Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number Two Hundred and One, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
The topic this week was… was…. um…
It’s What have I got in my pockets?!
VOTING
Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):
Zachmann
What do you mean this time you don’t want another disaster and this time want to know what have I got in my pockets? Yes, I will put everything on the table and from the clothes I wore yesterday too. Keys, cell phone, Yu-Gi-oh cards, gum, some coins, a rock, crayons, a coloring book, a cat toy, a kitten, candy wrappers, a Sansa player, a Disk World book, bicycle inner tube with tire patch kit, Beef jerky, portable television , a Bionicles set, Legos, a sonic screwdriver, and an autographed photo of Harpo Marx. Dad, you know I hate laundry day.
Steven
Uncle Al smelled of vaporub as he poked at me. “How’s my little girl?”
My young voice squeaked angrily at him. “I. Am. A. Boy.”
Al ran his finger through his thick black hair. “Okay, little girl.” He reached out, and I felt a brief tug. “Gotcher nose!”
“I’m a boy! And that’s your finger, not my nose.”
I smiled. “I’ve got one too, Uncle.” I reached towards his scalp, then put my hand in my pocket. “Guess what I’ve got, Uncle.”
He shrieked, feeling the air cold against his suddenly bald scalp.
“Oh,” I said. “You figured it out.”
Justin
In my pocket are keys to other worlds. I keep them in a small notebook. I put them there whenever I find them. Sometimes I find them at work, and other times when I’m waiting in line at the grocery store. I even find them at church.
I’ve found a door. I check my notebook for the key that fits. I take out one of the keys and put it in the lock. The door opens and before me is my imagination. It flows out of the door and through me onto the pages. I hope you enjoy the stories!
TJ
Alanis always skated on past that hand she had in her pocket. The other one was the one out giving high fives or playing a piano or hailing a taxicab. The hand she kept hidden was the attitude of a generation. Think about the look – jaded ’90s hippie chick can’t be bothered to engage 100 percent in anything. The one hand in her pocket was flipping a bird in solidarity with a Reality Bites, slacker, coffee-fueled Seattle-centric vibe. Things make no sense, but what it all comes down to my good friends is that everything is just fine, fine, fine.
Anima
When I bought the jacket, I was looking for something more practical than my technical fleece. The ancient sherpani wanted a hundred fifty rupee, but settled for a hundred and the tube of chapstick, everything I had in my pockets. That night I noticed the value of the coat when my guidebook disappeared into its chasmic folds, followed by a 2 liter bottle of water. And a live chicken. I’ve lived in Katmandu 10 years now, carrying loads for trekkers – I make them pay extra for conversations about sports and politics. Wherever you are hajurama, I owe you 50 rupee…
JRadimus
“What have I got in my pockets?” The stranger casually fingered through his clothes, pretending to look for money he knew wasn’t there. Zara waited patiently, her fiddle dangling casually from her fingers.
Her offer seemed implausibly generous to him: a song for the largest bill in his pockets, sight-unseen. He wondered how she made a living; like most people, he didn’t carry cash anymore. During this distraction, Zara waggled her fingers surreptitiously. A now-familiar shock came over his face as he pulled a twenty from otherwise-empty pockets. She hid a smirk, pocketed her fee and played him his song.
Norval Joe
It was a bad area of town in a town already bad enough.
An old man sat, everyday, on the corner of Fourth and T. His name was Art King. He was old and wrinkled but sat on his soap box with such regal presence, everyone called him King Arthur.
A stranger pulled a knife on him and said, “Gimmee all you got.”
“Well, let me see what I got here in my pocket.”
He pulled out an old harmonica and said, “You can have it, and every other disease I have.”
He laughed, coughed, spat, and played a song.
Z
Stare at your target, synchronize alpha waves, and make connection.
I can’t explain MindJumping any better than that.
Neither can the Psychic Academy, but without their training, I’d be a drooling husk, rejected by strong host personalities.
Instead, I can leap, store my body in a Coma Hotel, and walk you around while searching your memories like pockets.
Jumping back stuns the host temporarily. By then, I’m long gone, with your secrets and money.
Not this time. Back at the Coma Hotel, someone’s buried a knife in my chest.
Not good.
Sorry, chump, but your ass is literally mine now.