Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.
This is Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
The topic this week was Idiot.
And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:
- Murphy Jacobs
- Thomas Pitre
- Tura Brezoianu
- Serendipidy Haven
- Steven the Nuclear Man
- Dondo Dollinger
- Norval Joe
- Cliff – Uncle Monster
- Planet Z
The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of St. Patrick’s Day.
And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:
Blood flowed over my linked fingers as I clutched the gash closed. “Get a towel!” I screamed.
Stan stared at me, blinking. “You hurt?”
“Get something!” I pressed hard on my wound, forgetting the masked, knife-wielding stranger bolting down the hallway as I struggled to stay conscious. A wave of pain swept over my glaze of angry frustration. “Call…call 911!”
“Call who? Why?” He gazed at me, his brows knit. Was he in on it? Was Stan’s mild, friendly ways, his vacuous smile and his knit hat all a disguise? Or was he that dumb? “Oh! I’ll get a band-aid.”
Tom was a ninnyhammer, a schlub, an idiot. He was well liked and treated very warmly by the owners of the coffee house that hired him to mop the floor and clean tables – the limit of his comprehension and motor skills. Tom felt that the other imbeciles and morons that worked at the nearby coffee houses treated him badly. Tom was shunned and teased by them. Today, he was told that only a few IQ points separated him from the imbeciles and morons. He had hope, almost instantly. With his newfound hope and confidence, he began to write 100-word stories.
Like Dostoevsky’s character, Johnson faced the dark world of corruption and moral decay that he discovered and dealt with. As a member of the senate, entering as an idealist and willing to sacrifice himself for the “good”, he sunk into a deep depression as he realized that the world of politics was not what he had hoped for. He saw his colleagues accept bribes, patronize call girls, and not wash their hands after using the men’s room – only to go to the hallway and shake hundreds of the hands of visitors and politicians from the other side of the aisle.
Buzan was an idiot-savant. His memory was prodigious, but he could not make use of the information he could recall. His parents discovered that he was an extraordinary pianist. He would play a piece through, having only heard it once on the family phonograph. He often “composed” pieces on the spot, some derived from the tones generated by the appliances in his mother’s kitchen, or his father’s shop. Most of his day was spent in the corner of the front porch playing rock, paper, scissors, by himself. The hours would fly by, and Buzan would nap on the porch swing.
Sarah called the boy that pulled her hair during recess, a “severely mentally retarded person”. Her parents were Democrats, her Mother, a Soroptimist, and very politically correct. They taught their children that words like idiot, ‘tard and retard were rash, incorrect and impolite; and could hurt others, collaterally, if they heard the word or related it to their own circumstance. When asked to dance at the after-game party by a new boy she did not recognize, Sarah told him to “fuck off”! Her parents had not yet gotten to the topic of boy-girl relations and proper etiquette in this regard.
The King on His Throne
by Jeffrey Fischer
The king sat on his throne, surveying his trusted advisors. He had the countenance of an idiot, as though he was considering a problem whose solution was permanently just out of reach. The other ten, sycophantic lackeys all, bobbed their heads whenever the great man opened his mouth. Some, reacting to a particularly stupid idea, may have turned their heads away briefly or sipped their coffee. But in the end the instinct for self-preservation was too strong, and decisions were all agreed to unanimously.
Of course, even a king is ultimately accountable, and ours was accountable to the shareholders. He looked as surprised as anyone when they fired him.
by Jeffrey Fischer
“You’re an idiot,” I told Frank, which did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm for the project.
“Don’t worry, it’ll go great. We’ll be rich,” Frank said. I wanted to be rich, and my greed eventually overcame my judgment.
At first, the bank robbery seemed to go well. The tellers turned over the cash without our firing a shot. Things went downhill from there, starting with old Mrs. Fairweather, who turned to face my ski mask and said, “Why, Rusty Johnson, whatever would your mother say if she knew what you were doing?”
“Frank, you’re an idiot,” I told him as we sat in jail, waiting arraignment.
“I couldn’t think of everything. How was I supposed to know the mask went over the face?”
The cops chased the armed fugitive down the street. He was packing a G18 handgun and a knife. The screeching tires and the yelling sirens didn’t bother him. He was used to running away from the police. At the age of 25, he had been convicted multiple times. Armed robbery, kidnapping, homicide. The media was all over the arrest of this extremely dangerous criminal. Odd thing though, when he was taken away in the patrol unit, he was sobbing like a 10 year old, denying every single crime, his and anyone else’s, for that matter. “A dangerous idiot,” someone mumbled.
Your Kid is an Idiot
When I was in the fifth grade I was reading at a first grade level. At the same time I demonstrated a totally lack of interest in mathematic operations. This led to three years in the Idiot section of my grammar school. I spent a lot of time with retarded and brain damaged kids. No one expected much from me, so I was pretty much left on my own. Somehow I developed a deep interest in history, ended up reading every book in the school library and the community library. By eighth grade I was reading at a college level.
My friend, these elections are perfectly free and fair. Our supporters are enthusiastic to ensure the right result. Our enemies call this intimidation!
No, you listen to me, when the will of the people is opposed we must defend ourselves. They are cowards, casting their secret votes against us. We know how to deal with that, we chop their hands off, chop! chop!
Let me tell you, if we were corrupt they would not get even one seat, but we are honest idiots, idiots enough to let our enemies participate in free elections. But after the election, we chop heads!
First one: Travel Advisory
Excerpt from the aliens guide to Humanity Volume 4
There are three types of idiots on earth.
The first type need a very special helmet to protect their sensitivities. They ride a very special bus decorated with pictures of animals such as Elephants and Donkeys.
The second type of idiot likes to wear fancy clothes, make up, and yell. That’s all they ever do. They look at themselves in the screen and yell.
The third type of idiot is very deadly. They are never wrong. Hate fuels their souls. Travel advisory is in effect for Westborough Kansas at this time.
Second Story: Idiot Boyfriend
Right now I’m laying on back with my back legs around his waist and I wonder “Why do I have this idiot for a boyfriend.”
I mean sure he’s a great guy, treats me with respect like a gentleman should. But why do I keep him.
Sure he’s both part Indian and Werewolf, and when he changes forms while in bed he can be very intense. Yes I’m grinning on that.
I guess this is what every girl wants to know. Are men generally like this. Or could it be the way he howl’s at the moon and at me.
“You’re a complete idiot!”, observed my boss.
I was learning the hard way that whistle blowers got a raw deal: the information I’d passed to official sources meant that tax scams, worth millions to the company and significant personal returns for the CEO – would now come under intense scrutiny, with inevitable consequences.
“Happily”, he continued, “I’ve fixed things so that the evidence no longer points to me, but to you!”
I left the room, pausing only to pick up my pen – the one with the built-in voice recorder…
I may be a complete idiot, but I’m certainly not stupid!
The Tibetan Buddhist view of the universe can be visualized as a “Wheel of Cyclic Existence.” Sentient beings wander from lifetime to lifetime between its six realms. Those in the lower Hell, Hungry Ghost and Animal realms are caught up in pain. Those in the higher realms of Demi-Gods and Gods are snared by pleasure. Humans are the only ones fortunate enough to live in a just-right realm that offers the opportunity to escape. In retrospect, I’ve been living like I am a being of the God Realm, feasting in idiot abandon until my good karma is exhausted.
By Christopher Munroe
I miss all-ages punk shows.
Sixteen years old, in a WWI-era trench-coat, cargo-pants and a t-shirt with “Idiot” emblazoned across the front, out for an evening of local punk bands in an alcohol, and therefore ID, free atmosphere.
The shirt was bought at a Wonder Stuff show, and it was kind of a trademark of mine. I wore it to every gig.
If I ever see another, I’ll likely buy it.
I’m sure there are still all-ages punk shows out there.
I could probably find one, if I bothered to look.
I could probably go.
It wouldn’t be the same…
“I had a cousin whose only talent was teaching small woodland creatures how to sing.”
“Was he an idiot savant?”
“No, he was more of an idiot Seville.”
“Did he do anything with his talent , sir.”
“He formed a band. They became very popular and they worked for peanuts, or actually I guess it was walnuts and filberts. He made enough from the sales of their first album to buy a few nut orchards and was smart enough to hire someone competent to manage the orchards. They became cartoon voices. Do you believe me?”
“I’d be an idiot to, sir.”
STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN
Baal blocked Bob’s view of the television.
“The tightness in your chest is probably a little distracting. That’s because you’re dying. No-spin zone time. I’m a demon, yes. You do have a soul. All the rest was a lie. A minute after you die, your soul evaporates into nothingness…or I can absorb your soul. You’ll be part of me, but you’ll still exist. Whaddya say?”
Baal licked his lips as he absorbed Bob. The angel behind him scowled.
Baal shrugged. “Never would’ve thought of it ourselves.” The demon turned off Fox News. “Scare ’em enough and they’ll believe anything.”
The Town Idiot
Everyone calls him the town idiot. The man dresses well, never bothers anyone, and nobody really knows whether his intelligence warrants the nickname.
When the carnival is in town, he stands in the shadow of the ferris wheel, waiting for anyone to take a little ride with. Day after day he patiently walks near the amusement ride, as the other folks in the town keep their distance. Even when he approaches someone politely, they run away.
It never occurred to him that the townsfolk were judging him based on his appearance.
On her bus commute to work, Lola imagines leaving her neighborhood behind. For the past 10 years, neighbors have been fighting for an urban renaissance. Politicians promise jobs, safety and better schools but with each election, less get done. She’s fed up with all the lip service and being treated like an idiot for votes. Even the condition of the bus is a symbol of decay.
The passenger next to her smells like booze, piss and peanuts. The old lady in the front with her two grandchildren, cursing at the bus driver. The teenager in the back shouting on her cell phone. It’s all taking a toll on her. It’s time to take control of her destiny.
When I played the first Call of Duty game I learned a bit of German. English was originally a west germanic language, and the Normans added lots of French to it, so many people mistake English as being Latin based, as I did. I just looked that up right now as I wrote this, to fact check myself. I bet you learned something, too. The point I’m making is that English and German have similar roots, so I felt like an idiot when I saw a sign that said “Minen” and stepped past it and blew up on a landmine.
“So far you’ve used a Theoretical String drive, the Standard Gimlet drive, and now we’re using the Oopsiedaisy 360,” Flerdy said and glanced tentatively at the closed viewport. Once the hyper-drive had been engaged, the stars outside appeared to burst into a pinwheel of confusion. His stomach quickly turned. “How many drives does this crate have?”
Borle scratched his head and said, “The Galactic Infinity has any number of drives. I’ve only used a half dozen, myself. One I’ll never use again is the OAIWUADLT 13. The Only An Idiot Would Use A Drive Like This 13 was named appropriately.”
Dergill Dunderspawn threw his hoodie onto the couch. The last of the twenty-seven puppies was delivered to another unsuspecting home. He had hoped to hang up the disguise and enjoy his twelve remaining older dogs.
Barking from the kennels told him something was not right. As he opened the door a streak of silver shot from the female kennel to males.
Like an idiot, he’d left the male’s gate open.
The old wiener dog was more grey than black, but age didn’t slow Long John Silver down. In a few weeks there could be as many as thirty new puppies.
Frank stomped the brake and jerked the wheel, narrowly avoiding the car that had lurched out of the parking lot. “Idiot,” he muttered to himself. Frank was convinced that drivers were getting worse every day. He remembered when there were manners on the road but those days were gone. Most annoying were tailgaters. Those fools were just begging for Frank to stop suddenly and see how good either their brakes or their insurance was. The only ones worse were the idiots who wouldn’t speed up no matter how much Frank tried to push them along. A world full of idiots.
They left – he in tuxedo and she in chiffon. His plan? Propose eternal love beside the eternity of ocean. The tide was soon licking ankles and his Italian shoes filled with seawater. Undaunted, he knelt and offered the ring. Crossing arms to warm her icy nipples, she envisioned a laughable life ahead. Neither noticed the big wave. It caught them off guard. They floundered in the back-wash together. Dripping like a spoilt flower, her hair a mess, she gasped for air. It was too funny, but she was ready to say Yes. Unfortunately the idiot had lost the diamond ring.
“Darling, c-u on the bench @Chelsea Beach, 8pm,” he emailed his girlfriend. Now, he needed to inform his wife he’d be late. But the hotline rang. Distracted while speaking, he wrote to his wife on the girlfriend mail along with its chain of clandestine emails. The customer dealt with, he hit Send and left for the long drive along the Bay.
Darkness was falling when he arrived, so he couldn’t see her down the beachfront until he was just feet away from the bench. To his horror, there were two familiar faces waiting. You damn idiot! he said to himself.
They stole a weekend at the resort. At the postcard cove they joined the other couples who had stolen the same weekend.
Two were playing Bikini Model and Photographer, “Lift your arm, pout your lips, reach to the camera,” the man ordered.
The just-arrived couple lay on their jumbo towel, amused.
“Same old role-play,” she said, clicking tongue to teeth.
“You know what John Lennon said? he asked.
““As usual, there is a great woman behind every idiot.”’
“I guess that also applies to us.” she added.
For the rest of the weekend, he kept his trap shut.
4. Surf’s Up
He’d come evenings for an hour to dig a hole in the sand, only to fill it and leave, spade over shoulder. What an idiot! said the surfer to his girl. But they soon forgot him waiting for big waves beyond the breakers.
One evening when the sea was calm, the surfer mounted her from behind. Without looking up, the idiot dug faster and deeper as the couple climaxed out on the surfboard.
When their tricky act was done, he filled the hole, mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and left looking a little more redder faced and satisfied than usual.
5. Sand Box
The ex-pop star had survived all – losses in love, derangement through drugs, only to see his popularity slump into obscurity. Although he couldn’t walk to the ocean, he could smell the salt and hear the call of the eternal beach party. Heavily medicated, he played his piano on his patio with a tray of beach sand placed beneath the pedals to wriggle his toes in from time to time. He still wrote the same sappy love songs, yet, to his last dying idiot breath he remained true to the code of those who burn themselves in the name of love.
I’d call Ted an idiot, but that would be insulting to idiots.
“Idiots wouldn’t know they were being insulted by a comparison to Ted,” said my friend Marie.
We argued about this for a bit, until Marie suggested that we find some idiots and ask them how they felt about me comparing them to Ted.
I called several institutions, but they only allow family to visit. And they said that they preferred the term “Mentally Challenged” these days.
“Do you prefer it, or do the idiots prefer it?”
I’ve wasted too much time on this.
I feel like an idiot.