Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.
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.
The topic this week was Marijuana.
And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:
- Tura
- Jeffrey
- Munsi
- Lizzie
- Tom
- Singh
- Dave
- Serendipidy Haven
- Explorer
- Zackmann
- Vincent
- Bonchance and Sevi
- Cliff – Uncle Monster
- RedGoddess
- Norval Joe
- Danny
- Planet Z
The next weekly challenge is on the topic of The Worst Thing In The World.
And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:
TURA
Mine (late entry for last week, the Muse got held up in traffic)
——–
“Tell us a story,” they said, gathering around the Storyteller.
“What sort of a story?” he replied. “I have light stories and dark stories, humorous and severe, epics and bagatelles, stories for thinking and stories for dreaming, stories to drive you mad and stories to drive you sane.”
“Tell us a story you have never told,” they asked.
“There is one story I have never told, and it is like all of these and more. A story to make the gods laugh, and a story to make them weep. But I will not tell that story, for it is mine.”
——–
Marijuana
——–
Sir Walter Raleigh sailed to the New World looking for gold, but brought back marijuana. It was a great hit at court, and soon among the general public. It became a staple crop of the American colonies and was exported to the known world. An era of peace and love followed, and the Thirty Years’ War never happened.
Neither did much else, until tobacco and coffee were discovered. Governments tried to outlaw them, but they were too laid back to bother, so they didn’t stand a chance against revolutionaries fired by nicotine and caffeine.
History was soon back on track.
JEFFREY
Chance Encounter
by Jeffrey Fischer
Ron hopped off the bus in Center City Philadelphia. He glanced at his watch: 11:35 p.m., still time enough to make the last train back to campus. In 1985, Center City was a ghost town after dark. Ron grabbed his duffle bag and walked briskly toward the subway station, cursing the city planner who placed it so far from the bus depot.
A figure stepped out from the shadows. Ron tried to conceal his fear. The black teen looked as nervous as Ron felt, and said, “You want to buy some weed?” Ron mumbled a quick “No, thanks,” not breaking stride. He was no angel, but he wanted to do more with his life than sell marijuana to strangers.
MUNSI
The Closest Thing to a Story About Marijuana I Have
By Christopher Munroe
I don’t smoke pot.
I do, however, lock onto challenges with a fervor that’s probably unhealthy.
So, when asked by a girl I was doing a show with if I knew where to score pot in town, I spent the rest of the day calling friends, friends of friends, and their contacts in an attempt to help.
We finally found a guy, he made a delivery to the pub we went to after the show.
Nothing came of it, with the girl. I didn’t even smoke it with her.
That wasn’t what it was about.
I just had to win.
LIZZIE
The alien was called Marijuana. He never knew why. One day, crossing the street, a friend yelled “Marijuana!” trying to draw his attention to a speeding bicycle. Everyone looked at his friend and not at him, including the biker. Marijuana suffered a rupture on layers 1, 2 and 3 of his skin plus a terribly bruised ego. “Marijuana in the way of unsuspecting biker”, the headlines would read. He was tired of being made fun of and he never saw the irony of being as green as nature could produce the color green, the plant name and the flying biker
TOM
Mother Milks Leads
I was raised in the land of penny candy. Not one piece per penny. I’m talking three for one. With a mere Nickel you could get 15 count them 15 different types of candy. The primary backer of all things confectionery was my Grandmother Kosick born in poverty with a sweet tooth of biblical proportions. Grandma had a fondness for a turn of the century molasses called Mary Janes. So I ended up consuming a fair number of them despite their lackluster sugar quality. Oddly Mary Janes proved to be my personal gateway drug. Hey don’t Bogart that Godiva dude.
SINGH
Wordscape with Ganja
By Chris Mooney-Singh/Singh Albatros
Call of Nature
Driven all night along a mad highway from Delhi Airport, we finally stopped to relieve ourselves. It was my first glimpse of Punjab: a field of sunflowers and wheat beyond the canal; a Hindu temple flying a red flag for the goddess and I heard morning recitation from a Sikh Gurdwara helping crops flourish via loudspeaker. I was losing myself in the dawn mist and blue haze above, thinking wow! I made it! Meanwhile, my chance companions were still passing rainbow arcs of water into the roadside carpet of seedling marijuana.
“It’s El Dorado!” one exclaimed. “This shit stretches for miles!”
Indian Milkshake
“Welcome to Govt. Authorised Bhang Shop. Choose normal, medium, or super-duper sexy strong — full power 24 hour no toilet no shower special lassi,” the proprietor said, mixing my companion’s Hara Hara Mahadeva milkshake with a teaspoon of buffalo-kicking sacred indica and hint of AK47.
“Your mind will be concentrate,” he added, bowing to Shiva on the wall.
My companion quaffed it, bought bhang biscuits, a chocolate block of green to snack on later, then rode the camel’s hump into the bleary eye of the sun.
After, he’d wake from the blinding sandstorm of an Om-bom-bola headache he would never forget.
Detachment
According to our travel guide –– some of India’s four million holy sadhus were laying about –– there in a shopfront. Without ambition, they were role-playing Shiva of the three-pronged trident, stuck upright between the penance fire and donation tin. Cracking jokes, they took turns out front in lotus pose like the Yogi of the Triune Worlds: body smeared with ashes, forehead cooled by sandalwood paste, mind blurred by a pellet broken off from a golf ball of hash, rolled back and forth between the brothers puffing chillums, passing their precious hours like dung beetles with all the busy industry of their calling.
The Valley of Drugs
I flicked through photos while my companion since Delhi kept yabbering about the Valley of Drugs ahead.
Then someone whispered from behind. “Hey buddy! Lookin’ to score?”
Soon, they were both reciting sacred names –– Malana Cream, Sunburst, Kali Mist, Choco-yesh, Shantibaba –– all hand-rubbed from sticky hashish resin. Yes, they were close to their El Dorado of Skunk balls.
They got down. I waved. Good luck; and remembered home — the photo not here in my album, the one burnt into memory: my sister dead in the backroom, overdosed on heroin and her toddler scrambling oblivious around her knees crying for milk.
DAVE
Bliss?
A frigid splash of water rouses him, “Jesus Christ, mom!”
Wiping sleep from his eyes, he reaches for his bong and lights it in a reckless, hair-igniting motion, “Damn it!”
Running to assess the damage, he knocks a pack of Zig Zags off the dresser.
He watches them helicopter to the ground like a fallen leaf, a red inscription revealing itself with each half-turn.
Between yellow thumb and forefinger he reads the note, “Luv you… Sally”.
So beautiful. If only she wasn’t so “anti-weed.”
But he was happier now anyway. In his parents’ basement… bangs burnt… alone.
SERENDIPITY
“Wow… this is good stuff”
I smiled shyly at the compliment from my guests – all this drug dealing was new to me, but I seemed to have done everything right. To be honest, I was surprised at how easy it had been to get it – I’d had visions of dark alleyways and shady characters, but it had been nothing like that at all.
My guests pressed me to tell them the variety I’d bought, so I went to get what was leftover from the kitchen…
“But that’s coriander?”
“Yes! Well, you told me to get the best herb they have!”
EXPLORER
Prose to Marijuana
© by hrs 2012
When the moon is “high,” we look to the skies and pray, well some pray.
Some blame the moon for everything, and curse the moon “mi culpa la Luna, I
blame you the moon.” Many profess love to the moon at twilight when the day
passes into night, and night passes into day.
Her moody translucent soul is seductive, shy, and fickle. The moods change in
the tides, and her soul is untouchable even at her brightest and largest
moments. When our minds and hearts collide like atoms smashing at “high”
tide. I just blame the moon on those emotions. Enjoy!
ZACKMANN
The police chief said “To take back our community, first we take over the drug dealers houses.”
The acting mayor said “Didn’t we have a lot of trouble resulting from a bust when the infection first started?”
“Well, it was hard to tell which of the party we infected and which moved like that because they were stoned but the two sitting giggling in the middle of the room staring at the bites on their arms would have infected the rest soon enough.”
“Why those houses first.”
“Because they built off grid solar panels to avoid detection from law enforcement.”
VINCENT
“Dude, you gotta dig this shit. We can film the fuckers getting robbed,” Randall Smith said.
Artie Goodwine took the marijuana joint out from his mouth and blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. He said, “Yeah, we shoot it like it’s one of them fucked up reality TV shows.”
Randall smiled. “Call it ‘You just got robbed’ or something.”
“Yeah, I like that,” Artie said, watching the smoke drift upwards. “We can start making us some real money… Maybe even get invited onto the Oprah Winfrey show.”
“You think?”
Artie shrugged. Thinking. Liking the way it all sounded.
SEVI AND BONCHANCE
Visit with the Chairman
Pepe booked an appointment with the Chairman.
He had to wait seven weeks for an opening in the Chairman’s schedule.
The only slot available was at 9pm. Pepe was going to miss Puppy Dog Idol!
Pablo was getting hot under the collar about his plasma television still not being replaced.
Pepe showed up 15 minutes early and stood nervously. He had it all planned out, a cool 10 Gs for the solution to world domination, final offer. Chairman Meow signalled Pepe to sit. He lit a joint of marijuana and passed it to Pepe, “let the negotiations begin”! He purred.
Ode to Mary Jane
If you swore that drinking was bad for me, I wouldn’t disagree,
In fact I much prefer the plant which contains that T-H-C.
It may be very pop-u-lar and could make the party a smash,
but if you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave and pass that bowl of hash!
After many years of stoning, getting me high wouldn’t take a lot,
so I’ll ask if you have some stash, please don’t Bogard that pot!
If you would like to make me happy and if you really wanna,
all ya gotta do my friend is pass me that marijuana!
CLIFF
I got the idea when I saw the DEA destroying the wild marijuana plants that grew along the banks of the river. I decided to use my degree in biochemistry to find a way to use ragweed as a drug. It took a couple years, but I finally discovered a way to turn it into a drug more powerful than crystal meth. I anonymously shared my findings on the internet and within months, it was the latest drug crisis. Soon, the feds were out in force, scouring the fields looking for the dangerous weed. My allergies have never been better.
RED
Executive hotels require all kind of crazy hours for their year round guests. Lola’s first overnight shift, she figured strong coffee would carry her, however, after leaving the front desk for a bathroom break she returned to find Mrs. Phillips standing naked in the lobby. She was smoking prescription marijuana, and screaming, “Thank God you’re here! I heard gunshots from the suite next door.” Lola smiled and assured the elderly woman she was safe, fed her snack food, and put her to bed. At dawn, Lola smoked one of Mrs. Phillips on the hotel roof and called it even.
NORVAL JOE
The silver doors of the dwarven mine glowed in the low light of the moon. Owen and Traveler shared the midnight watch.
The campfire smoldered sending tendrils of smoke into the clear icy-cold night sky.
Flindert the dwarf crouched near the fire drawing deeply from his pipe and blowing smoke rings to float up toward the stars.
Traveller and Owen wandered up to the fire pit.
Owen laughed, “Flindert, what are you smoking, shredded shoe leather?”
Flindert just looked up and smiled, his eyes glassy.
Traveler said, “Flindert’s entering his ancestral home. He thinks he needs to be spiritually prepared.”
I ordered me a weenie dog from Acme Dachsund farms. It came in the mail, packed in a cardboard box.
My cousin Jessie come by and he laughed when he saw the box.
He says to me, “Have you been smokin that wacky tobacky? Buying a dog from a place called Acme. Aint you seen that coyote and roadrunner bird? A weenie dog from Acme’s like as much to blow up as it is to fetch a stick.”
I toll him Acme’s just a word. It means high-point, pinnacle, or summit.
He laughed even harder when the dog blew up.
DANNY
Bob was through with his sad yet demented life. Bob decided to commit suicide by overdosing, smoking Marijuana. Bob lit his first joint, took in a deep hit, then let the smoke ease gently through his nostrils, exhaling the remainer from his mouth. Then Bob repeated this step, consecutively, for over 3,472 times, smoking 231 joints non-stop over a 29 day period. Despite Bob’s bronchitis, he seems to be responding well to anti-biotics. Bob now actually enjoys being alive, and has taken up painting. Bob’s friends, worried about how uptight he was before, now think he’s actually a decent human being to be around.
PLANET Z
It costs ten thousand dollars to train a drug-sniffing dog.
My son, on the other hand, dropped out of college after doing nothing but smoking pot and eating Twinkies.
Now, he lives in the basement, coming out only to eat or score more weed to smoke.
He won’t get a job, so I called the cops on him.
As part of his plea bargain, he had to do community service.
He now works as a drug-sniffing dog, and to tell you the truth, he’s pretty damn good at it.
But he looks like a fucking retard wearing that dog suit.
