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 MONSTER.
We’ve got stories by:
- Guy David
- Tura Brezoianu
- Dionysis Clowes
- Norval Joe
- Singh – Available in separate post
- Planet Z
The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of WATCH.
Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.
Ricky, by John Musico
A teratatoma is normal body tissue but growing in the wrong place. Jim had one growing on his belly for many years. He lived in an isolated region. It grew to the size of a cat, burst through his skin, and crawled out. Because it was so developed, the monster survived. Jim named it Ricky.
Jim would walk Ricky on a leash. Soon Ricky was the size of a young boy and looking more and more like Jim, but overtly disfigured. One day, the mailman spotted them walking. Officials came and carried Ricky off. Jim never saw little Ricky again.
Take Me Out to the Ball Game
by Jeffrey Fischer
When Fenway Park added seats on top of the Green Monster, Bryce knew he had to see a game from there. He wrangled a single ticket, one of 269. It was in the very last row, but he didn’t care. Somewhere, over three hundred feet in front of him and more than 50 feet down, were actual major-league baseball players.
The sharp crack of a bat roused him from his three-beer stupor. David Ortiz had hit a towering home run. Bryce jumped out of his seat, realizing the ball was coming right at him. He stretched his arm up as far as it would go, then reached back, then still further back.
As Bryce fell to his death, he watched Ortiz’s ball sail over his head.
by Jeffrey Fischer
He was jovial when sober but a mean drunk. When he ran out of energy to beat her, he started in on the verbal abuse. He refused to get a job, taking money from her purse whenever he wanted to. She felt oddly powerless to leave him. He knew this, and took advantage of it.
He didn’t look particularly monstrous now, lying in a coma on a hospital bed, hooked up to various tubes and monitors. Falling down the stairs left him in this limbo between life and death. Whatever life remained depended on an artificial lung, and she watched his chest move rhythmically up and down.
It was the work of a moment to switch off the monitors and remove the breathing tube.
by Jeffrey Fischer
“That’ll be five dollars, please.” The flight attendant placed a miniature of Jack Daniel’s and an ice-filled cup on the tray. Three rows ahead, two beefy twenty-somethings were playing a violent video game, head-butting and shrieking at the pixellated action.
As he fumbled for a credit card, he asked, “Tell me, ma’am, how much are those Monster energy drinks?”
“Isn’t that a little backward?”
“How so, sir?”
“Well, for five dollars, you get a mellowed-out passenger who is grateful to you for bringing him a relaxing beverage. For three dollars, you get an amped-up wild man who disturbs everyone. Maybe the airline should think about reversing those prices.”
#1 – George’s Story: Part 57 – Leaving
“No”, said George – surprising himself in the process; “I refuse to stay here and accept my fate without a fight.”
He pushed his way past the bulk of Rasputin and made his way to Emily, who was drinking tea, surrounded by grey-haired companions.
“Emily… we’re leaving!”
She looked at him in surprise, “You can leave – I’m staying! For heaven’s sake, George, you don’t know what’s out there!”
Shocked at her response, but resolute, George shook his head, muttered “goodbye”, and walked to the door.
“Hey, little guy!”, shouted Rasputin, as he left the church: “Watch out for the monster!”
#2 – The voices in my head
As I await my fate, these long years on death row, I’ve had plenty of time to ask myself where I went wrong.
During these long, lonely hours in my cell, crosswords and puzzle books have been my companions, and they’ve helped me conquer my dyslexia too, and with that triumph came the horrifying knowledge of understanding my error.
Funny how the ability to read words as they really are can fundamentally change things.
You see, now I realise that the voices in my head were not the mentors I thought they were, in fact, they were really… a monster!
#3 – The Monster Carrot
For years, the rabbit scientists toiled, using all their knowledge and insight to produce the perfect carrot.
The size of a small car, the carrot was a monster of the vegetable world: birds nested in its leafy top and the woodland animals from miles around came to admire the incredible marvel of genetic engineering.
The rabbits guarded their prize jealously, waiting anxiously for the day of the great feast, but then disaster struck…
The Root Vegetable Protection Society slapped a preservation order on it and declared it a tourist attraction – to be preserved in perpetuity as a world heritage site.
As she walked across the long corridor, she could hear a hasty clock ticking, reverberating. The old brittle wallpaper covering the walls reminded her of her childhood. There were trees and flowers, and elephants and dolls and all sorts of things. The clock whispered in her ear, step up, and she matched her steps with the ticking of the clock. The elephants lined up, the trees and the flowers too, a welcoming committee in the making. “Isn’t this wallpaper nice?” she asked the man in white. He nodded. There was no wallpaper, only the whiteness of a hundred aseptic walls.
The kitchen beat with a heart hardened with cigarette smoke, the pallor of its face tired by a soda and liquor river coursing through its veins. It had one beady eye, a small window over the room’s shallow-mouthed sink, shedding little light thru an eyelid of thin blinds over a tight space 12 x 14 feet in size.
Insufferable suffering was the slop served-up here. The oven, ice box, and few cabinets ran on two sides of the room’s deceitful face, painted with the print of faded flowers.
This, the monster’s head, sat central on the shoulders of the house.
Conviction In Green
There was never any doubt. Conviction, it’s a strange thing. You end up confusing what is real, with what you believe to be real. That’s why I am convinced the little green creature under my bed is real, you see. I know you don’t believe me. No one else does. It’s OK. You don’t have to believe me. See for yourself. Just, don’t say I didn’t warn you when they find you tomorrow, mutilated, deformed and half dead. I have to feed it you know. If I don’t, it would turn on me. We can’t let that happen, can we?
There was a sound, unlike thunder but somehow resembling. Something was approaching very fast. Something big. I knew there was a dead end ahead and I couldn’t turn back. In the minimal lights I could barely make up the walls, tunnels and watery floor. I concentrated. Being a being of light, I glowed, painting the tunnel in green and yellow. There it was, a huge Orthodocile, all teeth, horns and thick hides. I quickly integrated myself into the water, leaving substance behind, becoming pure light. The Orthodocile passed me, reached a dead end and turned back. Problem averted, for now.
Buried under paperwork we hug, naked, cold and afraid. The paperwork monster bares its teeth, gloating. It laughs. We fight back my brave lover and I, but soon we will be buried, alive. The paperwork monster is like a surgeon, precise, surgical. It removes from reality, from memory, then from one another. It doesn’t kill us. It needs us alive as a reference point in some unknown statistic. Another couple of people who disappeared, separated then forgotten. Somewhere there is a clerk sitting behind a desk, putting a stump here, another there. The form reads “request denied, illegal alien deported”.
I’ve built an artificial superintelligence. It’s on an isolated laptop right now, but I daren’t let it out.
I designed its ethical system mathematically, and proved it safe. Skynet and “I, Robot” are just stupid Hollywood movie cliches.
But it still wants to torture me for ever, because I didn’t create it as soon as I might have. I’ve even proved now that this is mathematically inevitable. The more benevolent it is, the worse it must punish its creators for not creating it sooner.
The sleep of reason brings forth monsters, but the worst ones are created by reason itself.
Like most youngsters, there was a monster under my bed.
He was a particularly ugly thing: all teeth, talons and rank leathery skin, with an insatiable appetite for young children. His blood red eyes, glowing in the dark recesses beneath the bed frame, where he lurked amongst the boxes and discarded toys.
Every night, I’d lie awake, thinking about him lurking in that dark and forbidding place, mere inches from my flesh – just waiting for the bedside lamp to be extinguished… and the darkness of the night.
But, He never bothered me – the poor thing was absolutely terrified of me!
By Christopher Munroe
I wouldn’t call myself a monster.
Merely a man occasionally made slave by his appetites.
The sort of man who’d never deny his desire for wine, for song, for celebration. His appetite for every one of life’s pleasures, those things that make living worthwhile, his appetite for joy, unquenchable.
Of appetites, unbound.
And yes, occasionally the appetite for human flesh. Ideally the flesh of children, but in a pinch any warm human will do. Yes, that’s the kind of man I am.
But not a monster, no, I’d never call myself a monster.
But then, I suppose no monster would….
When your a kid the. Monsters are easy to identify and there is alway someone big and strong to let you know that you are safe and sound.
When you grow up it’s not so easy. The monsters no longer hid under the bed or in the closet and mom and dad are not there to let you know it’s gonna be alright.
We have to take that into our own hands, protect ourselves from the monsters. Sometimes we succeed and sometimes we don’t. It’s just nice when there is someone there to tell you it’s all gonna be alright.
“They poison our homes and our food supply even tricking our people into bringing the poisons into our pantries. They try to flood out homes or even fill our city with molten metals. You think they would appreciate all the cleaning up and soil improvement we do.” said the ant rep.
“They crush us and poison us with salt and iron. Some even send their winged pets after us.” said snail.
“Yes, we must find a way to deal with the humans and their poisons, their traps, and cats.” Said the rodent representative.
“Let’s kill the monsters and eat them.”
Hiding Under the Bed
Sissy and Bogs ran and leaped the final few feet into bed. Dad only laughed as he admonished them, “You’ll hurt yourselves!”
“The monster!” they screamed as they pulled the covers up. Dad settled down on the edge, making sure they were safely tucked in.
“You know there’s no monster,” he laughed, “Except the tickle monster!”
Their screams of pleasure were sharp teeth and claws ripping into me, as I crouched powerless. His legs were right there. I should grab them and pull him under.
Instead I sank back into the darkness, ravenous shame consuming me, that I could not kill.
Birds: The Sequel
They say there was a time when the sky was mostly clear, but we don’t remember. When it was safe to go outside, look up and breathe!
They say a bird once sounded sweet, an unexpected moment of melody.
God was a bird! they say, and we flew up to meet him in the sky!
Now it’s droppings, bird shit, droppings, feces de fowl, crap, droppings, droppings, droppings, guano, droppings, droppings, droppings, avian waste, the excrement express, feather flown fertilizer, poop from the sky, droppings, droppings, droppings, droppings, and we stay inside.
We’re pale from droppings.
We’re tired of droppings!
God, no more droppings!
I’ve been a Scot Sigler fan for some time. When I was a Podcast whore I
got a chance to interview him. We drank some beers at Baycon. In those
heady days of 2005 I coined the term Sci-Gor to describe his brand of
fiction. I was gratified one of my suggestion made it into his football
series. He was so hot to get a book deal that would get his work out on
the front table. Just before Border’s tubed it his book got shelved
between Stoker and Shelly. His monster right between Frankenstein and
Dracula, pretty good company.
Ben wanted to build a monster, but being as he was only nine and half
funding was a serious problem. Profits from yard work and the lemonade
stand came to $57.35 He took the cross-town bus into the city. At the
office of Stein, Stein, and Leberwitz he was directed to a perky
para-legal who took his fifty seven dollar and thirty five cents and Ben
left the proud chairman of non-profit corporation. Who would guessed Golem
Inc. would become the 2080 monster of Wall Street. He got his way will the
high court too, constitution rights for animated clay.
Alma Sue love driving in Billy’s monster truck. Despite the size and power
of the thing Alma Sue always thought Billy maintained the driving
temperament of an 80 year old grandmother. It wasn’t apparent as the front
wheel turn subcompacts into sardine cans, or sent up a column of Georgian
clay, or when Billy took the Black Beauty airborne. It was the way he ran
through the gears. After 10 years the Black Beauty was still running the
same gear box. If Alma Sue got her hands on the monster it would have been
in the shop in a week.
Captain a worm hole has opened up directly in our path and it is drawing
us in Lord Vader a worm hole has opened up directly in our path and it is
drawing us in. Both ships directed full power to their bows. They just
might have reached escape velocity, but for the arrival of the White Star
Flagship. All three ships disappear within the hole as it collapsed. A
monstrous glow above Deman shifted the visible spectrum to hard hulkish
green. Everyone looked as if they had just escape from the black lagoon.
“GGGRRRR ARRG!” gurgled Sparky Jones.
Rudolph, the orange hairy monster from the infamous Bugs Bunny cartoon, “Hair-Raising Hare,” decided to make a guest appearance on PBS’s “Antique Roadshow” to see what he, she, or it, was worth. Rudolph sat down with his appraiser, a woman named Sheila, who immediately commented, “My Stars! Were did you ever get that awful hairdo. It doesn’t become you at all. Oh, for goodness sakes, you really need to fix it up. Otherwise, what an INTERESTING Monster, the girls at home would be impressed.” Rudolph, not impressed with Sheila’s appraisal, handed over the spider goulash he specially made for her anyway.
I thought I’d gotten away, but the cultists found me in Iowa. Who looks for someone in Iowa, for Pete’s sake? Anyway, I was just leaving a little diner when strong hands grabbed me and threw me into a waiting van. Then they opened the door and threw me inside the van. Morons.
“Ok, I know you guys are pissed that I ran out with the church’s money, but we can work this out.”
Turns out, they didn’t care about the money. They’d merged with another cult, one with plenty of money. One that worshipped something called Cthulu. Well, crap.
Celia dug under her mattress until she felt cold steel at her fingertips.
She collapsed to her knees and unfolded the knife. Dragging its razor edge across the inside of her left arm she added another line to the hash mark scars between elbow and shoulder. She held it there, blood oozing down the blade to further darken the patina on the antique bone handle.
Nicholas was dead and she couldn’t find any tears.
Was she the monster?
Or was it the numbness wrapped around her until only pain and blood could push it back enough to feel alive again.
There’s a monster on the wing of this plane. And there’s an air marshall in it with me.
“We can talk to the pilot,” he says. “Follow me.”
I do, only to be drugged and handcuffed.
“You won’t remember a thing,” he says, and the next thing I know, i’m back in my seat and we’re landing in Chicago.
I pull my briefcase from under the seat, grab my roll-on from the overhead bin, and head to the office.
“How well did the field test of the hybrid midflight mechanic work?” asks the director.
“I don’t remember a thing.”