Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.
This is the 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:
He dropped a hip hop record a few days ago. His group, Fake Ass CP were big in The Valley. DoWaDittyBop decompressed and put down some lines:
Rapping tighter than a Christmas present. When they had you in their stomach when they were pregnant. Never had forgiveness, you better stay distant, cause i’m all about my business. You diss me, yet my rep is listed for Christmas.
DoWa had a learning disability. The lyrics, continued:
Rolling up blunts of the christmas kush, so pussy go back home or go to school. This is the end of my fucking song. Shit.
A single drop was sufficient. Four drops under the tongue, thirty in the keester, and a drop each in the eye. Usually it’s a bottle of cough syrup and a half pint of sloe gin, and we’re ready to party. The rest of the coeds poured the full bottles of cough syrup in each others behind, and they were ready to boogie. Three of them called their parents and said they were staying overnight at a friend’s house. Five went home and then slid out their bedroom window to return to the Christmas party. Only two OD on horse tranks.
The backdrop for the annual family photo was Essie Oberlocwins patio. She was a landscape artist and her patio was the cat’s ass. It had two water accents, a large fire pit, and benches made from rare woods and bamboo. My wife stood behind me, and the kids sat at my feet. This was the pose we always took for family portraits. The wife took the subservient roll, and the kids looked up at me as their savior and protector. Essie teased me for arranging the family in this way, so I stuck three fingers in all the hors d’oeuvres.
by Jeffrey Fischer
The drought had continued so long the townspeople couldn’t remember the last good rain. In desperation, the mayor hired a rain man. He arrived in traditional American Indian garb and shouted incantations at the sky as he danced. I was as skeptical as anyone.
When I felt wetness hit my face, I couldn’t believe it – he had created rain! I wiped away those first drops, only to find my hand orange and sticky. Odd. I tasted the next drop. It was raining Orange Crush! Even though we knew this would end as a sticky mess, we were so happy we even paid the Indian a bonus.
No one saw his assistant disconnect the huge sprayers on the outskirts of town and drive away in a Pepsi truck.
by Jeffrey Fischer
“Good morning, Dropbox help line. How may I assist you?”
“I installed your product, Boxdrop, just the way my friend told me to.”
“That’s good, ma’am. By the way, it’s Dropbox. What seems to be the problem?”
“I gave Boxdrop all my files, just the way my friend said. Moved ’em to the Boxdrop folder, and then they were gone.”
“Dropbox, ma’am. Gone, you say? Let’s try to figure out what happened.”
“Now I get email telling me I need to pay if I want my files back. You people are crooks!”
“I understand you’re upset, but let me assure you Dropbox is a reputable company.”
“Why do you keep saying Dropbox?”
“The confusion is understandable. People sometimes reverse the names, but we’re Dropbox, not Boxdrop.”
“Nope. B-O-X-D-R-O-P dot R-U. You don’t even know the name of your own product!”
On Subscription Boxes
By Christopher Munroe
I want a subscription box that, every month, sends me a box from another, different subscription box service.
The box will arrive, and I won’t know until I open it what I’m receiving. One month could be beef jerky, the next X-Men merchandise, there’d be no way of predicting.
The contents, after all, aren’t why I enjoy subscription boxes. It’s the surprise, the anticipation as I tear open my monthly treat.
And, without any clue what’s in the box, it’d be all the more surprising.
That said, knowing my luck, my first box would wind up containing Gwynith Paltrow’s head…
He dropped the letter in the mailbox and glanced one last time at her window.
It had taken him several days to write that letter, many hours of writing and rewriting. And so many sleepless nights that he had lost count.
As he walked away from his life, he wondered if she would notice the tears on it.
When she opened the envelope, she saw a piece of paper inside with nothing written on it. She turned it over a few times and shrugged. She was going to throw it in the garbage, but instead gave it to the cat.
As we neared the drop zone, the atmosphere grew tense. You could see the foreboding growing in the faces of those around you. Smiles faded, jaws clenched, voices were stilled, whilst knuckles grew white as hands gripped the edges of seats.
It was always the same. No matter how many times you endured it, you never found it easy, and that old familiar feeling would creep back, time after time.
A collective drawing of breath signalled the first glimpse of the drop zone… It would be very soon now.
With a grinding of gears and a final shudder, the bus came to a halt and we disembarked.
The first day of a new school term.
The targeting staff at the Pacific Fleet compiled a selection of easily recognizable landmarks to direct the bombards to the drop sites, weather permitting. Since the primate site was wrapped in clouds the crew’s bombardier opened the envelope marked: secondary. When his scope matched the photo in front of him Commander Ashworth released Fat Man. It was not known at the time that the landmark that was used to target the city was the Urakami Cathedral. All who attend that mass were dispatched to meet their maker. This was the last time an Atomic weapon was dropped on practicing Christians.
A drop in the ocean… So inconsequential and unimportant, it scarcely matters.
In the wider scale of things, insignificance is – for all practical purposes – nothing.
Nothing at all.
You are my drop in the ocean.
But, to somebody, you are far more – you are their world, their life: You are their everything. Or so they told you… But we’ll see about that.
Because, if they won’t pay up to set you free, I’m going to cut that rope with this knife, and you will drop into the cold, dark ocean depths below, and never be seen again.
There was a man who refused to pay taxes. He was not poor, and did not dispute the amount. He said only that he recognised no authority to make these exactions.
So perplexed was the magistrate that he referred the case to his superior, and thus it came before General Wei.
General Wei said, “The monsoon begins with a single drop. Thus may the meanest of men foretell the destruction of empires.” Then he had all involved with the case executed, and instructed the tax officials to act henceforth with high-handedness, to draw the anger of subjects upon themselves alone.
“Drop that lid, you little twit!” Santa shouted, coming up behind and grabbing Marcus the elf.
Marcus jumped up and turned to face Santa as the box flew from his lap.
“Well little fellow” Santa began, “Your little prank isn’t going to have the effect you were planning on” as Santa pulled out his Colt Python aiming at the elf and then he cocked the hammer.
“Now Santa” Mrs. Claus blushing, interjected, “After all, it was only a tiny winnie, little joke”
“Well little fellow, I guess you’ll be going for a sleigh ride on Christmas Eve instead.” Santa roared.
Henry was tired of the rest of the pigeons.
They were stupid and boring and happy to sit on the roof top all day.
Adventure to this crowd was startling and flying to the next house when someone opened a door, below.
They all looked at him cross eyed when Henry suggested they drop bird bombs on the local cats sneaking through the bushes.
There had to be more to life than being a non-descript, cookie cutter copy, one of a million other, pigeon.
“Forget them. I’ll be a red tailed hawk,” he said and made the sky his limit.
I used to love won ton soup, but it got boring quickly.
So, I’d try all the other soups at the Chinese restaurant.
Egg drop soup.
Hot and sour soup.
Spicy vegetable soup.
And they were all great.
But over the years, I’ve developed an allergy to eggs.
Egg drop soup is like a shotgun blast to my colon.
And I can’t eat much in the way of spicy foods, either.
Which rules out hot and sour soup. And the spicy vegetable soup.
So, I’m back to plain old boring won ton soup.
And smoking weed to make it interesting.