Author: R.

Colin Cares

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Does Colin care?
You can’t tell by looking at Colin’s face. He’s always got the same confused expression on his face.
Colin is easily confused.
Snap your fingers, and he’ll turn his head to see what’s the racket.
Set fire to his shoes, and he’ll just watch them, trying to figure out why they’re burning.
“Don’t you care that your shoes are on fire, Colin?” I shout.
Colin just stands there, watching.
I pour a bucket of water on his feet, putting out the flames.
“They’re not my shoes,” mutters Colin. “They’re my roommate’s.”
And he goes back to staring.

Oatmeal and Raisins

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We shut down the particle accelerator, turn off the lights and call it a day.
Back in the break room, a food fight breaks out. We’re throwing cookies at each other.
Smashed cookies litter the floor.
And then, upon closer inspection…
“Wait,” says Dr. Thompson. “These are plain oatmeal cookies, right?”
“Right,” says his assistant.
“Then where did all these raisins come from?”
He picks one up, and begins to theorize on cookie particles in other dimensions, crossing over with energy transformation.
Then he tastes it.
And makes a horrible face.
I shrug and call the exterminator.
“We’ve got rats.”

Counting Sheep

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I’ve been having trouble sleeping.
I’ve tried counting sheep, but I’ve only got one sheep.
His name is Fred.
“One,” I say, looking at Fred.
“Baaaaaaaa,” says Fred.
“Jump over the fence again, Fred,” I say.
“Baaaaaaaa,” says Fred, and he grazes a bit.
So, I brained Fred with a baseball bat, carved him up, and cooked him.
Fred was absolutely delicious!
I woke up the next day, rested and feeling full.
The next night, Fred was back, standing by the fence.
And he was just as delicious when I ate him.
Sure, it’s the same sheep, but who’s counting?

The Orange Hair

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While I’m at work, the cat sleeps on my pillow all day.
I know this, because his long orange hair is all over the pillow when I get home.
I brush it off, roll up the clumps, and put them in the trash.
I go through this every day, going to work and coming back to find that my pillow had been shed on.
Beats having cat piss or cat shit on the pillow, right?
So I called an exorcist.
You see, the cat died three years ago, and as much as I miss him, I want this to stop.

Weekly Challenge #201 – What have I got in my pockets?

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Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number Two Hundred and One, 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… was…. um…
It’s What have I got in my pockets?!
VOTING

Which were the best stories this year?
Zachmann
Steven
Justin
TJ
Anima
JRadimus
Norval Joe
Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

Zachmann

What do you mean this time you don’t want another disaster and this time want to know what have I got in my pockets? Yes, I will put everything on the table and from the clothes I wore yesterday too. Keys, cell phone, Yu-Gi-oh cards, gum, some coins, a rock, crayons, a coloring book, a cat toy, a kitten, candy wrappers, a Sansa player, a Disk World book, bicycle inner tube with tire patch kit, Beef jerky, portable television , a Bionicles set, Legos, a sonic screwdriver, and an autographed photo of Harpo Marx. Dad, you know I hate laundry day.

Steven

Uncle Al smelled of vaporub as he poked at me. “How’s my little girl?”
My young voice squeaked angrily at him. “I. Am. A. Boy.”
Al ran his finger through his thick black hair. “Okay, little girl.” He reached out, and I felt a brief tug. “Gotcher nose!”
“I’m a boy! And that’s your finger, not my nose.”
I smiled. “I’ve got one too, Uncle.” I reached towards his scalp, then put my hand in my pocket. “Guess what I’ve got, Uncle.”
He shrieked, feeling the air cold against his suddenly bald scalp.
“Oh,” I said. “You figured it out.”

Justin

In my pocket are keys to other worlds. I keep them in a small notebook. I put them there whenever I find them. Sometimes I find them at work, and other times when I’m waiting in line at the grocery store. I even find them at church.
I’ve found a door. I check my notebook for the key that fits. I take out one of the keys and put it in the lock. The door opens and before me is my imagination. It flows out of the door and through me onto the pages. I hope you enjoy the stories!

TJ

Alanis always skated on past that hand she had in her pocket. The other one was the one out giving high fives or playing a piano or hailing a taxicab. The hand she kept hidden was the attitude of a generation. Think about the look – jaded ’90s hippie chick can’t be bothered to engage 100 percent in anything. The one hand in her pocket was flipping a bird in solidarity with a Reality Bites, slacker, coffee-fueled Seattle-centric vibe. Things make no sense, but what it all comes down to my good friends is that everything is just fine, fine, fine.

Anima

When I bought the jacket, I was looking for something more practical than my technical fleece. The ancient sherpani wanted a hundred fifty rupee, but settled for a hundred and the tube of chapstick, everything I had in my pockets. That night I noticed the value of the coat when my guidebook disappeared into its chasmic folds, followed by a 2 liter bottle of water. And a live chicken. I’ve lived in Katmandu 10 years now, carrying loads for trekkers – I make them pay extra for conversations about sports and politics. Wherever you are hajurama, I owe you 50 rupee…

JRadimus

“What have I got in my pockets?” The stranger casually fingered through his clothes, pretending to look for money he knew wasn’t there. Zara waited patiently, her fiddle dangling casually from her fingers.
Her offer seemed implausibly generous to him: a song for the largest bill in his pockets, sight-unseen. He wondered how she made a living; like most people, he didn’t carry cash anymore. During this distraction, Zara waggled her fingers surreptitiously. A now-familiar shock came over his face as he pulled a twenty from otherwise-empty pockets. She hid a smirk, pocketed her fee and played him his song.

Norval Joe

It was a bad area of town in a town already bad enough.
An old man sat, everyday, on the corner of Fourth and T. His name was Art King. He was old and wrinkled but sat on his soap box with such regal presence, everyone called him King Arthur.
A stranger pulled a knife on him and said, “Gimmee all you got.”
“Well, let me see what I got here in my pocket.”
He pulled out an old harmonica and said, “You can have it, and every other disease I have.”
He laughed, coughed, spat, and played a song.

Z

Stare at your target, synchronize alpha waves, and make connection.
I can’t explain MindJumping any better than that.
Neither can the Psychic Academy, but without their training, I’d be a drooling husk, rejected by strong host personalities.
Instead, I can leap, store my body in a Coma Hotel, and walk you around while searching your memories like pockets.
Jumping back stuns the host temporarily. By then, I’m long gone, with your secrets and money.
Not this time. Back at the Coma Hotel, someone’s buried a knife in my chest.
Not good.
Sorry, chump, but your ass is literally mine now.

Hole in my sock

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I think there is a hole in my sock.
There was a hole in my underwear a few days ago, but it slipped and dropped into my pant leg.
I don’t see the hole in my pants anymore, so either the hole fell into my sock or it dropped out through the cuff and on to the ground.
I take off my sock and look.
No hole in my sock.
I check the other sock. No holes there either.
Then I see the blood.
The hole is now in my foot.
I hop to the bathroom and get a bandage.

The Milkman Cometh

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I remember when milk was five cents a carton and chocolate milk was six.
I always bought chocolate.
Years later, working at the milk processing plant, I now know the truth.
It’s just brown coloring we put in.
Per ounce, it’s less expensive than actual milk.
The packaging costs the same to print. Chocolate milk has a brown carton and the regular has blue.
My son starts his first day of school tomorrow.
Regular milk is 75 cents, chocolate milk is a buck.
So, he’ll get his classmates to pay the extra quarter.
Chip off the old block, he is.

The Rings

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During the Olympics, Hector stopped serving onion rings at his diner.
He also diced onions instead of putting them on hamburgers as loops.
The risk of five onion sections arranging themselves into the five rings logo of the Olympics was far too great, and lawyers were constantly watching for an opportunity to sue.
“Onions make you cry,” said the lawyers. “But we’ll make you hurt.”
Then they’d order a hamburger with onions and onion rings, just to rub it in.
Hector snapped, grabbed a lawyer, and shoved his face into the fryer.
The others, he stabbed.
And didn’t even cry.

The Useless

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After all of Roger’s hair fell out, he threw out his combs, brushes, shampoos, and hair gels.
He didn’t need them anymore.
However, he kept his hairdryer, since sometimes he liked to give himself a blast of heat.
And he liked to scare the crap out of the cat with it.
Sneaking up on a cat isn’t easy to do, but over the years Mister Whiskers had become somewhat deaf.
Roger even had an extension cord for the hairdryer.
As Roger pointed the device at the cat, it rolled over and exposed its fuzzy belly.
Roger sighed and pet it.

The Executed

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The execution is over, and the king congratulates the royal headsman.
“Well done,” he says.
The headsman nods, holding his hood.
Afterwards, he walks to his dungeon alcove, closes the door, and lays down his massive axe.
Then, he takes off his black hood and hangs it on a hook.
There is no mirror in this room… they are luxuries for the nobles.
So, he is saved from the horror of looking upon his rotten and gruesome visage.
Pulling the freshly decapitated head out of a sack, he replaces his rotten and putrid one.
And puts the hood back on.