppose I was overly prudish, but the summer after my visit to a co-ed, church camp, I came to know grown-up things, and had my first encounter with a spike and some motorized tools.

My first drinks were untouched, but the third and fourth were spiked with some kind of synthetic, Chinese concoction that a biker slipped into my drink when I stepped out with my date, Irene, to smoke. My first reaction to the drug was an overwhelming thirst. I had two more drinks, both spiked by my date. The combination of drugs in my system seemed to cancel each other out, so by two AM, I was fully functional, but still thirsty. I was told I beat two innocent bikers and a librarian, unconscious, but I had no memory of an altercation.

The power spiked just as the runaway bus rammed through the tall pole at the bottom of the street. A crossbeam touched the high voltage line when the pole toppled. Dad’s oxygen generator blew him up like a cheap balloon. The buttons on his pajamas popped as his chest expanded. They flew across the family room, spinning and bouncing. One of them broke Gran’s glasses, and one hit the parrot in the kitchen. Dad was OK, but frightened. Mom was grilling a Panini, and as the surge struck, it burst into flames, spreading to the fur collar on her robe.

LIZZIE

When he entered the room, a spike through his chest, everyone thought he was joking.
When he collapsed in agony, everyone thought his acting was brilliant.
When a puddle of blood appeared, everyone said “He’s awesome with special effects.”
When he begged for help, the room was ecstatic. “That’s why he’s the best,” some shouted.
When he didn’t move anymore, a speck of doubt crossed their minds. It only lasted a few seconds.
When everyone left, the police received an anonymous call.
There was a dead body on the floor alright. No spike though. It would be a long night.

SERENDIPITY

The inquisition has many instruments by which we may extract our confessions… The saw, the screw, the rack and the brand – each lovingly designed to exact exquisite pain and supreme suffering.

But these all pale into insignificance beside the simple spike.

Such a versatile, flexible tool of the trade: An instrument of slow, lingering, unpleasantries, or – if you prefer – the short, sharp, bitter sting of retribution.

The spike is crude, but effective, needs no adornment or assistance… mere body weight and pressure will suffice.

Perhaps you’ll allow me to demonstrate?

Please take a seat.

It’s the one with the spike.

DANNY

I look in the pantry and find a box of generic Frosted Flakes. “Is this an accident?” I asked my Dad. “No, I bought them on purpose,” he replied. “You know Frosted Flakes are nothing more than Corn Flakes sprayed with sugar?” Dad shrugs. Then there was a spike in my thinking, and the lightbulb of brilliance went off in my head. “A hand held liquid sugar sprayer. You can spray sugar on whatever you want, corn flakes, walls, floors, ceilings, whatever you want to eat sugar coated whenever you want!” Dad looks at me, and says, “Your an idiot.”

ZACKMANN

“What are you making?” asked Joe.

“A whittle of nothing.” replied Charlie.

“That nothing looks like a wooden dragon maybe Rory from Nutty Bites.”

“No, it’s that one form Friendship is Magic.” said Charlie

“I don’t remember him having a long straight sharp pointy tail like that.” commented Joe.

“Oh, I’m making a few like this for a guy’s girlfriend. He said she needed them this way for work but I think he may not want to admit he is a brony and really wants them for himself because I have never heard of any women actually being named Buffy.

NORVAL JOE

“Open the container, Mr. Picklehacker,” Aphasia demanded.
“I’ll lose my dark matter,” Bufford complained. “It’s taken years to obtain this. I won’t waste all of that.”
“Open it, or I will.” Aphasia grabbed the release valve.
Bufford leapt, but was too late. The agent pulled away the lid.
Desk drawer slammed open, books on shelves flew to the floor, and lights in the room dimmed for several minutes before returning to normal.
The door burst open. People entered, adjusting their tinfoil hats and the dials on their recorders.
“Here’s the source of the paranormal spike,” a crazy-haired, old woman shouted.

TURA

Spike
———
“There never were ninja throwing spikes,” my friend told me. We were nine years old, and he was always saying that this or that was just a story. “People throw them on YouTube, but they’re just imitating the story.”

Apparently, Damascus steel was a myth. “Vanadium in the ore makes the patterns,” he said. “Doesn’t make better swords.”

“Sex?” he said. “Biggest fairy story ever.” He never explained, just said darkly, “You’ll see.”

Then he stopped coming to school. We were told his family moved.

That was a long time ago, but I still wonder what the real story was.

PLANET Z

Know what the greatest love triangle was in all of history?
Tom, Jerry, and Spike.
Yes, I’m talking about the cartoon characters.
The cat, mouse, and dog.
Who else would I be talking about?
Do you know anyone else with those names?
No, I’m not talking about our neighbors.
That’s Bob, Sue, and Ethel.
Besides, Ethel’s banging the mailman.
So is Bob.
I’m banging Sue, too.
You’re banging Bob?
What about the mailman?
No?
Darn. I was hoping you could get some cheap stamps or something.
Maybe if he gets tired of Bob and Ethel, I’ll give him a shot.

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

This is 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:

• John Musico
• Munsi
• Jeffrey
• Richard
• Marsha
• Lizzie
• Jerry
• Tom
• Serendipity
• Zackmann
• Charlie
• Norval Joe
• Tura Brezoianu
• Planet Z

JOHN MUSICO

The Fate of Intellect’s “Evolution”

They were from many light years away. Their brains had “evolved” to a level of logic where emotion was seemingly no longer useful and became atrophied, unavailable, in their ancient civilization.
Supreme beings, seeking to fill an empty void, though vicariously, came to Earth….
They watched intently, eagerly absorbed by what was once deemed a purposeless endeavor; emotion, and felt joy, once again. The visitors reciprocated their gratitude by using their godlike powers to aid mankind. They spoke to man, unseen, in a unified voice, as if from the sky, and were viewed as one being. Mankind worshiped their Lord.

MUNSI

Hospitality

By Christopher Munroe

I try to be a good host.

Whether I’m having people over for a night of b-movies and beer or an alien parasite has burrowed its way into my brain in order to control me like a puppet, I do whatever I can to make my guests comfortable. That’s just hospitality.

Some find this old-fashioned, but that’s how I was raised, it comes as naturally to me as breathing used to previous to finding that crashed alien ship out in the woods.

So, fellow normal human, may I offer you liquid? A beer-drink? Something to get you off your guard?

JEFFREY

Household Guest
by Jeffrey Fischer

The pain is with you all the time, day and night. Sometimes it’s a dull ache, tolerable if never fully out of your mind. Sometimes it’s stabbing agony, leaving you gasping for breath. Most of the time it comes as waves of torment, crashing against your mind’s shores, eroding your will to live.

My friend, your expression of sympathy suggests that you believe I am speaking of myself in the second person. On the contrary, I use “you” in its usual meaning. Ah, I now see understanding dawning. Don’t try to move; when the paralytic wears off, you’ll find yourself securely bound.

And remember: when I say “This won’t hurt a bit,”… I’m lying.

Part of the Hospitality Industry
by Jeffrey Fischer

Why, thank you, sir, for opening the door for me. You’re too kind. These little kindnesses are ignored far too often. Look, my bed is all made up, and I have towels as well. The hospitality of my host is unparalleled. I’m told there are exercise facilities on the premises as well. It’s the little things that make a stay more pleasant.

Why do I keep prattling on like this? Sir, you have your little fictions and I have mine. You insist on calling me a “guest of the state,” so I insist on believing that I’m being treated as one. May I see tonight’s dinner menu?

RICHARD

The Country Retreat

We were an eclectic group gathered together, as we waited to be called for dinner.

I glanced around at the guests – the major, all handlebar whiskers and ramrod straight posture; the haughty socialite, frostily eyeing her companions; the young married couple, utterly besotted, and the grumpy old dowager, frowning at having to wait for lunch.

All strangers: All anxious to be seated at the table.

At last, the final guest was announced, and the room fell strangely silent.

“Mr Hercule Poirot!”

Strangers maybe, but before the night was out we would become intimately familiar.

And one of us, would die!

MARSHA

NO TEXT

LIZZIE

John’s only grandniece had six children. At family gatherings, John was always somewhere else with his old buddies, a tropical island, a cruise, a religious peregrination. He wasn’t religious, but any excuse worked. This time, his coward friends decided to visit their families. So, when a choir of kids asked John why he looked all wrinkled, he showed them his gold teeth. “See this? You won’t get any. You’re out of the will.” Little did the family know that he had already spent all his money and that he had no intention of parting from his teeth, even after dying.

JERRY

Guest
————————–
They came early.

Now Roger does not mind when folk show up early for one of his dinner parties. Roger uses the term ‘bit’ to mean half-an-hour or so early because half-an-hour means that all the food is prepared, the table is set, and the house is clean. Most importantly the bathroom is sparkling clean and, if the need arises, his guest can eat off its floor. When the door bell rang Roger was in the shower and was not pleased that his guest were three hours early.

At least that is what he told the police when they arrived.
————————

TOM

Well Met on the Great Plain

Lindow Laxor was their guest, which meant the greater part of hospitality was due to him despite his habit of non-reciprocal return. He arrived with the first crush and bid us farewell with the draining of the last cask. The children found his talk of the Dunelands awe inspiriting. Grandma just as soon shoot him in the eye. So it was odd that as harvest approached no sign of Laxor. When the last cups of summer were raised we toasted his absence left a thimble aside in his honor. My family has been collecting Laxor’s Thimble for 600 years.

SERENDIPITY

I am the unseen guest at every dining table, the unwelcome visitor who calls in the night. I am the one of whom you do not speak, the one who lurks in hospital wards and loiters in dark alleyways.

I am the shadow on your lung, the faulty brake pipe, the falling branch.

I am the thin ice, the ruptured artery and the prank gone horribly wrong.

I am the fatal mistake, the sudden bend, the unexpected rip tide; I am bullet, bomb and burns, drugs, disease and disaster.

I am…

Death.

And I invite you…

To be my guest!

ZACKMANN

Some people hate having their in-laws visit. I don’t mind but I do hate all the extra cleanup and that we really have to clean up for the relatives who come from overseas. I can’t just shove stuff into the closet all Fibber McGee like when the pastor comes by since when they come, they stay for weeks. I actually miss having my father-in-law visit because as long as I made sure there were at least two beers in the refrigerator in the morning before I went to bed things would magically be fixed around the house in my sleep.

CHARLIE

Guests and fish start to smell after three days, so Babe made excuses so they would leave in the early morning of the fourth day of their yearly visit to the Burroughs home. Babe and her pal, Mary, had an odor about them anyway, and it grew stronger in time. Both of them were on a strange diet which consisted, largely, of grains and assorted roughage. When they sat on the patio or deck, the Burroughs always sat upwind of their guests, not letting on or grimacing every five minutes or so when they caught emanations of the silent winds.

Over the years, I’ve made every excuse I could muster to avoid having guests visit my home. The last time a visitor from two states away called while in town to ask directions to my house, I pretended I picked up the call on a cell phone in far-away Canada, saying I wouldn’t be home until the following Thursday, but pleased they made it to my special, little village. Next time, I’m going to say the house is being fumigated, and has a large tent over it, so we can gather at the local hotel if they insist on meeting.

NORVAL JOE

“Mr. Picklehacker. This is your last chance to share some information,” Aphasia said. “Unless you want to become a guest of our airport security cell.”
“No big deal,” Bufford said. “You already know it weighs more than it should. It’s dark matter.”
The agent narrowed her eyes at him. “It doesn’t look very dark.”
“It’s an expression,” Bufford said with a shrug. “Is it illegal to have or transport an unknown element?”
“It depends, Picklehacker. What do you plan to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” Bufford said and sat back with a laugh. “Maybe I’ll make invisible paper weights.”

TURA

Guest
———
The horizon’s just crossing past the sun when they show. Two people. Look like men, but that don’t mean much.

“We have come far, and are weary,” says one. Weary? They’re not even breaking a sweat. Must be packing some mighty fine implants to be just walking across the badlands. No stuff with them, not even guns.

“This shack ain’t no hotel,” I say. “But plenty of rocks to lay on. Be my guest.”

Well, there’s no fire from heaven coming down. Guess I passed God’s secret customer test. I didn’t let on, but the wings really give them away.

PLANET Z

I call it the spare bedroom.
She calls it the guest room.
The blueprints call it the basement.
The girl we kidnapped and locked up down there calls it a prison.
The cops called it a dungeon.
The media called it a slaughterhouse.
The prosecutor called it the scene of the crime.
I suppose we should call the girl the victim.
And me and her the accused.
Oh, and the cops, well, they’re still the cops.
But the media are jackals.
And the prosecutor is their whore.
Showing off for the cameras, as he runs for mayor.
God damned semantics!