Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.
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.
We’ve got stories by:
- John Musico
- Norval Joe
- Tura Brezoianu
- Planet Z
Six Pinkertons rode in the coach, at their feet rested the oak box lined in velvet. “Are thet really going to drive that thing into a tie? Asked Patrick O’ Connor. “Stanford won the honors in a poke game.” Said O’ Malley. “I’ll give you six to one he misses.” Said Michael Bennet. “I’ll give you ten to one he hit his foot.” Said Brian O’ Sullivan. They all started laughing, till the Captain enter the car, then fell silent. Captain dropped a double eagle into O’ Sullivan’s lap. “On the feet,” he said. Sure enough Stanford hit his foot.
Angel of Venice
Everyone knew Angel, gliding by on his rollerblades, adorned in an all white Indian wrap and turban, contrasting his African American skin, playing his electric guitar, amp in a backpack, while singing. He had that “not here-ness” that the 60’s acid days left some with. On the way to a concert, we saw him hitchhiking and picked him up. He played in the back seat all the way to his apartment where he reciprocated with a joint. It was by far the strongest weed I’d ever smoked. It seems that it wasn’t acid that fried Angel: the dubbie was dusted.
On the Topic of Spike
By Christopher Munroe
I hate to choose, but if forced to make a decision, my favorite Spike of all the spikes is Spike from My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.
You heard me, Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, but you’re just going to have to live with it.
You’re just going to have to be undead with it.
You’re just going to have to continue having no idea who I am, and not caring what my opinion on the matter is.
Yeah, now that I consider it, probably that last one. Never mind…
by Jeffrey Fischer
Sammy drove the spike into his arm and pressed the plunger. He waited for the solution to take effect. After ten years addicted to heroin, throwing away countless thousands on increasingly-cut stuff, he decided he needed to get healthy. His new dealer promised him this mixture would do the trick.
When, after a half hour Sammy still felt nothing, he concluded Pedro had ripped him off. Sammy found and confronted the dealer.
“I didn’t rip you off, man. You got exactly what you paid for.”
“What *is* this shit?”
“A mixture of kale and broccoli juice. It’s healthy for you.”
“Kale? Aren’t you supposed to eat it, not put it in your arm?”
Pablo shrugged. “I figured injecting would intensify the effect. The guy at Whole Foods agreed.”
“Just give me a gram of China White.”
by Jeffrey Fischer
When Tony played pro football – that’s the American game, listeners, not that other football where the modal score is 0-0 – he was known as a passionate, driven competitor. He played hard on every down, whether running the ball into the defensive line or blocking for his receivers, and he celebrated with equal gusto.
After his playing career ended, Tony took a job with the local Babies R Us store. His manager told him, “Tony, we want you to work here with the same can-do attitude you had on the field.”
Later that day, Tony made his first sale, a crib for young parents and their infant son. When the couple said they’d take it, Tony celebrated. The entire store went quiet.”
“Tony, what did you do?”
“It was my end zone routine: dance, point at the fans, and spike the ball.”
“For God’s sake, Tony, you’re not supposed to do that with the babies.”
#1 – Marauders
Every harvest the Dark Marauders come and we’re forced to fight for our livelihoods. Savages, they are; ruthless, without pity or respect for the law.
The elders gathered the townspeople together: “If the Dark Marauders act like savages, then they must expect to be treated as savages”.
It was decided that every marauder captured would be executed and their head displayed upon a spike in the fields over which we fought.
And so it has been for many years.
Yet still the Dark Marauders come.
And still we lose our crops.
And our supply of spikes is all but gone.
#2 – A date to remember
I’d been chasing Sandy for weeks – eventually she gave in, agreeing to a date, a quiet drink in the local pub.
Everything was going perfectly: Witty conversation, plenty of laughter and we seemed to connect, but I wasn’t taking any chances – when she excused herself for a moment, I slipped a Rohypnol into her glass.
When she returned, she looked at me curiously: “You’re not the sort to spike a drink, are you?”, I shook my head, “You won’t mind drinking mine then?”, she laughed.
What choice did I have?
And how did I end up in this gay bar?
#3 – Scientifically flawed
They told us the spike in temperatures was because of the Gulf Stream; when it became apparent this was wrong, they blamed climate change and global warming.
When people starting getting sunburn in the middle of winter, we knew something was seriously wrong, but still they fobbed us off, explaining things away.
When, finally, they told us the earth was plummeting into the sun and we were all doomed, it became apparent why the scientists had set up their community on Mars.
And they’d told us it was because of the low gravity and lack of light pollution.
#4 – Tom
I was going to miss Tom.
I wouldn’t miss the constant chases, the heart-stopping moments and endless fights, but I would miss the satisfaction of seeing the broom handle descend upon his stupid, furry head and watching him being kicked bodily from the house, with me safe in my bolt hole with a belly full of stolen cheese.
The Mistresses’ fat legs appeared and she called hopefully: “Thomas! Thomas!”
But Thomas was nowhere to be seen.
I gave Spike the bulldog a grateful thumbs up, he gave me a knowing wink, before returning to his suspiciously furry pile of bones.
My friend Ted had a large, fluffy, behind. We teased him about it, but he said “You can’t drive a spike with a tack hammer.” It had something to do with carpentry or rug laying, I think, but I asked around and found out it meant something different…something a little impolite. As a demure young woman, my sensibilities were roughened and scuffed. As a teen, I suppose I was overly prudish, but the summer after my visit to a co-ed, church camp, I came to know grown-up things, and had my first encounter with a spike and some motorized tools.
My first drinks were untouched, but the third and fourth were spiked with some kind of synthetic, Chinese concoction that a biker slipped into my drink when I stepped out with my date, Irene, to smoke. My first reaction to the drug was an overwhelming thirst. I had two more drinks, both spiked by my date. The combination of drugs in my system seemed to cancel each other out, so by two AM, I was fully functional, but still thirsty. I was told I beat two innocent bikers and a librarian, unconscious, but I had no memory of an altercation.
The power spiked just as the runaway bus rammed through the tall pole at the bottom of the street. A crossbeam touched the high voltage line when the pole toppled. Dad’s oxygen generator blew him up like a cheap balloon. The buttons on his pajamas popped as his chest expanded. They flew across the family room, spinning and bouncing. One of them broke Gran’s glasses, and one hit the parrot in the kitchen. Dad was OK, but frightened. Mom was grilling a Panini, and as the surge struck, it burst into flames, spreading to the fur collar on her robe.
When he entered the room, a spike through his chest, everyone thought he was joking.
When he collapsed in agony, everyone thought his acting was brilliant.
When a puddle of blood appeared, everyone said “He’s awesome with special effects.”
When he begged for help, the room was ecstatic. “That’s why he’s the best,” some shouted.
When he didn’t move anymore, a speck of doubt crossed their minds. It only lasted a few seconds.
When everyone left, the police received an anonymous call.
There was a dead body on the floor alright. No spike though. It would be a long night.
The inquisition has many instruments by which we may extract our confessions… The saw, the screw, the rack and the brand – each lovingly designed to exact exquisite pain and supreme suffering.
But these all pale into insignificance beside the simple spike.
Such a versatile, flexible tool of the trade: An instrument of slow, lingering, unpleasantries, or – if you prefer – the short, sharp, bitter sting of retribution.
The spike is crude, but effective, needs no adornment or assistance… mere body weight and pressure will suffice.
Perhaps you’ll allow me to demonstrate?
Please take a seat.
It’s the one with the spike.
I look in the pantry and find a box of generic Frosted Flakes. “Is this an accident?” I asked my Dad. “No, I bought them on purpose,” he replied. “You know Frosted Flakes are nothing more than Corn Flakes sprayed with sugar?” Dad shrugs. Then there was a spike in my thinking, and the lightbulb of brilliance went off in my head. “A hand held liquid sugar sprayer. You can spray sugar on whatever you want, corn flakes, walls, floors, ceilings, whatever you want to eat sugar coated whenever you want!” Dad looks at me, and says, “Your an idiot.”
“What are you making?” asked Joe.
“A whittle of nothing.” replied Charlie.
“That nothing looks like a wooden dragon maybe Rory from Nutty Bites.”
“No, it’s that one form Friendship is Magic.” said Charlie
“I don’t remember him having a long straight sharp pointy tail like that.” commented Joe.
“Oh, I’m making a few like this for a guy’s girlfriend. He said she needed them this way for work but I think he may not want to admit he is a brony and really wants them for himself because I have never heard of any women actually being named Buffy.
“Open the container, Mr. Picklehacker,” Aphasia demanded.
“I’ll lose my dark matter,” Bufford complained. “It’s taken years to obtain this. I won’t waste all of that.”
“Open it, or I will.” Aphasia grabbed the release valve.
Bufford leapt, but was too late. The agent pulled away the lid.
Desk drawer slammed open, books on shelves flew to the floor, and lights in the room dimmed for several minutes before returning to normal.
The door burst open. People entered, adjusting their tinfoil hats and the dials on their recorders.
“Here’s the source of the paranormal spike,” a crazy-haired, old woman shouted.
“There never were ninja throwing spikes,” my friend told me. We were nine years old, and he was always saying that this or that was just a story. “People throw them on YouTube, but they’re just imitating the story.”
Apparently, Damascus steel was a myth. “Vanadium in the ore makes the patterns,” he said. “Doesn’t make better swords.”
“Sex?” he said. “Biggest fairy story ever.” He never explained, just said darkly, “You’ll see.”
Then he stopped coming to school. We were told his family moved.
That was a long time ago, but I still wonder what the real story was.
Know what the greatest love triangle was in all of history?
Tom, Jerry, and Spike.
Yes, I’m talking about the cartoon characters.
The cat, mouse, and dog.
Who else would I be talking about?
Do you know anyone else with those names?
No, I’m not talking about our neighbors.
That’s Bob, Sue, and Ethel.
Besides, Ethel’s banging the mailman.
So is Bob.
I’m banging Sue, too.
You’re banging Bob?
What about the mailman?
Darn. I was hoping you could get some cheap stamps or something.
Maybe if he gets tired of Bob and Ethel, I’ll give him a shot.