Category: Weekly Challenge

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 Fourteen, 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 hotel.

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

Tom
Dann Russo Archive of live performances
Thomas
Tura
Serendipity Haven
Chris Munroe
Guy David
Logan Berry
Zackmann
Lizzie Gudkov
Steven Saus
Buttermilk!
Cliff
Danny
Norval Joe
TJ
RedGoddess
Planet Z

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post…

Obligatory cat photo:

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.

---

Tom

The flat black hat rimmed the edge of the horizon obscuring a piercing glaze. Slowly a rough-hewn match makes contact with a pencil thin cigar. The high plane drifter sends a vale of tobacco smoke upward, setting the rains to the left, the pallid horse beneath him descends into the valley below. He has come to smoke out a soul hiding under the mantel of propriety a pillar of the community. He knew better. Puffs on the cigar sets glow to the end sparking the wick of twin sticks of dynamite. Looping end over end dropping death through the window.

Dann

New Hampshire December froze our sweat to our skin. The windows HAD to be down. Had to be down. We took quick shallow breaths in a feeble attempt to stay warm. Only twenty more minutes. Fifteen. Ten.
Bolt out of the car.
Sprint up the stairs.
Who has the keys? Where did you put the keys?
Tear off every piece of clothing we had on.
There was nothing sensual, nothing fun.
Our heads were already starting to revert to long-lost craving mode.
Coat. Shirt. Pants. Turn the shower on. Throw them in the wash. Rid ourselves of the smoke.

Thomas

Jenny knew where there is smoke there is fire, so she spent the day looking for smoke, since she had five pounds of ribs and needed to barbeque them before they went bad. She walked around the neighborhood, peering over fences looking for smoke, until she found an elderly couple throwing some burgers on a kettle barbeque. She inquired, telling the couple her plight, and they agreed to let her cook her ribs when they were finished. She cooked and shared them with the couple. In this way, Jenny was able to dispose of the grisly remains of her crime.

##

Her singing voice was a smoky, throaty, and whiskey, mellow alto. She took the stage, sitting at the piano, ready to play one of her own tunes. The trio that backed her up were magnificent, and the audience moved to the edge of their seats with their cell phones and digital cameras high in the air. Ms. Darlene Apple was the hit of the Seattle jazz scene. Her beauty was shadowed by her lyrics, original compositions, and nudity. A chilling breeze came through a door off stage, and Ms. Apple picked up the tempo, to the delight of the audience.

Tura

“New car smell. New home smell. Gen-fem — generic feminine — used a lot in low-end clothing stores. Commercial stuff.” She shrugged.

“High-class ambients, they’re something else. But…times change. Here’s a classic. They don’t even make the ingredients any more.”

She showed me a small bottle, a quarter full of a deep amber liquid, labelled “OLD SMOKE”.

“You’ve never experienced anything like this before.” She took the stopper out for just a few seconds. Suddenly the room was redolent of old cigars, well-worn leather upholstery, brandy glasses, and — oh! — the subtlest grace notes of a beautiful woman glimpsed unattainably far off.

Serendipity

The fragrance drifting through the doorway as I passed by unlocked a forgotten wealth of fond memories.

Malacca, 1963… bartering for supper in the night market – the babble and hubbub, the sweaty, prickly heat of summer and the press of the excited crowd as they jostled at the market stalls, all came flooding back.

Then, an unexpected respite.

The temple, quiet and serene – a welcome escape from the tumult outside. The somnolent monotone of a Buddhist chant, drawing me in. And everywhere, the smouldering tapers of rising incense.

Wonderful memories, rekindled by the simple fragrance of that blesséd, holy smoke.

Munsi

Yes, I do still smoke.

I know I shouldn’t. I know that it’s expensive, and I know what it’ll do to my teeth and the lines around my eyes.

I also know that cigarettes are the only product that, used as directed, kills 100% of it’s customers. Cancer, heart disease, I know what smoking does.

But I also know that twice a day, at work, regardless of how long my scheduled shift is, I will hear a manager say, in essence: Smokers, take a five minute break. Non-smokers, shut up and get back to work.

So yeah, I still smoke.

Guy David

A man, or a mere impression of a men. He rises from the chimney of some factory or another, taking shape from the smoke. He hovers above the city, an illusion perhaps, more likely a secret project. Eyes are cameras, ears are microphones, recording silently. No door can hold him. He just blows underneath like the smoke he’s made of. His brain has the computing power built into the latest in nanotechnology. The results are being sent for processing at a secret facility. He is just the prototype. More are being created. Watch out for the fog, it’s coming alive.

Logan Berry

Until that moment, panic had turned me to ice. But the touch of his
hand on my skin was the lick of a blowtorch and I felt its heat,
suddenly, shockingly. Something stirred in a place I thought had died.
I felt, as if for the first time, my own breathing, sharp and hot.

Smoke curled out of his nose and drifted towards the ceiling fan like
the ghosts of small birds.

The fan spun slowly, each rotation clicking softly, the only sound in
a deathly silence.

He inhaled again in the darkness, silhouetted against a grey window.
He thought I was still dead as he leaned over me, pressing his lips
against mine and forcing the ghostly birds into my mouth. When I felt
his tongue scorch the back of my throat, I bit down, hard.

As his screams broke the silence, I floated to the window, spread my
wings, and flew away.

Zackmann

“I never saw your shop before. Do you sell anything in addition to tobacco like loose leaf tea or tee shirts?”
“I don’t think you understand that is a smoke shop, the only thing we sell is smoke. Except election years than we also sell mirrors.” answered shopkeeper
“Do you mean like liquid smoke for cooking?”
“Liquid smoke is one product we sell. We currently have a sale on smoke from 1980s rock concerts.”
“Too bad,I was looking for tobacco because I read a gardening article that touted its uses.”
“Come back when they write an article about smoke.”

Lizzie

“Smoke them out, smoke them out!” one soldier barked throwing a smoke grenade in the hole.

“They are coming!” another yelled.

They thought dozens of enemies had been hiding in a trench for more than a week. No food and no water left.

“Come out of there!” the first soldier barked again. “We’ll go in, if you don’t come out, right now!”

They were the winners. The losers would have to obey.

“Yeah!” they all yelled.

The thick heavy smoke was unbearable.

In the end, the hundreds were five teenage soldiers scared to death.

Soldiers and kids, no winners there…

Steven the Nuclear Man

Sullivan lights his and Murphy’s cigarettes, then shakes out the match. Night floods back as the flame dies.

Thompson’s eyebrows arch. “What about me?”

Murphy laughs as Sullivan strikes another match. “Thompson, you weren’t military?”

Thompson draws on the cigarette, lighting it from Sullivan’s match. Treetrunks loom until Sullivan shakes the flame out. “Nope.”

Murphy takes a drag. “You light two ’cause it’s too short for a sniper to aim.”

Thompson’s brow furrows. “We’re hunting demons, not snipers.”

Sullivan tosses his cigarette at the other men’s feet. “Demons that see heat,” he says as his horned master enters the clearing.

Buttermilk

From the very moment when we first met, there was just something about her,
something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. She is intoxicating.
Attractive doesn’t begin to explain it. I’d say it was chemical, maybe even
phermonal, if that was possible. I can’t explain the way she has
captured my attention. There is an ephemeral quality about her that absolutely
captivates me. From that first moment on, she has dominated my thoughts,
my dreams, and my fantasies alike. I have spent countless hours trying to define it, to describe it,
to understand it. It eludes me…. like smoke.

Cliff

The reporters and the faithful stood in the courtyard waiting. The College of Cardinals had been in the Sistine Chapel for several days trying to elect the new pope. The previous leader of the church had been one of the most popular popes in decades. He had helped the church grow and find new members the world over. When intelligent life had been discovered in the tunnels of Mars, missionaries had been dispatched and the Martians had converted in droves. There were even native Martian bishops now.

Still, everyone was surprised when the smoke rising from the Chapel was green.

Norval Joe

His lungs burned as he raced across the meadow to her grandfather’s cottage.
Smoke billowed from the windows and door. Fire danced up the thatched roof.
He grabbed a bucket at the well and dumped it on a sheet of canvas that covered firewood by the door.
Crouched under the canvas he crawled to her bedroom, wrapped her in the wet sheet and dragged her to safety.
Her eyes fluttered open, “You came back for me.”
“I’ll always come for you,” he promised.
Sitting with the company in the smoky common room, the memory came back to Owen with force.

TJ

“Can you help me?” she pleaded. “My daughter is missing.”

Although the suites were nonsmoking, a blue haze hung in the air behind
her. She waved off my glance. “She went missing… six hours ago. The
computer moved all our rooms around and… she’s probably lost.” Her
eyes worried about more sinister possibilities.

“How old is she?” I asked. “Does she have her cell with her?”

“She’s 15. It goes directly to voicemail. I called the police but
I’m out of my mind here!”

Well, I’m just a locksmith, myself, but I figured I could at least try
to help.

RedGoddess

Lola wears many hats as part of her job on the hotel’s guest services team. She’s not a magician but expected to make problems vanish in thin air. She’s not a superhero but have been known to leap out of harm’s way. Most notably, she’s no firefighter but can smell smoke from miles away. Last week, one of her guests decided to bake a special batch of biscuits for her fiancee who’s visiting from London. She has never turned the oven on since moving into the penthouse suite. Within minutes, the fire alarm was set off and triggered the sprinklers.

Planet Z

I like the smell of incense.

I have incense burners in the living room, office, and the bathroom so I don’t have to move them around.

But then, I keep the incense on a single shelf in the hallway. Kinda defeats the purpose of a convenient burner in every room if I have to get up to get more.

There’s also a smoke alarm in each room, but the smoke from the incense doesn’t set it off.

The smoke from burning something on the stove does, though.

Why did I take a bath while soup was on?

I’m a moron.

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 Fourteen, 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 hotel.

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

Thomas
Tom
Tura
Lizzie Gudkov
Serendipity Haven
Zackmann
Chris Munroe
Guy David
Bonchance and Sevi
Logan Berry
Steven Saus – and his book!
Chris the Nuclear Kid
Cliff
Julie
Danny
Norval Joe
TJ
Planet Z

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post…

Obligatory cat photo:

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.

---

Tom

Cartesian grid

In a gentler age people lived in Hotels.

In a way it makes sense.

If you eliminate the need for all things kitchen

The room you need drops not only by square footage

But by raw functionality.

People bring you food; you eat, leaving the dishes for others

The restraint of Hotel life limits family building

So you don’t need more that one bed room.

Since there isn’t a financial drain toward child rearing

Moneys can go to the really important stuff

Books lots of books.

So you got a bed, books, and bathtub

What more could you possible want?

Thomas

The hotel was located a little off the freeway next to a meat market. It was a two story building, painted a bright red, and festooned with gaudy neon lights that blinked “Vacancy, Vacancy” Tom and Ellen pulled in late after their full day of driving South . Tom signed in as John and Nancy Smith, and they went to the room overlooking the large pool. The pool was empty, and there seemed to be no other people around. There was one other car in the lot. Tom appreciated the quiet and marveled at how reasonable the room rate was.

##############

The CostaBaja Hotel was full of kids on Spring break, so Tom and Ellen had to find an out-of-the-way room, far from the popular beach. The room was in a modest, old neighborhood, and the woman that greeted them at the door welcomed them and said they could stay in the room if they didn’t mind sharing the bathroom. During the night, nature called, and Tom went down the hall to the bathroom. There was lots of splashing and movement in the bathroom. The door was ajar and Tom looked in to see four, large, squidmen frolicking in the tub.

Tura

Welcome to the Aldebaran Imperial Hotel. These instructions are for your safety and convenience.

All rooms are colour-coded by environmental type. Yours is oxygen: blue. Public areas are vacuum: white.

Environment suits MUST be worn outside your designated zone. Remember that YOU may be toxic to THEM.

DO NOT ENTER PURPLE AREAS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.

Do not approach strangers other than hotel staff, unless you are sure that you are familiar with their species and their social customs.

The Hotel cannot be held responsible for injury or death, in whatever manner, resulting from disregard of these instructions.

Enjoy your stay.

Lizzie

“What’s he building in there,” the kids thought as they peeked through the dusty windows in the back. The old man stayed in the basement of the hotel for days on a row. Darkness engulfed his shadow even deeper as he paced back and forth. Strange noises, hammering sounds. The scar on his face, the tattoo on his arm, was he in jail? Every now and then he glanced at the windows and the kids cringed, wondering what he was building in there. They could swear they heard someone moaning the other day. Where is that poet who went missing…? (Inspired by Tom Waits song “What’s He Building in There”)

Serendipity

Hotel

A soft tap at the door; “Room service!”, then the clink and rattle of the breakfast trolley.

“I never ordered breakfast”, I protest, shuffling out of bed.

“Nonsense, Sir… The speciality; champagne breakfast with black truffle omelette. Enjoy!” – he smiles proffering my chair.

I shrug and sit.

It’s excellent and I tuck in with a hearty appetite.

“Just sign here, Mr Lambert”

Lambert?

The room number on the slip is 838… I’m in 833!

Half-eaten egg and popped champagne are cleared with a frown and now he’s stood at the door, hand outstretched expectantly.

“You want a damn tip!”

Zackmann

I was a little worried about working security for a hotel during a supervillain convention until I realised most are waiting for The Method to the Madness: A Guide to the Super Evil. I think it being especially calm for a convention likely because many of attendees are working on their submissions since they are due at the end of next month. I should have my kid help me write an essay for it about not using a security, housekeeping, or police job as a supervillain cover, Since we are the first people who investigators check. Everyone watches the watchers.

Munsi

Well since my baby left me, I found a new place to dwell.

I had to. She kept the house.

And the kids.

I see them every other weekend, but in between it’s just me, alone in the hotel I’m staying in until I find an apartment.

I should be looking for an apartment, but I feel like doing that makes it somehow more permanent.

This is permanent.

It’s my own fault, I know. One lapse in judgment and my life came tumbling down. I have nobody to blame but myself, but sometimes…

…I get so lonely I could die.

Guy

We are pretty sure there’s a dimensional rift on room 306. Every once in a while one of the guests goes in. Problem is it’s an exchange. What goes out looks like the guest, but we are pretty sure it’s a demon. We know it by the way he abuses the hotel employes, being rude to the maids and abusive to the bell boys, so we use our special anti-demon contraption aka demon cage. Once it’s inside demanding a lawyer, we dispose of it in the river. In fact, there might be dimensional rifts on other rooms as well.

Sevi and Bonchance

Hotel

One
Hotel bed
On borrowed time
Needed night of respite
To let your body rest.
Strange noises echo all around you
Forcing your dreams to be interrupted rudely
You pull the musty pillow over your ears
Trying to drown out the sudden banging and thundering
The constant comings and goings.
Counting sheep thinking it will help ease your soul
Your body weary, begging for slumber, you pray
For the sounds to go away momentarily
Staring at the ceiling, wide awake
Sleep stolen by thin walls
You count little white sheep
They float over fences
Wake up call
This hotel
Sucks!

Hotel

Tom stood at the floor to ceiling window of his hotel room. The latest winter storm raged outside. He took a bite of the complimentary cookie then sipped the hot free coffee, the perfect dinner.

He watched a motorist dig out an opening in the wall of snow to make another attempt to get his car out of the lot.

A twinge of guilt poured over him, he would miss his daughter’s first ballet recital.
He checked all of the road conditions. He knew he had made the right choice in not attempting the long drive home.
The guilt remained.

Logan Berry

The first Thursday of every month they meet at a hotel, a different hotel every time, according to the order they appear in the telephone directory. They alternate procuring reservations, under names selected in alphabetical order from the The Big Book of Surnames, in the chapter, ”Most Common”.

They don’t speak, except in private sign language. They turn on the TV, fairly loud, and then play a recording. The recording is mostly silent, with the occasional cough, or snore, or flush of a toilet.

They make love soundlessly.

Until one day when they both cry out at once, so intense is their passion. In horror they dress quickly, and leave separately, never to meet again.

Steven the Nuclear Man

The school’s playground equipment squeaks behind Gretchen and Harvey
as they crawl under the brambly bushes. Gretchen stands on the far
side, a smirk flitting between her pigtails as Harvey wheezes, out of
breath.

Harvey looks up, past his classmate, and sees it first. “Candy!” The
children run for the strange building, entranced by the candycane
pillars, the gingerbread walls, the icing trim.

Their teacher’s voice carries across the bushes. “Harvey! Gretchen!
Recess is over!” Reluctantly, the children leave.

Inside, two witches glare furiously after the children.

The older witch snaps off a bit of peppermint. “Don’t check out, huh?”

Chris the Nuclear Kid

I followed Firehawk to the hotel. It had a hard-to-miss, multicolored sign reading The Inn

“I have prepared a room for our guest Firehawk” said the innkeeper.

“Thank you.” “She will show you to your room, we can talk in the morning.” Said Firehawk.

“Thank you, you have been very kind.” I replied.

The room was small and there was a map and a piece of paper with holes in it in the corner of the room. Looking at the paper closer I could see writing on its edge. “I’ll look at it in the morning.” I muttered to myself.

Julie

Housekeeping

I asked the maid to clear it all away– the merlot-stained glass, the towels, your coffee cup—to remove any reminder that you had been here, even briefly.

It is now a lovely memory; however, I need to wipe away the tangible vestiges because it is all so sweet, so unreal, that dwelling upon it is causing me physical pain.

And so I stare out at this city, buried in the fog and rain. I check the windows. They do not, blessedly, open. I am given a reprieve.

I sob, I wait for sleep. I curl against a pillow, which still bears your scent. I wouldn’t let the maid change the sheets.

Cliff

Checking in at the Full Moon Inn

The sign said “No Vacancy”. I rang the desk bell anyway. The clerk looked like a beard with eyes.
“We’re full.”
“Really? This place has probably a hundred rooms and you got eight cars in the lot.”
“We’re full.”
I slapped a hundred on the counter. He smiled, showing more pointy teeth than anyone should have.
Anyone natural, that is.
Heading to my room, I passed several guests. They looked like rejects from the Westminster dog show.
In my room, I loaded the spare magazines with silver rounds. Tomorrow, I would be dead or finally have the title Wolf’s Bane.

Hotel

Jack, a volunteer test subject for an experimental drug that shrinks the human body to tiny proportions, was put up in a luxury beachside hotel on the Gulf of Mexico. ” I can leave a free Hotel,” Jack murmured, heavily sedated by the drug, “just like Homer Simpson’s cartoon show, what’s the name if it?” Tiny Jack was now living inside an actual Monopoly game hotel, on a cocktail table on the beach. Suddenly, Jack’s body expands, shards of Monopoly hotel slice through his body. Several 1000 stitches later, Jack is fine, but he still cannot remember the name of Homer Simpson’s show.

Norval Joe

Owen woke, cold and soggy.
His cloak had done little to seal out the continuous drizzle throughout the night. He warmed slightly as they found the road and picked up their pace. But he was still wet, increasingly muddy and the rain continued.
Only the thought that the ranger, Traveller, had promised he would sleep in a real bed that night kept him going.
At dusk the company stood before a hovel, not much more than a pile of boards leaned against one another.
“What’s that?” Owen asked in despair.
Traveller patted Owen’s back and laughed, “The inn, of course.”

TJ

The knock was insistent. Which was the second unusual thing about this
night. My reservations at the Westwood Inn had been lost and reassigned
in a computer glitch, but the night desk manager assured me that my new
room, a suite, would be far more comfortable. Fine by me since they
comped the increased cost, but now, at 4:37 a.m., who did the person
knocking so frantically from the adjoining room suppose that I was? I
pulled my robe around my shoulders and opened the door to discover a
frightened, agitated woman. “Please help me,” she implored.
“It’s my daughter.”

Planet Z

Back in grade school, there was this kid who did magic.

He worked with cards, coins, and interlocking rings.

But his best trick was sticking four Monopoly houses in his mouth and spitting out a hotel.

We made him open his mouth to see if he had the houses under his tongue.

Nope. Because he’d swallowed them.

Plastic Monopoly houses are supposed to be non-toxic and safe, but one somehow caused an ulcer. They rushed him into surgery, and he died from an allergic reaction to the anesthesia.

At the funeral, his mom really let loose with the water works.

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 Thirteen, 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 moon.

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

Thomas
Serendipity Haven
Lizzie Gudkov
Tura
Katja
Chris Munroe
Logan Berry
Tom
Cliff
Guy David
Zackmann
Chris the Nuclear Kid
Steven Saus
Norval Joe
Red Goddess/TalkMarie
Pale Infinity
TJ
Planet Z

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post…

Obligatory photo:

Obligatory silly video:

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.

---

Thomas

The moon showed deep into Barlow’s room. It was so bright, that it woke him out of a heavy sleep and an exquisite dream. He stood, pulled his blanket around him and sat by the window looking out over his gardens. The moon was a dark, mandarin orange. Barlow could see movement in his back yard. Peering closer, and refocusing his eyes, he could see figures crawling close to the fence. It was his neighbor, Bob and his wife, Alena. They opened their mouths wide and howled like wolverines. Barlow had forgotten his neighbors love of the outdoors and astronomy.

Serendipity

The old man sighed.

He gazed affectionately at his now redundant, ropes, pulleys and pistons, then at the gleaming bank of buttons on the new control panel. “You can’t stand in the way of progress”, he thought, checking his watch…

It was time.

His finger found the button neatly labelled ‘First Quarter’ – huge letters appeared in the sky, garish in their intensity: * FQ * – he grimaced.

He paused to take one last look at his favourites… crescent, harvest and new, lying dusty and worn in the corner. The Man in the Moon sighed again and quietly closed the door behind him.

Lizzie

Not again… the moon was pink! Rose was tired of that sissy color. She liked red. So, Rose decided to do something about it. She climbed to the top of the church tower, as close to the moon as she could get. Then she pricked her finger on the cross and she stretched and stretched all the way to the moon. As she touched it, it turned into a beautifully bright red. The problem was when she tried to come down and lost her balance falling flat on her back. The last thing she saw was that damn pink moon.

Tura

When the Moon is full, with binoculars you can just see the construction works. It’s a lot bigger below ground — what you’re seeing is the solar collectors powering the machines that turn moonrock into everything else, including more machines. Building Moon City, that was the idea. But the off-switch isn’t working, and it’s invented a way of using its blasting equipment to fire on any spaceship that comes close.

The tunnel system doubles in size every year. They reckon it’ll take thirty years to cover the whole Moon. Maybe it will stop then.

But what if it invents space travel?

Katja

“Hey! You’re mooning the neighbors.”

Kylie drifts through the apartment in a cloud of smoke. Cigarette ash trails behind her, planting its seeds in the coarse carpeting. Here and there butts are already sprouting.

“Dude, I mean it! Wear something.”

She bends over to retrieve her underpants from the grease stained top of a pizza box, half hidden under the coffee table.

His beer hits the table, the glare hits Kylie.

Her belly squashes into two, three, four rolls as she maneuvers her second leg through the hole.

“You’re so beautiful… I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah. See you next week.”

Munsi!

There’s a whole lot wrong in the world.

The globe is warming, and we’ve passed peak oil. Our governments tell us we’re safe from terrorism, but you know we aren’t. A handful of bankers and lobbyists can destroy the global economy and be rewarded with billions of our tax dollars for it.

And yes, sometimes this gets me down, but when it does all I have to do is remember…

The moon.

We walked on the moon.

We walked on the fucking moon.

So yeah, please, look me in the eye and tell me we can’t overcome our collective challenges…

Logan Berry

Dear earth pen pal,

How’s waste? I’m wasting pretty good. No, unfortunately my girlfriend
is still constipated and may even be ready for the Big Recycle. Thanks
for the idea of the bran but we don’t have that here, and I have never
heard of a Telethon. We don’t really have much time for TV anyway as
we are mostly busy mining.

Both my parents have been Recycled but I still have twenty-four
siblings to keep me company if my girlfriend is reused. So don’t
worry, I will never be lonely, for though it may be barren and
lifeless here, all our mining, sleeping and wasting are done in
big, happy communal pile-ups.

And good luck with the new waste recycle program which you say earth
desperately needs these days. I am mystified why your people would
find the idea gross.

Happy wasting,
Your moon pen pal

Tom

In a previous life I ran pre production in a printing plant. We did custom work for a bunch of the Silicon Valley firms and a fair about business with Leland Stanford Jr. College. My favorite on going job was with the Student Union. They had a photograph of a line of a dozen undergrads with their pants dropped to their ankles and their butts facing squarely to the viewer. We printed this image on T-shirts with the following:Get your B. A.at Stanford. Not to be out done Cal students printed a shirt: Moon over your Masters.

###

Nelman Freder was back in the ER. He had severe laceration to his backside, which by Freder standards was not very noteworthy. The confusing element of this examination was the state of his pants. How do you rip your ass to pieces and not tear the pants? After considerable probing by Dr. Dan, and Nurse Betty, Nelman mumbled something about his Cousin Kevin. Seems Sub syllabic Cos Kev dared him a case of beer if he would “do it” “What was the IT?” “We were only going 10 miles an hour,” Nelman looked sheepishly out the window “A moving moon.”

Cliff

Alice was the queen of the moon people. She’d been born in Brooklyn and lived her whole life there with no notion that there were such things as moon people.
When she’d married, she’d done it for love, not money, which was good because there was never enough money. Her husband became bitter and angry and threatened to take out his rage on Alice but she loved him and never believed he’d do it.
When he finally snapped, the Moon Goddess whisked Alice away just as her husband had been about to strike her.
Bam. Pow. To the moon, Alice.

Zackmann

You mean to tell me after I forced myself to stowaway on a rocketship that I am only here because Skinner Co got bad intell? Your CEO is not an evil supervillain who is trying to build a moon base in order to take over the world but you are a group of science fiction and gardening enthusiasts who believe that garden domes on the moon will encourage interstellar travel.
Really, I mean Really, did you think just maybe you would have avoided a great deal of suspicion if you had not call your lunar botanical gardens The Moonraker Project?

Dammit, I woke up naked in a haystack watching the full moon setting in the morning sky. I am not sure if that means I should quit drinking or should get new friends with less sense of humor than my present so called friends. They went whole hog even tearing apart that pig as if a dog ate it. Funny I am feeling full and am covered with blood. Might explained my dream of eating Chocolate Meat from a running soup kettle. I fear this was not a practical joke. Must be a joke because I can not be werewolf

Chris

I put the tent away and went to the village.

The village was small but was still warm. As I walked I noticed a boy watching me.

“Hi I’m Strone, I’m not from around here could you help me?” I said.

“Hello Strone, I am Firehawk. I may help but you must be trustworthy.” He replied.

“I will try to earn your trust in me.”

“Good, do you know of magic?”

“I have heard about it, I heard that the moon is the source of magic.”

“Very well come with me, for now get some rest you have come far.”

Steven

“Captain, you are to take out the Russian guns.” The messenger begins
to turn his mount to return to the command point.

I cough, catching his attention. “Sir, which guns?”

“Those guns,” he says, and casually waves his hand toward the Russians.

My gaze travels down the length of his arm, down the wide open valley
past two ridges of Russian troops, and directly toward the enemy steam
mechs.

“We’re doomed,” my sergeant says.

But past the enemy guns, I see the full moon, still visible in
daylight. It has not yet set, and I smile a knowing smile.

Lizzie (For Circe)

Aim for the moon, said her friend. And she did. She collected broken tiles, blue, red, green, and glued them on a cardboard the size of the moon. People thought she was crazy obsessing over those tiles, but she didn’t pay any attention. She was on a mission. Yellow, purple, orange. She gathered all the colors except one. Should that color go in there too? Suddenly, a kid said “the black is missing”. No black, she thought. “The moon will look better,” and he smiled. Life is full of colors but the kid’s smile was the one she really needed.

Norval Joe

Spleen couldn’t wait to be away from the company. The stinking elf was too much for any goblin to stand, even a half-goblin.
He crouched and watched from a distance as they prepared their camp by the light of the moon. He’d given the witch his word he wouldn’t eat any of the people, but what good was a goblin’s word.
Spleen eyed the boy, alone, standing first watch. He licked his razor sharp teeth with his scaled tongue.
“Don’t get any ideas, goblin,” the ranger said from behind.
Spleen spun around, hissing.
Maybe he should eat the ranger first.

RedGoddess

Lola first fell in love with the moon as a child. She was transplanted, lonely in a foreign and unsettling new world. After landing at an overpopulated airport clutching her important documents, she looks to the moon for comfort. It’s her safety blanket in stormy restless nights, the only reliable roof over her head. It is the closest and farthest gift in her universe. She sees it from every corner of the planet among clouds of uncertainties. Revealing its soft light when least expected. The moon, her companion, till they part eternally.

Pale Infinity

it seems that a similar theme ran thru her
poetry/ a thread of sadness stringing together most of her poems./ There were some from the rare peaceful times
that ventured into/ larger subjects but most of them were
about lost love./ she couldnt stop thinking of her past
mistakes and move/ on. So when she started realizing
she was living with /a ghost she finally had something different to write about./
her new work attracted some fans. many people now believe / in ghosts and life after death. this particular ghost stole /butter knives and hid things. her weakness
became losing things,

TJ

The topic: The Meaning of Life – “The Meaning of Life”

Turned out the doll room was my grandfather’s attempt at a perpetual
motion machine. The rotating limbs and flickering eyelids eventually
released a catch and snapped open a side door. Inside we found a laptop
marked “The Meaning of Life.” I typed in, “Is it love?” “No.
People have lived meaningful lives without love.” “Is it sex?”
“Sex perpetuates life. It provides no context for meaning.” Other
inquiries were similarly shot down: “Is it kindness?” “Power?”
“Influence?” Until I typed in the question: “Does life have
meaning?” The laptop beeped. “No.” “Thus spake Zarathustra,” I
mused. We continued our exploration.

The topic: Game – “Artificial Intelligence”

The laptop had been nestled into a dusty confabulation of colorful
wires, exposed circuit boards, and blinking LEDs that seem to have
groaned back to life with the flickering doll eyes. Beyond this tangled
mess, my grandfather had cleared a space where a robotic armature
hovered over a game board, quivering like an arrow newly sprung, beneath
a heading of “Artificial Intelligence – Interface II” Grandma was
mystified – she’d clearly never been to this part of the hoard
before. “Should we play it?” she asked. I didn’t know what to say.
How much artificial intelligence was required to play “Sorry”?

The topic: Fingers – “Workspace”

Between the perpetual motion machine (still chittering away), and the
laptop and the game, we were moving into a part of the house that was
purely Granddad’s domain. But since he and my grandmother were both
inveterate hoarders, there was a generalized fluidity to the massed
collection of things, useful flowing seamlessly into useless. My fingers
traced a line in the dust along three steamer trunks held closed with a
hasp when there was a resonant CLUNK! from within. The five of us – my
grandmother, my sister, my Aunt Betty, Uncle Lou and myself – looked
at each other with dread.

The topic: I don’t know what this is – “Discovery”

Not having any idea what was inside the steamer trunks, I reached with
some trepidation for the hasp in the center. A shuddering creeeeaaaaak
sounded as a panel opened and a WHOOSH and a shriek from Aunt Betty as a
cat scurried past our ankles. The noise had come from a reel-to-reel
recording apparatus in some apparent reaction to the springing to life
of the creepy perpetual motion machine in the next room. Of course, I
may have just associated the two with the pile of extra doll parts that
poured out of the trunks. I shuddered, and hit “Play.”

The topic: Rhymes with itch – “Recording”

I hit play on the ancient recorder and we listened to the staticky voice
of my grandfather reciting a snatch of verse. “The sitch is this. It
rhymes with itch. And which rich bitch would snitch my niche will pitch
a fit to learn that it will not be her so SIT ON IT!” The rest of us
were mystified but my grandmother was pale with anger. “YOU sit on it,
you crazy old bedbug!” she wheezed before collapsing into a chair.
“What did he mean, Nana?” my sister asked, but my grandmother
grabbed a lamp and SMASHED the recorder.

The topic: Fool – “Epiphany”

“Crazy old fool!” she breathed. In another part of the house the
lamp she’d destroyed along with the reel-to-reel recorder would’ve
been defended as a priceless antique, although my guess was most of the
junk we were up to waist-deep in was non-functioning. As I spied what
looked like a sort of steampunk spider in the corner, my guess was also
my hope. “He swore he’d outlive me, one way or t’other,” Grandma
groused. “There was no viewing because he’d prearranged everything.
I bet he’s still here somewhere.” “In spirit?” Barb asked,
doubtfully. Grandma snapped. “And maybe in person, too.”

The topic: Sick – “The Awakening”

The thought that any part of my grandfather – or maybe his entire
corpse – might still be in this miasma of doll parts, cat waste and
scrap frankly made me sick to my stomach. The ashen faces of my fellow
explorers – all of whom had already encountered eyefuls and snootfuls
in this adventure – told me I wasn’t alone in this. I’d certainly
be more circumspect about any further steamer trunks I encountered. My
heart wasn’t ready for the churning metallic nightmare that sprang to
life in the corner. That spiderlike contraption resolved into a humanoid
android… topped with granddad’s embalmed head.

The topic: Hugs – “Panic”

“Greetings!” a voice said. It was not my grandfather’s, nor did it
come from my grandfather’s dead head, tumbling around in its jar of
embalming fluid. Rather, it was mechanical, probably programmed by him,
operating on the principle of an artificial intelligence that assessed
life as being ultimately meaningless. So it wouldn’t necessarily
matter to him that he’d died if his inventions lived on, although he
obviously thought he’d be living on as well, sustained by them. That
clearly was not the case. That didn’t stop his machine, however, its
metal arms extended, lumbering toward us. “Who wants a hug?!”

The topic: Moon – “Resolution”

The race down the stairs was unanimous. The android that pursued us was
hampered by Boolean decision-making, unmaintained hydraulic servoes and
its having been built by a kook. The cats raced out ahead of us as the
clanking, artificially intelligent machine cut its own path through the
hoard. At the entryway, I lit books of matches and threw them into the
hoard. The last we saw of granddad was his wild deathmask floating in a
blaze of fire in a mechanical mess stuck through the floorboard. We
hugged each other and wept in the moonlight. Distant sirens began to
wail.

Planet Z

Just as earthers construct their deities around their experiences, so do the denizens of other distant worlds.

The Kalpesians are skilled digestive-builders, creating temples to their butt-god Hrunghf, who shat out the world in various chunks and splatters.

It’s impossible the stop nautilusian Proog priests from droning endlessly about how we’re all “living inside a chamber of Ba-Proog’s mighty shell.”

And when a Liiiiiiiik gasbag starts talking about The Mighty Ssssssssssspop’s expanding and contracting with every sunrise and sunset, you’ll wish you had a knitting needle.

So, I’m sorry about serving that spaghetti for dinner.

Do Pastafarians still eat breadsticks?

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 Twelve, 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 hugs.

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

Tura
Thomas and his new book!
Katja
Serendipity Haven
Almo
Chris Munroe
Lizzie Gudkov
Logan Berry
Tom
Guy David
Sevi by Bonchance
Zackmann
Cliff
Steven Saus and the books at Amazon!
Botgirl
Danny
Red Goddess/TalkMarie
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…

Obligatory photo:

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.

---

Tura

I saw someone offering “Free Hugs!!” on the street. Well, that’s money lying on the table, I thought. But when I offered “Hugs, $1 each!!” no-one was interested.

So I built a hugging machine. Put a coin in the slot, get a hug. That did better, until I nearly got sued for injuries.

So I covered it with fur and turned up the strength. “Are you man enough? Test yourself against the Bear Hug!!” Every machine I install is pulling in a thousand dollars a day.

Peace and love is all very well, but it’s sex and violence that sells.

Thomas

The Tedesco sisters always competed. They competed for the bathroom, boyfriends and grades. When they were older, they competed in business. Shirley opened a massage parlor behind the library. Monica opened a handsome little counseling and Asian carpet boutique in a nearby mall.

Shirley’s business, Tugs and Hugs, was on the police watch list. Monica’s Business, Rugs and Hugs seemed totally respectable and in compliance of local law.

More rubbing and grinding went on at Monica’s business than Shirley’s in spite of appearances.

Monica would “counsel” her clients for a few minutes, then hug them like they’ve never been hugged.

##

Few of us know the derivation of the hug. The hug was first used by the Northern Greeks, and almost spontaneously, they were the first humans to stick out their tongue to signify dislike or jealousy.

The Greeks ran around in light, linen garments, and were constantly in a state of chill during the winter months. They initiated hugs or dispensed hugs as a means to stay warm, and it became a habit.

Among the Greek aristocrats, the hugs were dispensed freely–without consideration of the temperature. Many of the more flamboyant aristocrats spent hours hugging friends and their manservants.

Katja

Months of wiping shit. Spoon feeding. Sponge bathing. One conversation
on repeat.

Daydreaming of a pillow to the face. Death was waiting. No witnesses.
The ambulance wouldn’t even come anymore.

This wasn’t a call for the paramedics.

“Uncover her and open the windows. We’re sending someone.”

Sticky summer afternoon. You lose track of time. Every minute – check
for breathing, check for heartbeat. The family couch lulled me and she
took her chance and slipped away.

“Thank you,” I said, chicken arms dangling around me, as I dragged her
flat and centre onto the pillows. Our first hug.

Serendipity

This is why I rarely go to church and, if I do, I always aim to arrive late.

Today, my timing is way off!

Crossing the car park, I keep a low profile; head down, as I make my way to the entrance… but I’ve been spotted.

Inevitably, it’s a colourful, chunky guy wearing an equally colourful chunky sweater – ‘Jesus loves YOU!’ it proclaims in woollen script.

He spots me and breaks into a big bearded grin.

Resigned to the inevitable… I’m engulfed in a great, scratchy, coffee-breathed, stale sweat-tainted bear hug.

Christian hugs: The devil’s greatest friend.

Almo

The deafening roar of the engine was followed by the squeal of tires as Nelo and I watched Jimmy start to race down the canyon road. I wanted to be a driver and Nelo said we could stand up here and watch. Jimmy was the best.

“See how he hugs the curves then shoots to the outside?” Nelo said.

Jimmy’s car slammed the guardrail, which buckled. The car soared before it disappeared.

“What do you do if you want to survive?” I asked.

“You stay a little closer to the center,” Nelo said and he dialed 911 on his cellphone.

Chris

Come in, everybody, help yourself to a seat.

As you certainly all know by now, Johnson’s been let go as of this afternoon and the company is in the midst of an exciting new lawsuit, and so I’ve been asked to reiterate our sexual harassment policy.

We do not, never have and will never tolerate inappropriate or uninvited physical contact among our staff.

Ever. No exceptions.

In that light, effective immediately our “hugs, not drugs” policy will be rescinded. Hugging will be met with immediate disciplinary action.

And drugs, of course, are now perfectly acceptable.

So: Anybody got a hookup?

Lizzie

Alice was the sweet spinster everybody avoided. She had this annoying habit of hugging everyone effusively. She wasn’t weird; she just had a big heart. One day, a gentleman with a similar propensity for hugging moved into town. NO! Two huggers! Running an errand would now take twice as long! Until several months later, the two finally met face to face. To hug or not to hug! He smiled, she smiled and they kissed! The whole town took a sigh of relief. No more extreme hugging and people could now run errands in peace and… fast! Beware of kisses though…!

Logan

When I was a small child, chocolate milk was such a treat that I would drink it out of the glass with a spoon. It would take several delicious minutes that way. Now I pull a bottle of Milk 2 Go (”Laits Go” in French translation) from the shelf in the dairy section of the supermarket and finish it off before I reach the cashier. Glug, glug. Low blood sugar is the culprit, maybe. I still prefer my chocolate in liquid form.

Second best form of chocolate is a cookie from the UK called a Chocolate Oliver. It’s in the shape of a cookie but is really a hard solid real dark chocolate disc on a thin, negligible circle of biscuit. Chocolate milk and Chocolate Olivers– like a hug from a black and white cow. Or the Queen.

Tom

In times of severe financial compression how far you throw your net to seize employment opportunities increases to the point where you can’t see where it falls upon the horizon of an ever darken day. Case in point my new career path comes with a specific dress code, actually its more a uniform, well, truth be told I’m dressed as Seven foot CareBear. I could see the kids kicking, baby vomiting, drunk parents taunts as life draining afflictions of the soul. No, I see them as a challenge to rise to a higher purpose. My job is giving out hugs.

Guy David

H.U.G.S., aka “Hugs” or “Human Ultraviolent Guided Seducers” are our most advanced missiles. Guided by GPS, coupled by face and voice recognition software and hacking the world surveillance cameras using the latest software virus hacks, our missiles can recognize targets miles away. Once recognized, our missiles home in on it, closing in until the target is in plain sight, then they use our latest camouflage techniques, turning into robotic poodles. Our technology is so advanced that it can’t be distinguished from the real thing and the target can’t help stroking it, then the poodle blows up in the targets face.

Zackmann

United Nations negotiators today talked Canadian supervillain Munsi Munsi out of using a device called the Dead Beat Box which would have used the sickest of sick beats to cause sickness and death.
It turns out all Munsi wanted was a super bowl commercial, a few million dollars, and a bag of Hershey’s Hugs.
The Dead Beat Box was sold to the California penal system because lethal injection causes too much suffering for ax murderers. CNN and Fox covered the first execution that ended the moratorium on capital punishment. Too bad they filmed the event with the cameras’ audio on.
zackmann

The innocent young sailor wanted to make his mother proud. His shipmate told him he could get one of the women who work a red light district bar to be a guide and show him the town even help him pick a gift for his mother. He met a sweet woman only a couple of years older than he. They played board games half the day. She always won. After touring the town she took him to a hotel room. “I only wanted to be hugged” he said. Removing his clothes, She replied “Yeah well, You got the package deal”

Sevi

Some crave a hug like a drug
Others shun it reminiscent of a horrid poison
It can fill your essence with a warm glow
Or leave a never-ending chill in your soul.

They have the power to heal
Or cripple you to the point of death
Love can permeate from the skin on skin
Or force you to hate all that surrounds you.

Sometimes one craves the breathtaking connection
For others they beg for it to not present itself
It can make your soul soar to the greatest heights
Others dream of running from it

The power of a hug…

Cliff

When I started writing for the weekly challenge, I didn’t know how much power it would have over my life. When the topic used the word “Itch”, I got poison ivy. When the topic was “Fool”, I felt like I spent the week being laughed at. When “Sick” rolled around, it missed me but it nearly everyone around me was sick to some extent. And now this.
As ridiculous as it may sound, the current topic of “Hugs” has me absolutely terrified. You see, we’re going to the zoo this weekend to see their newest exhibit: two adult grizzly bears.

Steven

The mecha’s cockpit slides closed. My comrades stand three abreast of
me, our craft hissing as the boilers reach operating temperature.
Through the viewport, the XO signals us by semaphore. The English are
at the far end of the valley. We are to strengthen our artillery and
men emplaced upon the ridge. Our mecha will deny the British this
valley; their only logical move will be into the path of our
reinforcements.

I move my hands, shifting the mecha’s in a giant salute before my
squad moves to the ridgetop.

Surely the English will not enter our deadly embrace.

Botgirl

“Be careful, Shira,” Mira said. “You don’t want to break him.”

“Oh my god, Mira! I can’t keep my hands off of this little guy.” Shira bubbled. “Have you ever seen anything so cute in your whole life?”

“Just remember what happened to Mister Cotton Tail,” Mira warned, shaking her head with a queesy look on her face.

Shira thrust her new plaything high above her head and peered up at him with manic delight. “I’d never squish my cute widdle wuv toy,” she crooned.

Spock’s spine snapped like a twig as he finally comprehended the essential absurdity of life.

Danny

Hugs, well this brings back memories. Memories of the insincere hugs received by ever ex ever dated. Mushy hugs from Mom that reek of the sense, “I’ve come to terms with the fact that you are my only son.” There is memory of hugging my beloved Maltese Danny Lee for the last time just over a year ago when he died. I now reach down and pick up my current dog, a Malti-Mutt named Freddie. What’s the point? Freddie can’t hug back. Then Freddie licks my face, his way of saying I Love You. Hugs aren’t so bad after all.

RedGoddess

Lola doesn’t often hug. She hugs friends on special occasions, or to comfort a good girlfriend after a blindsided break up. Other people seem to hug everywhere. Airports, train stations, restaurants, clubs are all notorious for sudden thoughtless embraces. Most movies include at least one oddly placed embrace. But still, Lola thinks hugs should be reserved for crisis, or only when desperatly needed. Until recently,with the start of an intense romance. She has found serenity in her lover’s bounty of hugs. And needs no reason to open her arms.She realizes now a hug is an extension of heart.

Norval Joe

Owen tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he stood by his uncle. He alone, of the entire company didn’t pitch in to load the equipment onto the heavy wooden wagon. Even the elf prince did his share. “You’d better get your hugs and kisses over now, boy,” the ranger said. “We’ll want to be moving while the day is still young.” “Don’t give him a bad time, Traveler,” Shareeka said. “This is his first time away from home.” “And he’s to be king,” Elbownor, the elf prince, scoffed. “This journey will either prepare him, or kill him.”

Planet Z

Hugo “Hugs” Washington loved his girlfriend very much.

So when he found out she was cheating on him, he killed her and the guy she was with.

Despite mountains of evidence, he claimed he didn’t do it. Said it was a set-up by the cops.

The jury didn’t believe him, but his mother did.

She’d showed up at the trial, sentencing, and the appeals to protest and shout and to hand out bumperstickers and t-shirts.

The problem was, she’d had them printed up with “FREE HUGS” on them.

It didn’t save her son, but she got a lot of hugs

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 Ten, 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 sick.

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

Tura
Thomas and his new book!
Chris the Nuclear Kid
Chris Munroe
Serendipity Haven
Logan Berry
Sevi
Bonchance
Guy David
Steven Saus and the books at Amazon!
Zackmann
Red Goddess/TalkMarie
Lizzie Gudkov
Danny
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…

Obligatory cat photo:

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.

---

TURA

Zaprut is the oldest city of which we have any record. Only its name survives, for the city was overtaken by a calamity so sudden, and so total, that none survived to say what befell it.

The name became synonymous with disaster, and in Roman times, hearing of some military debacle, senators would angrily declare, “Sic Zaprut!” — “thus was Zaprut!” fearing that Rome itself might pass the same way.

And that is why, nowadays, when a footballer wishes to express the depth of his emotion when his team loses a match, he will profess to being “sick as a parrot”.

THOMAS

I’m sick. My eyes swollen, my ears ring,

I have a rash all over my thing.

When I walk, I stumble, my intestines rumble,

my nose is dripping, I’m constantly tripping.

My chest tight, my bowels are loose,

my guts feel like they’re in a noose.

My breath is stinky, I can’t use my winky.

My livers hard, my spleen is jumpy,

The back of my neck is red and bumpy.

My throat is tight, my teeth are loose,

my tongue tastes like mildewed moose,

No work for me today, but no work, no pay.

Oh, wait,

it’s a Holiday!

CHRIS THE NUCLEAR KID

Winter is Near

I walked and walked occasionally tripping over the immense weaving of roots and scratches covered my arms, legs, and face. It had been about two months when I first started my journey and it was getting colder so I knew it was nearly winter. I kept walking for a while then stopped to rest and eat.

Setting up the tent I had brought with me, I went to sleep. The next morning however, I felt sick. Looking around I noticed it had snowed during the night, which explained why I was feeling sick. Over the night I’d caught a cold.

MUNSI

I’m gonna drop some sick beats.

No, seriously, these beats are the sickest. You ain’t never heard beats this sick.

These beats are so sick the CDC has declared them a class one biohazard, and warned that exposure to them isn’t safe, dog.

The death rate from exposure to these beats is 96%, and they’re airborne, bro!

That’s right, airborne! No body-fluid contact required for transferral of these sick beats!

These beats are the sickest. The sickest!!!

…and unless the United Nations meets my demands, I will drop these beats.

You have been warned. You have twenty-four hours to comply.

SERENDIPITY

This is why you should always proofread your copy! Who’d have thought losing a single letter could cause so much grief?

“WANTED – Slick individuals who won’t take ‘no’ for an answer” – that’s what the ad should have said, but some bozo at the agency dropped the ‘L’ from ‘slick’.

Which is why I’m sifting through résumés with hobbies that include doing rather gruesome things to ducks and; ‘modelling with earwax’.

Then George turned up for his interview…

“So, why should I give you this job, George?”

He opened his jacket, revealing an arsenal of scalpels.

I gave him the job!

LOGAN BERRY

Genvie and Tolly had a contest: who could be the worst, in one week? Genvie kicked things off by parking illegally in a handicap zone at a mall, while she leisurely shopped for a new soft toy for her cat, Stinky. Tolly shared a dorm room with an academic exchange student from Indonesia, whom he made cry by shaving her head she was asleep.

Genvie kept saying she ”could are less” when she meant she ”couldn’t care less”. Tolly drove below the speed limit in busy highway traffic. Genvie painted an abstract picture in shades of yellow, to which she glued golden raisins in a random pattern.

The shellfish in Tolly’s ciopinno was so aggrariously undercooked that seven of his twelve guests were violently ill, and one died. Genvie purchased a shotgun and killed her next door neighbor, Gus, for continually allowing his dog out onto the roof at 6 a.m. on weekday mornings, where he barked and disturbed the neighbors. ”That was really sick,” Tolly admitted to Genvie on visiting day. ”You win.”

SEVI

Sick

Sick…
Of my life
Selected for me
No reason to go on
With the charade
All the lies

Sick…
Of him
His power
The control
Unable to make my own decisions
To live in a free world

Sick…
Of instilled fear
A life full of coercion
Unrelenting rules
No flexibility
To be who I want to be

Sick…
Of the lies
The ongoing propaganda
To be someone I am not
Trying to squeeze into an iron mold
It constrains me

Sick…
Of this world
The Earth
The Wind
The Fire
The Water

I am begging, transcend my soul to heaven.

BONCHANCE

The Car

Dave set out to buy a safe car for his daughter.
He was regretting his purchase.

It had everything on his list and within budget.

His wife followed as he drove the gift to his daughters apartment.
A kid must have been the previous owner, all black inside and out,
black rims, black tinted windows, oversized tailpipe. He only hoped his
daughter wouldn’t think it too hideous to drive.

He parked, stepped to the curb when a passing young man said
“dude sick car!”. He nodded confirming the judgment but
then noticed it was meant as a compliment.

He smiled.

GUY

The yellow acid known as a lemon smashed through my mouth, distributing throughout my body. I should have known that it would contain the virus. I could feel the nanobots working up and down my body, changing it. I knew what was coming. I’ve seen it happen to many of my friends before, too many. My body would change, my memories would fade and I would no longer be. Who knows which terrorist group released the virus. Maybe it wasn’t them. Maybe it was a madman in a basement somewhere. The end result – we are all ending up as trees.

STEVEN

She was sick. Lied about everything- her parents, her past. Did drugs and fucked her lovers in front of the infant. Blew a grand on a drug fueled orgy when we were reconciling.

Her child was sick. It explains the shit smeared on the wall, the threats and violence, the last videotaped assault, the knife and murder plan hidden under his bed.

His second mother was sick. Her father’s abuse, a string of others, the reinfected by the violent child. Gone now – maybe healing, maybe not.

But I see the common factor.

He’s in the mirror.

Time to heal.

TOM

Hello America I’m Morgan Freeman and I’m here this evening at the 100 word challenge at podcasting.is.fullofcrap.com to share with you the tragic tale of Tommy M. Yes dear listeners Tommy appears to be a normal health young man, but lurking under the surface is a silent killer.

Tommy suffers from a terminal case of Objectphela a compulsive drive to attain 100 mid-century objects. This condition is triggered by viewing the Lionsgate production of The Lost Room. Yes see Tommy blankly staring at ebay listings scrolling untill his fingers bleed.

I found the Motorola 17t13

Sad. Give so more may live.

ZACKMANN

I think I got that new mutation of the bird flu. Being the whitest of white boys, I should have seen my doctor when people started complimenting me on my dancing. Good dancing is the first sign of the Disturbed Strain of the bird flu virus. No really, it was on the news and everything. The worst thing was when I started growing feathers.The feelings of hate and anger were no treat. It was bad enough I could not stop physical activity until fainting from exhaustion. You can say that I got up and got down with the sickness.
zackmann

REDGODDESS

Lola was on alert to fight back sneaky germs during the flu season. She stocked on multi-vitamins, ginger roots and cold medications for a month’s worth. She’s been exposed to some sick zombies leaking fluids from everywhere. On the trains, she noticed some couldn’t breathe. While few were always on the brink of sneezing. Others were coughing non-stop in their oversized coats with tissues on the other hand. The rest were too weak to even dry their red droopy eyes. Lola was determined to beat these viruses before plotting and snatching their chance to trap her to a sick bed.

LIZZIE

Hidden in the corner of the attic under piles of dusty newspapers, she noticed a trunk. Inside, amongst old diaries, curls of hair and baby shoes, there was a letter dated 1905. She read through “… dangerous and… are sick. Stay away…. has purple eyes. Do not marry him… become killers…” She was shocked. Who was this person? Above the trunk was an old mirror. She looked up and she understood. The stranger did marry into the family despite the warning letter, because she too had purple eyes and this inexplicable urge that had driven her to a complete solitude.

DANNY

My dog peed on the carpet again! I had just taken him out two times in the past 40 minutes, yet he still pees right on the carpet. I can’t leave the litte monster alone, so I decide to sleep on the floor in an attempt to keep him from peeing on the carpet. Background noise from the television finally lulls me to sleep, the dog nestles beside me. I eventually dream of being trapped at the bottom of a foul, polluted waterfull. I suddenly wake up to a face full of urine from the back end of my dog. Sick.

CLIFF

The Waiting

“The king is dying,” the cry went up.
As my father lay still, all manner of charlatans came to the palace. Shamen and healers plied their craft, but his majesty did not awake. Physicians used leaches. Mystics burned incense. An exorcist cast out demons. Still, Good King Leonard did not stir. All in the land who claimed power over disease took their turn to no avail. All, that is, except the old alchemist up on Watchtower Hill, the one that sold me the poison. When my father finally died and made me king, the old man would receive his reward.

Hey, Mort! Did you hear about Mary’s kid?
What, the trouble maker? What did he do now?
He just came back from the dead, that’s all.
Dead? I didn’t even know he was sick.
He wasn’t sick, you idiot. The Romans crucified him.
Ooh, that’s gotta smart. That’s a tough way to go, ya know?
Doesn’t matter. He ain’t dead no more.
What are you talking about? Dead’s dead.
Nope. Some folks saw him walking around. Said he was going to bring eternal life to everyone.
Thomas, I swear you’ll believe anything. I’m hungry. C’mon. Let’s go find some eggs.

NORVAL JOE

“Some prince you seem to be.” The ranger laughed as he stood over the vomiting elf. “No stomach for the lesser forms of life?”
“Don’t badger his highness, Traveler” Shareeka said. “That trait is one of the reasons we need him along. He’ll feel sick whenever goblins are near.”
“What about Spleen?” Owen asked. “Will the half-goblin still go with us?”
The wizardess chanted some words and the elf climbed shakily to his feet.
“You could have warded the creature before we met,” the prince said, “and saved me the discomfort.”
“Yes,” Shareeka said, controlling a wicked smile. “I know.”

PLANET Z

The comedian Spike Milligan wanted to have his tombstone inscribed with the phrase “I told you I was ill.”

However, despite his fame and stature in society, the church said no. Apparently, they followed the principle of John Waters the filmmaker, who said that he wanted a plain tombstone with just his name because humor ages, and eternity is too long for a joke.

The church and Spike came to a compromise, where the phrase would be added to his tombstone translated into Irish.

John Waters, on the other hand, is still alive, and his pencil-thin mustache remains fabulously rakish.

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 Ten, 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 Fool.

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

Tura
Sevi
Serendipity Haven
Chris Munroe
Lizzie Gudkov
Zackmann
Thomas
Almo
Chris the Nuclear Kid
Steven the Nuclear Man
Tom
Fourworlds
Guy David
Cliff
Danny
Norval Joe
Red Goddess/TalkMarie
Planet Z

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… imagine they’re like these rocks:

Hurl them through the Interet’s windows… spread the love and welcome and hope!

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.

---

Tura

In olden times, only the Fool could tell the truth to the King, and not be executed. The King had to seem Wise, but only his Fool was truly Wise.

So Wise did Fools become, that during one disputed succession, the Fool himself was crowned King. And the Fool’s wisdom was seen for the shadow of his betters’, and sat on the throne he was only an ordinary fool.

But those who would be King were satisfied, for now they could plot and scheme without fear of the King’s Fool. And thus have we been ruled by fools ever since.

Sevi

Reflecting back on one’s life
Do you remember…

The silly “boy” crushes of yesteryear
Insane acts of behaviour with strangers
Over indulging, until you begged for forgiveness.

Wild and crazy nights
Only to awake violently shaking your head
Swearing you will never do that again!

How many times can one be so uncool?
Did people gossip about your stunts
Laughing at you over steaming hot coffee chat?

You became the front page news!
Growing older, maybe maturity will cure the insanity
On that sentinel birthday
Enter a life of stability and boredom!
You will never be again that silly fool!

Serendipity

They say a fool and his money are easily parted. The particular fool in question was ‘Rooster’ Arlington; a chicken farmer, not known for his wit.

That’s how Chickensurance Inc. came to be.

It was all legal – proper policy and certificates, and a killer sales pitch – “Look at it this way, Sam, regular livestock insurance won’t cover you for natural disasters… you get a tsunami, earthquake or lightning strike – you lose the lot – with Chickensurence you’re covered! Five bucks investment per bird gives a fifty dollar return.”

Twenty thousand policies – sold!

How was I to know it was twister season?

Zod

I won’t use this prompt as an excuse to do a story about Mr. T.

I’m better than that, and I’ve gone to that well too many times already.

I mean, it’s 2012, does anyone but me even remember Mr. T?

I have the breadth and depth of my creativity to explore, and I can come up with something original and insightful if I work at it.

But it’s hard to resist! Knowing I could turn this prompt into a Mr. T gag so easily makes every word I type agony!

Will nobody take pity on me?

Zod damn it…

Lizzie

“No time to explain! Get in the car!” said the total stranger. “Just get in the car!”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

And he did. He couldn’t believe himself. He did get in the car. They drove for hours to a town called “Hell”. He chuckled. They got out of the car and walked to an old house.

“Come with me.”

And he did. As they entered the house, he could not believe his eyes. It was a massacre. There were people hanging from the ceiling all over the house. The man looked at him.

“Fool, you’re next. It always works!”

Zackmann

In the news of today.
Christopher Moore author of Fool has release a cookbook called Cordon Bleu.
Zombies are blocking the freeway.
Unemployment is at one percent.
Walt Disney company says it is sorry about ACTA, SOPA, and PIPA.
Zombie Jesus waits for you under the spaghetti tree
Wait, Chris Moore’s new book is Sacre Bleu.
There are no known zombies despite how most of you will look on your morning commute.
The economy still sucks
Major corporations are still evil.
and Jesus is still not a zombie.
This is the last time I do a newscast on April first.

Thomas

Little Johnny learned that there is no fool like an old fool when he was in the second grade. The old fool that he knew, intimately, was his grandpa Big Johnny. Big Johnny would spend hours playing catch the thumb while he rocked in his big chair on the porch. He’d put his left thumb up, and try to catch it with his right hand before he tucked his thumb into his fist. He’d do this for hours, and sometimes grandma Minnie would play too, laughing so hard that she leaked when Big Johnny missed ten times in a row.

##

Chuckles played the fool, indulged in buffoonery and acted foolishly. This kept Chuckles out of the military when all his mates were being drafted, and by acting foolish and naïve, he was never punished by his parents or the IRS for making errors on his tax returns. He drooled, stuttered, rolled his eyes, picked his nose in public, passed wind, shop-lifted, cut in line. Playing dumb had many rewards, including qualifying for Pell Grants, weekly groceries at the food bank, and copped feels from his girlfriend, Dione. When caught driving too fast without a license or insurance, he played dumb.

Almo

I was walking through the mall when I saw my ex, Cindy, shopping at Saks. “Is this what my alimony is going for?” I asked as I walked up behind her.

“Who the hell are you?” she said.

“You can’t fool me, Cindy. You can dye your hair and get colored contact lenses, but you can’t erase that tattoo.” I reached under the hem of her skirt to find the rose on her thigh.

That’s when she slapped me, a hard right-hander across the face that left my cheek flushed, mostly from embarrassment.

You see, Cindy is a lefty.

Chris

I wasn’t like most people. My parents died in a fire on my tenth birth day.

When I was eleven I found a chest full of weapons. There were swords, bows, arrows, and armor. I trained day after day until I mastered every weapon in the chest.

When I turned fourteen I was ready to begin my journey. I planned to travel to the nearest village for supplies and perhaps make a friend.

I wasn’t a fool so, I packed large bag with food, clothes, and extra weapons. I slung the bag onto my back, and began my long journey.

Steven

The valley lies before me. Sounds of muskets and dying men echo, bringing the scents of gunpower and blood. I close my eyes on the carnage and wonder if I shall see home and Elizabeth again.

My sergeant’s hand rests upon my shoulder. “Captain, look.”

But I do not need to look. I do not need intelligence from the balloon scouts. I do not need to strain to hear the sound over the din of battle.

I can feel the gargantuan footfalls as the enemy’s steam walkers come over the ridge.

“Goodbye, Elizabeth,” I say, and rejoin the Light Brigade.

Tom

Ok the Universe is cold capricious, and often malicious at it doles out
its share of comic humor upon us semi sentient souls. But somewhere in
that black heart it saw fit to add 5 days to my mother pregnancy. That
tiny adjustment reduced the amount of future ridicule by a whooping 95%.
Its bad enough have a name which rhymes with Salome. If hear that one
again I got an ice pick ready. But to have been born at April Fool’s day
that had future serial killer written all over it. Thank you universe for
throttling your Tomfoolery.

Fourworlds

I used to think of myself as The Fool. Not a fool. The Fool. You know, the Tarot card. I was a long haired lad with a light heart and an untroubled mind; blindly grasping at each passing object of desire; completely oblivious to both the receding chaos in my wake and the approaching chasms I always just missed stepping into.

Decades later, I’m not that guy anymore. I’d hoped to mature eventually into The Magician, but never developed the discipline to get there. I resonate most strongly these days with the Ace of Wands. I can live with that.

Guy

He follows her around like a dog, and Yogerthy Yogurt loved it until he started chasing cars, barking and digging holes, hiding bones in her backyard. She tried throwing a stick into a bottomless well but he climbed out and fetched. She tried driving him to ever increasingly remote locations and accidentally forgetting him there, but he kept returning. Even when she refused his marriage proposal, bone ring and all, he kept coming back wagging his tail. She eventually had to call the dog catchers for him. The guys from the asylum just didn’t have dog food on their menu.

Uncle Monster

I just knew I would find it this time. The day was going perfect and my journey was taking me closer than I had ever been. After a slight deviation, I found my way back on the narrow secluded path leading to that beautiful dream I was reaching for. I walked along with great confidence that I would finally have the wonderful “prize” I sought so feverously! I could see the goal, I moved along quicker than ever and reached the end anticipating my prize, but to my dismay, found only a note that read “April Fools, you missed again!”

Danny

Walking into this putrid establishment, I expected to get the run around by the staff. I first interrogated the hotel clerk. “Don’t lie to me! Tell me, the suspect, is she here?” “Well yes,” the clerk repsonded. “She was here at 3:15, then she left, came back at 3;17, left again, was promptly back at 3:20 to use the bathroom, claiming some emergency. She left again at 3:30, came back at 3:33, hailed a cab, and we have not seen her since. “Bullshit! Do you think I’m a Fool?!!!,” I screamed. “Well, duh,” the clerk responded, “While explaining this, she was able to get away.”

Norval Joe

Owen felt out of place in the tavern, but not because of his age or the alcohol served at the bar. It was the sheer number of people crowded into the dark, smoky, common room. Raised on a farm he’d never seen this many people in his whole life.
“I’d be a fool to say I’ll take you to the mines of Grool,” the ranger said under his breath.
“I didn’t think you’d be afraid of goblins,” Shareeka teased.
“Nay, it’s not what’s in the mines what unnerves me,” Traveler said, “It’s what we must pass through to get there.”

RedGoddess

Rita devoted the last 11 months around executing her dream wedding, with high school sweetheart, Rob. They met on a blind date through friends. It was love by the time the pie a la mode was served after sharing an entree. They rented a one-bedroom apartment in her parents’ neighborhood. They carpooled to work. She was even contemplating quitting her job to be closer to his. Everything was set for her spring wedding on Cape Cod, minutes from the Kennedy compound. After seeing a Blue Man group show, he declared, ” I can’t do it.” She felt like the biggest fool.

Planet Z

Farmer Nedwyn spotted The Traveler walking along Market Road.

“Are you sure it’s him?” the mayor asked.

“Black cloak and cowl, silver staff,” said Nedwyn. “And The Cards were already in his hand.”

The Cards Of Fate.

The mayor sighed. “I hope it’s a good fortune.”

A table and a chair were dragged out of Mossbeard’s Pub and placed in the town square.

All work stopped. A crowd gathered.

The Traveler sat down, dealt out three cards, and turned each over.

Death.

Death.

Death.

The crowd gasped.

“Just kidding, people,” croaked The Traveler, and he got out the real deck.

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.

---

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.

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 Eight, 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 I don’t know what it is.

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

InertialVoom
Bonchance
Logan Berry
Tura
Lizzie Gudkov
Tom
Chris Munroe
Serendipidy Haven
Zackmann
Steven The Nuclear Man
Red Goddess/TalkMarie
Cliff
Buttermilk
Guy David
Abernathy and Sachy
Chris the Nuclear Kid
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.

Myst says “Listen!”

---

Inertial Voom

The Ataturk Curse:

We were in the trenches at Tripoli. The Turks fired their cannons at us.

I saw a figure that looked like Buddha floating above the struggle. Bullets did not affect his calm appearance.

The Turks scrambled over the trench and I drew my knife. I noticed my enemy had my face, I dropped my knife and ran, and so did my enemy.

Miles away, I looked in the water to see my reflection while I quenched my thirst in a small stream. I had the uniform of a Turk, and had a face I did not know.

Bonchance

The Drive

I don’t know what it is, appointments are always on Monday.
Heavy traffic with long drives and still no time to talk.
Tom could see her friend in the back seat texting.

In the passenger seat, Kristen was watching the miles pass through the window, listening
to music on her headphones.

He smiled as he heard the music. Remembering how he used to scold her for having
it up too loud. He laid his hand on her hand.

She squeezed his hand tight and smiled still looking out the window.
Tom returned his attention to driving, thinking, talking’s over rated.

Trebble Stew

What is it, bones?

I don’t know what it is Jim, but I know I didn’t put it in here.
Scotty leaned his head down to the pot and smelled it, saying,
” I don’t know what it is Cap’n but it don’t smell right”.

Jim nodded his head and said let’s give it to the Vulcan, he can eat anything.
If he gets sick from it we’ll just say it must be too much garlic, like last time.

Spock always did say that humans had a rather bland taste in food.
Which explains why he had so few human friends.

Logan Berry

It was round and shiny. Droplets of dew slithered down its skin. It hung heavy among the leaves. She had never seen anything like it. She encircled it with trembling fingers and pulled until it came away. Ravenous, she brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply. It smelled sweet but tart, too. Sour but tantalizingly ripe. She bit.

“I don’t know what it is,” she whispered, “but it’s good.”

“Let me taste!” her companion cried. She ignored him, her eyes closed in heavenly bliss. “Dad says we have to share,” Adam muttered sulkily. She considered his words, and generously relented.

Tura

There is a secret that all make semblance to know, yet none speak. It is whispered in the darkest corners of the fitful night; for one day it appeared as a graffito scrawled in the stifling summer heat of a derelict alley in Montmartre; it is written in a book that does not permit itself to be read.

It is the secret that God told to the serpent, the serpent told to Eve, and Eve told to Adam.

But I think that the true secret is that the secret has been lost, and none any more knows what it was.

Lizzie

I run frantically. A dead-end is ahead, and yet another. I run and turn and run again. Stopping for a moment, I look up. All the windows are closed, the doors locked. Fearful, people are hiding. But he is out there, lurking in the shadows. Suddenly, he appears from nowhere, confident. I can feel him right behind me. I turn around slowly. It is time. I grab my sword and slash him dead. I smirk and walk back to the central plaza, to the light. This strange force, I don’t know what it is, but the city is still mine!

Tom

“I don’t know what that is,” said Tommy. Most ads in McCall’s and Red Book were highly identifiable. Even objects he had never actually come in contact with held enough temporal form to not cause question. But this ad was weird. A single blue box smack dap at the edge of the page. Where most ads were peppered with claims, description, and testimonials this one had one single word upon that small blue box. Tommy asked mom “ What is M-O-D-E-S-S ?” She blushed, then laughed “Because.” He didn’t get the joke, figured it was just some unfathomable adult mystery

Munsi

It’s an improv rule: Once something’s said out loud it becomes a fact.

No matter how foolish the idea sounds, it’s what’s happening and you have to commit to it 100%.

After a number of years doing improv, I started applying this rule to my day-to-day life.

Anything suggested, if even remotely feasible, I’ll agree to.

It’s gotten me into my share of trouble, to be sure, but it’s also led to some of the weirdest, wildest times of my life.

So I’m sticking with my improv rule. When opportunities come up, I’ll always accept them.

Because I don’t no.

Serendipidy Haven

There it is, on the mantelpiece – rescued from the gutter. I don’t know what it is.

Curiosity got the better of me, and now it sits there, intriguingly organic and fibrous – a mystery waiting to be solved.

I like to think it might be one of those desert flowers: its dry husk ready to burst into bloom for one magical moment, like a chrysalis springing briefly into life… it’s probably not. More likely a simple piece of street flotsam; somebody’s thrown away fruit peel, or the skeleton of an old leather purse.

I don’t really care.

It’s my little mystery!

Zackmann

“You have a disorder.”
“What do you mean?”
“Because you download all those ebooks, most of which you never read. Just because they are free, doesn’t mean you have to download them.”
“But some on Digital Ink spot are only free for a limited time. Gotta catchem all.”
“See what I mean and your Internet friends like DAVe Avila and Jeremy Shipp are just enablers.”
“If I have a disorder then just what is this said disorder called?”
“Just because I don’t know or no one has of yet coined a name for it doesn,t mean it isnt a disorder.“

Steven the Nuclear Man

It is layered deep.

Black words shift, sliding in interlocking shields, serifs sculpting sinister glyphs.

They guard it. They keep it from me.

My shears of punctuation and logic (pieced together with loci of syllogisms) puncture words, play havoc with layered defenses.

The words scream non sequitur shouts of agony and rage. I press on. “You should have!” Snip. “Immature ass!” Snip. “You didn’t!” Snip. “You never!” Snip.

The last word screams “I’m leaving,” but I snip snip snip it away.

I reach into the center of the fallen fortress to claim my prize.

I don’t know why I’m alone.

RedGoddess/TalkWithMarie

The weatherman predicted record breaking temperatures. No sun in sight but traffic is already backed up. Everyone is in a hurried state to grab something before reaching work. By 11:12 am, a nearby hotel bursts into flames as commuters run for cover inside various businesses. Within minutes, flashing red and blue lights blanketed the city streets. Firetrucks and ambulance vans dispatched to the affected neighborhood. At exactly 11:21 am, the whole city went pitch black. An old lady covered in ash asks the officer directing traffic, do you know what’s floating in the air? He mumbles,”I don’t know what it is”

Cliff/UncleMonster

Who knows

I don’t know what it is. It just sits there staring at me with its dark probing eyes. Three feet tall and covered in rust colored fur, it watches me as I go about my day. I never see it move but it shows up wherever I go. No one else has seen it or at least, no one will admit to it. I’ve stopped asking.

I can’t touch it. I can’t bring myself to try. I just ignore it, pretending it isn’t there, that I’m not crazy. I can’t help but wonder, though. Does it know what I am?

Butter Milk

Hey, check this out…
What is it?
Look. have you ever seen anything like it?
whoa, what’s it called?
poke it
no! it looks all spiky
feel right here
oh wow! weird!
look what happens
when you do this…
wow, cool! let me try!
can you smell it?
kinda smells like grass
doesn’t it look weird?
totally weird, it’s all spirally.
don’t drop it
ok, don’t worry. I won’t.
I found it out in the field
i want one!
look, look at this here
hehehe it’s so cool!
i think so too
Sorry, what did you say it was called?

Guy David

I entered the building, the microphone hidden in my shirt. Everyone was already there, blending in. The mall was full of people, shopping, talking, arguing, living their lives. I headed for the second floor. The mall speakers started playing the music. I started singing, my voice also coming through the speakers. People stopped in confusion, wondering what’s going on. A woman on the first floor joined in, then another woman on the second floor. We exchanged looks and winked. As the final singer, another man on the first floor joined In, I knew our lives would never be the same.

Abernathy and Sachy

Barnabus had always wanted to be a contestant on Guess What It Is, finally his day is here, his dream has come true and he was ready. He wore his favorite purple cardigan and didn’t change his socks from the night before.

Barnabus was wedged between a professor and cryptozoologist, if he wasn’t nervous before, Barnabus was now.

It was the third round and he had no score, sweating his hand hovered over the buzzer as the display item was rolled out for everyone to guess. Barnabus knew what it was. With a quick reaction his buzzer sounded. “It’s a…”

Norval Joe

Spleen crouched behind the wood pile and watched as the woman and boy approached. The axe handle felt comfortable in his sweaty palm. His forked tongue slipped between his scaled lips and tasted the scent of their blood.
They couldn’t see him in the shadows under the eves of the woodshed, yet they strode directly toward the half-goblin.
“I don’t know what it is about goblins,” the woman said. “They think they’re invisible when they’re in plain sight.”
“What do you mean, Shareeka?” The boy asked.
Spleen laughed and launched himself over the wood pile to answer the boy’s question.

Planet Z

It used to be that there were just plain and peanut M&Ms.

You could tell which was which by the shape.

Now they have all different kinds: pretzel, peanut butter, coconut, dark chocolate, and even mint.

Oh, and white chocolate. And the peanut with peanut butter.

And instead of the usual boring colors, all kinds of crazy colors, too.

When I pick up an M&M now, I have no idea what it is.

Or if it’s an M&M at all.

These sleeping pills look like M&Ms.

And Rich Uncle Fred loves ‘em.

They’ll rule it suicide.

Better doublecheck the will.

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 Seven, 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 Fingers.

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

Bonchance
Tura
Taralyn
Buttermilk
Lizzie Gudkov
InertialVoom
Chris Munroe
Zackmann
Guy
Tom
Chris the Nuclear Kid
Cliff
Steven The Nuclear Man
Red Goddess/TalkMarie
Danny Dwyer
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.

---

Bonchance

Lucky Haskins was an amiable person who always had a good word to say about a mate.
There isn’t a soul who knows him that doesn’t smile when someone mentions his name.

Lucky has done a lot of time in the joint. He built up a phenomenal list of friends in law enforcement agencies to
compliment his contacts on the other side of the law. Lucky never had a bit of good luck even before the accident,
back when he was known as Fingers Haskins.

No one was surprised when Lucky decided to give up trying to be a thief.

Tura

You know how, if you repeat a word over and over, the meaning drains away? And if you stare at a faint star, it disappears? My girlfriend was into Zen meditation. She stared at her self until it dissolved.

Afterwards, I stared at my fingers a lot. Where do they end and the palm begins? If they’re made of atoms, do they really exist? Isn’t it all just emptiness?

So how could I have strangled a non-existent person with non-existent fingers? The jury didn’t buy that, so here I am, staring at four walls all day. Staring until they disappear.

Taralyn

Fingers, little extensions from your hand, but when do you feel them? For me, it is when it is freezing outside and I have to go out and scrape my windows before my drive to work. While scrapping I start to feel them, but oddly enough it isn’t till I’m done and back in the warm car that they just ache, and I’m sooo aware of them it hurts. I can literally feel the bone piercing up through my flesh, I almost want to cut them off in that moment it hurts so much, but then they warm up, ahhhh.

Buttermilk

16 ladyfingers,
strong brewed coffee, room temperature. Maple syrup, cream cheese, soft. Sour cream, frozen whipped topping, thawed, unsweetened cocoa powder, for dusting, and 16 ladyfingers. They’re the pivotal main ingredient. Damn, where am I going to find 16 ladyfingers at this late hour? Even if I could find one lady to take them from, that would only be ten fingers. And I wanted to double the recipe, so now we’re up to four ladies’ fingers. She said she really wanted Tiramisu for dessert, but I just don’t see how i can possibly manage it now without all those fingers.

Lizzie

His fingers typed fast. The keyboard was steaming. The processor was going as quickly as it could. He was relentless. Clic clic clic. He had to write 5000 words within the next 7 minutes and he was running out of time. “The police found a strange object….” clic clic clic “… for no good reason, the neighbors…” clic clic clic “… thus creating a huge misunderstanding…” and he typed furiously. Suddenly, the phone rang. A shot. Puzzled he looked at his wet shirt. Blood… Clic… 5000 words deleted, clic. One journalist down. The cursor blinked alone on the white page.

Inertial Voom

Loving Hands

He was an old black man who had lived in the Congo during King Leopold II of Belgium’s reign. He opposed the government, and he knew what they would do to him. I watched him eat, deftly quiet, with the clicking of metal fingers.

He was lucky, he had friends who rushed him to a hospital in another country, while bandaging his wounds. I did not need to ask him if he needed any help. He seemed so capable, and he had a hearty laugh. I did find it awkward shaking his metal fingers on his prosthetic hand.

Munsi

It’s an old expression, but a true one: Feed a cold, starve a finger.

That’s not right.

If you have a cold, feed yourself finger food. If you have no fingers, you’ll starve.

Feed yourself cold fingers when you’re feverish?

Wait, I’ll figure it out, just give me a minute!

Chop off your fingers and leave them out ‘til they get cold?

That’s not it either.

This isn’t going well, I admit that.

Still, you knew I wasn’t a doctor when you asked me for advice about your cold.

Now: Let’s start cutting off fingers and see where it leads!

Zackmann

“I wish I ate before we started cleaning this building.” said Sara
“I will buy you some lunch after we are done cleaning,” replied Jan the lead housekeeper.
“Look this box has lady fingers written on it, I think they will not mind if I only take one.”
Jan said “I read in the newspaper that Mulligan Smith and Thomas Blackhall get packages here at Skinner Co so don’t even touch that box.”
Sara opened the box and said “I feel sick” then held up a mason jar.
Jan said “What do you know, this box’s label says Lady’s fingers ”

Guy David

“How many fingers do you see?” the doctor asked. “What?” I asked, still dazed. “six” I added. “Close enough” the doctor cheerfully announced “now take off your coat”. I wasn’t wearing my coat and I quickly pointed it out to him. “That’s odd” he said, “here, have another drink” which was strange since I didn’t have a first one yet. Even stranger was that I didn’t recall getting there at all. “How did I get here” I asked. “Never mind that” he answered getting his big plastic hammer, “let’s see what happens after I bang this on your other head”.

Tom

A tuff tale to tell
She was so tiny. I could nearly wrap my fingers around her. She vibrated as I held her. Somehow this six week old cat had been flung into the middle of the road. The Vet told us the kitten had major nerve damage in the shoulder. She suggested removing the leg. We opted out for hope. The leg never recovered it remain curled up at her side. As cats grew up on our property they learn how to sit with their paw curl up. Even cats who hate Emur lifted their paw. She was my cat for 18 years.

Chris the Nuclear Kid

There was a time when darkness didn’t cover the earth. Then there came there came a mystical stone called the Gladiator. Many Platonians, a race of Goblins, Would have given anything to get their fingers on the Gladiator. The power of the Gadiator was more powerful than any thing any one had ever dreamed of. However, like most powerful things, it had an Achilles Heel. Anyone with possession of the stone could do anything including destroying worlds. Long ago the very first receiver used the stone and used for evil. And now, darkness covers the planets to this very day.

Uncle Monster

At thirteen, I lost my left pinky mowing the lawn. Yeah, it hurt like hell but I got my first robot finger.

Then an index finger got chomped by a horse. They’re right. Never look.
I lost two fingers to the blade of a band saw in shop class. A pinky got caught in the door of a Ford. A cheap pawn shop ring cost me my left ring finger.
The last two I lost in Vegas. Don’t ask.

Then I lost my job.

Yesterday, the prosthetics got repossessed. So, who’s got two thumbs and not much else? This guy!

Steven the Nuclear Man

“They don’t sound like twigs,” I say, snapping its pinkie. “don’t you agree?”

The sociopath screams, and for a moment I think I made a mistake. But it’s charming and superficial – one of them. No conscience. No empathy. No remorse.

“Brian,” it shrieks, “let me -”

I silence it with a smack to the mouth.

“They say,” I tell it as I apply the brand, sizzling flesh, “torturing a person can make you a sociopath. Without empathy. Without feelings.”

I lean close as the light goes out of its eyes. “So tell me, when do the emotions leave?”

RodGoddess/talkwithmarie

Lola hated her bony alien-like fingers. At age 11, she broke two of them, playing hide and seek in her parent’s basement.The pain was unbearable and she had stitches to prove it. Till this day she can still see the fading scars. She had hoped to accomplish more with them than the usual daily tasks. Every time she hears her favorite musicians perform on stage, she wishes she could play the guitar like Tukso, Shannon or Mic. She longs to wiggle those fingers on a piano like Alicia Keys or John Legend but her fingers are just scarred childhood memories.

Danny Dwyer

“Fingers.”

Only 10 years old, I was “playing” with a blender, when I dropped the middle portion of the blender lid into the running blender. In a panic, I reached into the blender to pull out the plastic piece. My left index finger now was hanging on my body by just a small flap of skin. Dad rushed me to the hospital to have my finger sown back on, while my mom was returning from the airport with my Aunt Ruth, only to find my blood dripping from the kitchen ceiling. Aunt Ruth’s new nickname for me from that point on was “Fingers.”

Norval Joe

Owen whined at the wizardess, “Why do I have to be in charge?”
A smile of pained patience wrinkled Shareeka’s unblemished brow.
“Because you are to be king,” she said. “And it’s your queen who is captive.”
“I know,” Owen grumbled and counted on his fingers, “But, we have Traveller, the ranger to guide us. Findert, the dwarf from the mines of Grool. We have Elbowner, a royal elf, and Spleen. Well, no. A half goblin wouldn’t do. But what about you?”
“Me,” the wizardess laughed. “No. The others in the party know me too well to accept my leadership.”

Planet Z

I have a horrible case of the hiccups.

I’ve tried every remedy I know:

A spoonful of sugar to disrupt the swallow mechanism
Breathing into a paper bag to reset blood gases
And even one I saw in an online trivia site: sticking my finger up my asshole

Yes, the finger trick actually works. Because you can’t swallow while you shit. It’s a disruptive neural signal.

A friend of mine suggested a spoonful of peanut butter.

I tried it, and it worked, but It’s a lot messier than sticking just my finger up there.

And a waste of peanut butter.

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 Six, 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 Game.

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

Thomas
Tura
Lizzie Gudkov
Pau
Zackmann
Tom
Bonchance
Robert
Chris Munroe
Jessi
Fourworlds
Steven The Nuclear Man
Guy
RedGoddess/TalkWithMarie
Danny Dwyer
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 let’s all have a heaping plate of…

Yummy!

---

Thomas

The game was played with alcohol and chainsaws. Each contestant was to drink 6 ounces of Vodka, fuel and start a chainsaw, and run with it, barefoot, around the city park. The first one to stumble and remove one of their own body parts was the looser, of course, while the last one left standing and remaining out of custody of the police, was the winner. This game was invented by the local crowd at Gateway Tavern in Port Angeles, to celebrate logging. Last week, the game was played, and brought out the State Patrol’s swat team and tac squad.

My 7 year old daughter caught me copying another one of her stories, so the game is up. I have no imagination of my own, and relied on little Rachael for all my submissions. Rachel is home schooled and has a social and intellectual IQ that is off the charts, in spite of her autism. Therefore, I cannot participate in 100 word stories because of my deep shame and embarrassment, much less the ribbing and scolding I’ve had to endure these last, few days. So, with this, goodbye to 100 word stories and the dozens of you that contribute regularly.

Tura

My opponent had considered her move for fully two hours, while I no less intently studied the position, tracing out glimmers of possibility.

“Ah,” she adumbrated at last. “Do you see?” She rapidly sketched on the blackboard a braided Diaconescu quincunx.

Thunderstruck, I gasped, “Excluded by Hammersmith duality!”

“Negated by Favisham’s Little Theorem.”

“But the Fronsky diagram–” Her genius burst on me like a large hadron collider, “–is obstructed in quine!”

“Precisely,” she gesticulated, “so! Mornington Crescent!!”

We warmly shook hands. “Thank you,” I said, in the traditional acknowledgement of superior play after a hard-fought game, “for enriching my understanding.”

Lizzie

“Oh, come on. You didn’t know him; he was just a cat.”

“No, he wasn’t. I have seen photos of him, watched videos with him and heard his voice in the podcast.”

“Aren’t you being overdramatic here?”

“No, all the way across an ocean, I did know him. I felt him drift away. Anyone who has ever shared his life with a cat knows what I mean.”

“Ok. Fine. But wasn’t this supposed to be about games?”

“Yes. But I just don’t feel like it.”

“And you don’t have one hundred words either.”

“Yes, but who cares?”

Pau

“Game is over” she told me crying as I entered home from work.

“What do you mean?” I replied

It was ten o’clock. I had had a special bad day and I was really tired. I didn’t want to fight with her: she always won this kind of matches.

I left my wallet on the floor and let her to explain. She admitted her love affair and she wanted me to be comprehensive.

And I was. In fact I knew something.

Today I had just fired him and now I had a free hand to ask her for the divorce.

Zackmann

First Rule: You are playing The Game.
Second Rule: every time you think about The Game you Lose
Third Rule: Lose of The Game must be announced
No one wins

“I told you forget about that stupid game you cant win. It is over. I am not playing” says Dylan
“You wish you could forget about the game. You are too, everyone is playing even if they don’t know they are” I retort
You know what Crap Mariner did, he picked Game for this weeks topic making you think of The Game. Now repeat after me
“I lost The Game”

Tom

“I’m game.” said jack and raising the Henny shot gun over his shoulder. He and Frank moved along the waterfront following the trail of body parts. “Do you ever get tired of Zombie stories?” inquired Frank when he heard the pack moving to his left. Frank sensiblely froze as Jack leveled the shot gun, then he dropped and rolled towards Jack. The first round took out five of the closest the second the three to the left. From the ground Frank picked off the two on the right. Lifting him to his feet Jack said. “You got game bro.”

Bonchance

“Carl I haven’t seen you in ages!

I heard you were laid up and stuck in the house.
Still playing that Misty Realms thing?”

“Yes it is all I have to pass the day.

I am worried about Abraxis though he keeps trying to reach 10th level mage and gets so depressed when he fails.”

“George and Martha the neko couple are divorced again and I’m not so sure they will get back together.

“Carl?”

“Yes Alex?”

“You do know it’s just a game, right?”

“What? Oh, yes of course.”

Alex looked at Carl, he was not at all convinced.

Robert

Chronic House of Cards Syndrome, a condition that occurs
post-Parkers-Brothers-Monopoly, broke George Liptom in two, creating
an empty fragment of a child touched by both physical and
psychological pain derived from a nexus of crippling isolation,
self-absorption, paranoia, and the overwhelming anxiety of potentially
landing on Boardwalk or Park Place after a recent hotel development,
which eventually led to drug abuse, a host of sexually transmitted
diseases, chronic inflammation of the bladder, and premature death.
George’s story eventually led to federal legislation to demolish the
architecture of all card houses. George’s mother could only muster up
these words, “…gingerbread houses.”

Munsi

As the assassins kicked in my bedroom door, I knew the game was up.

“Don’t hate the player,” I called as I bolted for the window, “hate the game!”

But they wouldn’t listen.

“You think we’re playing games with you?” Their leader asked as they wrestled me to the floor. “This is no game!”

I thought it was game over for sure, but before they could finish me off, my alarm clock sounded!

I woke just in time to see the team of assassins kicking in my bedroom door. And that’s when I realized…

I was still inside the game.

Jessi

She maintained exactly 5,000 Facebook friends, thousands of Tweeps, a massive FriendFeed, and Klout. Oh, her Klout. She could Plurk, Digg and Buzz while voting, stacking, and Stumbling.

One day, she had an original thought.

She wanted to share it, but she knew it wouldn’t re-tweet (it was too complex). Reddit would hate it. Hundreds of Facebookers would unfriend her without actually reading it. Digg would bury it, and it wouldn’t help her Klout at all.

Realizing she had followers and “friends” everywhere, but no one to talk with, she logged off with a simple hashtag.

#Goodbye

No one noticed.

Fourworlds

Baseball. Football. Basketball. Hockey. I loved them all. Trading cards. Sports Illustrated. Radio play-by-play. My childhood resonated with the unfolding drama of each passing season. That was a long time ago.

I haven’t watched a single game since my bookie skipped town and disappeared with my winnings. I was eighteen. Now I’m fifty. Seems like an overreaction. But I don’t regret it.

The decision gifted me with tens of thousands of hours over the last three decades. Time that would have otherwise been squandered on trivial sports-related pursuits. I’ve found much better ways to waste my time.

Steven

The soccer ball careened across the pitch, smacking up a spray of mud
as it hit the ground in front of Mitch. Mitch didn’t move, just
stared upward.

The opposing striker ran past, kicking the multicolored sphere into
the goal. John, his words a cursing stream of consciousness mixture
of Joyce and a drunk sailor, ran to Mitch. Mitch didn’t respond, even
as John’s spittle sprayed across his cheek. Mitch just kept staring
upward, sweat beading on his forehead.

John’s cursing slowed. John slowly tilted his head upward just in
time to see the gigantic foot slam into the ionosphere.

Guy

I stretched the line of my bow and shot a straight arrow using magical fire. The Rakuda fell down dead. I looted it. Got some Soft Fur and some coins. I looked for more Rakuda. Only six more to go. I spotted a few more of them, but then I saw it, the majestic Kirin, so rare and beautiful, his long neck towering high above me and his innocent eyes wise, timeless. I fitted my finest arrow and called up all my magic into it, air, water and fire. It shot straight through, killing him on the spot. Epic drop.

Now – I wanted to point out that if this story comes in a little late this time, it’s all Philip ‘NarvelJoe’ Carroll’s fault. You see, I started to listen to The Price of Friendship this weekend and I just can’t stop. Darn you philip for writing such an excellent story. You, gentle listener should listen too if only to understand my predicament. Just follow the cat over to podiobooks.com, look for The Price of Friendship and give it a listen. I guaranty you too are going to miss your deadline. Incidentally, this recommendation is exactly one hundred words long.

TalkMarie

There are countless reality shows about celebrities, famous wannabes and housebound attention hungry strangers. This onslaught is commercial goldmine for media networks and Ryan Seacrest. Survivor is the most successful show that took watching a packaged game to a heightened level of guilty pleasures. Imagine a bunch of misfits and type A personalities competing for cash or love. They do ANYTHING to win. Most gamers lie, cheat, deceive, bully and outwit their competitors. The worst in people, is captured then spoon fed to consumers. If anyone questions such damaging behaviors, there is only one true answer, “it’s just a game.”

Danny

Our rowboat glided towards the dark beach along the shoreline, as Dr. Strange-Exotic/Cookie’s castle at the top of the cliff loomed over the beach, lit only by the light of the full moon overhead. The good Doctor greeted us as we landed on the beach, adorned with many weapons, including an AK47 and a Bazooka. The Doctor looked like a bloated Rambo about to go deer hunting on Dick Cheney’s farm. “I take it we will be hunting humans,” I stated. “No, your thinking of the MOST dangerous game,” Dr. Strange-Exotic/Cookie responded. “This is the LEAST dangerous game, we’re hunting mosquitos.”

Cliff

I watched them sitting round the table. Five faces, impassive behind the cards, determined to give nothing away. A tell could be anything. A twitch. A smile. To a real player, the eyes could be read like a roadmap.

The red headed kid was the new one in the group. He thought he was playing a friendly game of cards. The regulars saw him as easy prey. He adjusted his cards and then looked at Tina.

“Got any fours?”

My ten year old daughter threw three cards on the table in disgust. Looked like they had a real game now.

Norval Joe

Owen crept through the underbrush, an arrow ready in his bow. Across the meadow, he saw the largest doe of his life.
“An animal that big would feed my uncle and me for a year,” he thought and raised the bow.
“What’re you doing?” A girl’s voice asked from behind him, and the deer ran away.
Owen turned, furious. A girl his own age, maybe seven or eight, frowned at him.
“This isn’t a game,” Owen shouted. “My uncle and I needed that deer to eat.”
She glared and said. “This is my Grampa’s meadow, and that was our cow.”

Planet Z

There once was a cat who liked to play Fetch.

If you threw his toy mouse, he’d chase it, pick it up, and bring it back.

Sometimes, he’d bring you a toy, expecting you to throw it for him to chase.

When his toys were piled up, he’d take them away from the pile.

People watched him play this game on a webcam, trying to guess which toy he’d take next.

When the Christmas tree went up, he’d put his toys under the tree, one by one.

Now that he’s gone, the toys sit on a shelf, just gathering dust.