Author: R.

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 Nine, 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 Rhymes With Itch.

And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:

Logan Berry
Tura
Sevi
Julie
Serendipity Haven
Chris Munroe
Lizzie Gudkov
Zackmann
Guy David
Tom
Danny
Red Goddess/TalkMarie
Cliff
Norval Joe
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.

Oh, and since it’s the internet…

There. Obligatory cat photo.

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Logan Berry

Sneaky Footsnap was a snitch,
He had a plan to make it rich.
Bertha Cussmore was a witch,
Who made a fortune selling pitch.
Sneaky dressed up like the bitch
Certain none would note the switch.
His clever ruse had one small hitch,
Sneaky Footsnap had a twitch.
By virtue of this telling glitch.
Sneaky wound up in the ditch,
Lifeless, cold, without a stitch.

Tura

“Burn the rich!” chanted the crowd blocking the road. I asked one of them, “What’s this, an Occupy revival?”

“No, ‘rich’ is short for ‘rhymes with itch’. We can’t call odd old women with too many cats…you know, rhymes with itch. That would be Hate Speech!”

“But there’s no such thing as witches–” A rubber bullet immediately knocked me to the ground, so I didn’t get to see what happened next, with the tyres and petrol cans, while the mob and the riot police looked on.

Afterwards, they charged me with Hate Speech, Denial, Obstructing Free Expression, and Provoking Violence.

Sevi

Links of strong steel
Hitched securely
Behind wheels of freedom

Desire to travel somewhere
A wish to wander elsewhere
True desire to escape
From the pain within me
The external torture
You inflict within

All around me
The hot sharp knife-like words
Piercing through my soul
Screaming through my vulnerable body
Rendering me helpless and
Unable to move away from it
An Inability to make it stop
Boxed into a dark damp hole
No exit to escape

One day
Clarity offers hope
An oppourtunity to break free
From the constant torture
From the pain
Step on the gas. Go!

Julie

OK, so it rhymes with itch.
I went to Catholic school, and we were not supposed to use certain words. Not that I didn’t have the temptation to do so, but there were consequences. We didn’t have Starbucks, or Dunkin in those days either. The coffee sucked, and so did the plaid polyester uniforms.
Our Vice Principal was named Sister Fish. Marjorie Fish. No joke. She rhymed with itch. A lot. Especially when she caught me smoking in the girls’ bathroom and I tossed the cigarette and hit her in the leg, burning a hole in her support hose. Busted!

Serendipity

It was the Flea family’s holiday and Father Flea was determined to make it a cultural experience.

“We’re going to the literature festival!”, he announced, to the groans of the rest of the family, “I’ve picked up a programme and there’s plenty for us to do.”

“Will there be amusements and games”, Bobby Flea asked?

“Candy Floss and hot dogs?” – from Gemma, with a winsome look.

“No. We’re going to listen to poetry”, came father’s response, to universal groans, “It’ll be fun – an all day event called, ‘Flea poetry through the years – Rhymes with itch'”

Would it be fun? Probably not!

Muns

I’d thought losing my soul would hurt. It didn’t.

Well, maybe a little, but only for a moment.

Afterward, I thought I’d feel empty, like something important had been taken from me, and that much was true.

Something had been taken from me.

Guilt. Shame. The burden of caring about the needs of others.

Their absence is a weight removed from my shoulders.

I finally feel free.

My high priest takes the soul, weds it to the phylactery, and sends it with my minion to be hidden somewhere it will never be found.

And I rise from my altar, immortal.

izzie

The old witch who knew zilch about motorized vehicles kept driving her broom into the drainage ditch. She didn’t know there was a switch to override the broom’s ignition glitch. Yes, it was an older model, just because the witch liked everything kitsch. So one day a fellow kitsch witch told her that Mr. Fitch, the rich man with the barber’s itch, had solved the broom’s problem with a simple machine stitch! The witch was very suspicious which made her scream in a high pitch “I hate machines!” and again she nose-dived into the drainage ditch which was full of…!

Zackmann

“I don’t know if old medicine is always a bad idea. Much of our modern discoveries originated with third world medicine men.” said Alex
“Are you giving up on modern medicine?” asked Jake
“No not really, we tried modern medicine first although what granny has currently seems incurable with modern medicine. Granny saw this professional on a morning talk show, who has had a great deal of success with cases like hers. We decided to try her before using Hospice”
“Is she a specialist?” inquired jake
Alex replied
“Well, you could say that but her job title ends in itch”

Guy

I wanted to make a speech
In order to find my own niche
But I just couldn’t reach
My papers who where scattered at the beach
So I gathered them each
Into a notebook I stitched
Still the words began to screech
Until my voice came at the wrong pitch
And they had to pull down the switch
Less my audience I would enrich
And make them rich
So I had to ride my ostrich
All the way to a ditch
Where I was picked up by a witch
Who didn’t even flinch
As she turned me into a sandwich

Tom

Rhymes with itch

Sounds with ditch

No No

Two syllables

first syllables

fly

mosquitoes

no

your flapping your

arms

your a condor

don’t give me that look

your the jerk who’s going to lose us this game

ok

your pick something out of the ground

and your smelling it.

It a flower?

yes

flower

and

something comes out of the flower

and it bits you

no

it stings you

a bee

good

second syllable

your riding a horse

no

your flying a horse

no

your flying on a a

broom

be broom

well fuck you too

your a witch

bewitched

Danny

The Witch with a severe facial Twitch, who lived in the English town of Ipswitch, looked at the topic for this weeks challenge, certain that Crap Mariner was challenging her to write a story without swearing. The Witch, whose name was Mitch, accepted the challenge, insisting if she did swear, she would beat herself with a switch. Mitch clacked away on her typewriter, completing the story without a hitch, despite her facial twitch. “Here you thought I couldn’t get through this weeks challenge without calling myself a bitch!” she exclaimed. After a long sigh, Mitch beat herself with a switch.

RedGoddess

In this depressing economy, many are doing jobs they thought were only reserved for high school drop outs and so called illegal aliens. Working Americans find themselves at the mercy of those shall we say “rhymes with itch.” Depending on the day and the imprint of their assaulting insults, many names are reserved for those bosses, managers, upper management and the rest with big titles but lacking in little common courtesy. People’s identities and dignity should not be tied to their jobs, hourly wages or where they rank on the poverty line. When least expected, Karma will scratch them out.

Uncle Monster

I was tired of reading my own stories so I put an ad on Craigslist. I got one response. It was not quite what I was expecting.

Hi. I’m responding to your ad for voice talent. I’ve been at this for some time and I know my way around a recording studio. I can send you samples of my work. I’m currently employed but I’ve decided that it’s time I got out of the basement and struck out on my own. My contact info is attached.

I think I’ll keep reading my own stuff. I just didn’t like his pitch.

Norval Joe

Spleen launched himself across the woodpile at the boy. His razor sharp claws extended and acid-icor dripped from his fangs. He dropped to the floor and hissed at the woman and boy across the woodpile. He lept with all his might, the muscles of his thighs like tightly wound springs. He flew across the woodpile at the boy and could taste his blood.
The woodpile still between them, he screamed and launched himself again, only to drop to the ground, where he’d started.
“What are you, a witch,” Spleen hissed at the woman.
Shareeka laughed.
“Something like that,” she said.

Planet Z

Deep under Mount Thundercloud, we found The Shadow Machine.

Acres of pipes and motors and engines. Built by the ancients.

It still feels warm.

What does it do?

I don’t know. Nobody does.

All these plans and blueprints and manuals are in the language of the ancients.

All their power.

Just waiting.

Buttons. Switches. Dials.

Which to use first?

What? Google has the language of the ancients in its Translate site?

Oh. Okay.

We’ll take the plans and manuals back to…

It’s on your mobile?

Damn. That’s impressive.

Powerful.

Who the fuck needs this ancient shit, right?

Let’s go home.