Weekly Challenge #633 – RATCHET

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:

Tangly Tinny


The Economics of Architecture


Jon DeCles

It was such a wonderful invention, thought Giles as he turned the ratchet just a notch and listened to Geoffrey’s screams. Before some clever torturer had invented the rack, this kind of pain could only be inflicted on a prisoner by hanging him by his wrists from the ceiling and slowly adding weights to his ankles. That, in turn, required a pretty high ceiling from which to do the hanging, and that meant you had to build a dungeon with a vault as high as the average great hall, which was a very wasteful use of stone, wood, and mortar.


Bilbert took the plastic grocery bag and cut two holes in the bottom. He pushed his legs through the holes and carefully pulled it up.

“Only a homeless person would wear a grocery bag,” he said as he walked to the back yard.

He knew he must look completely ghetto, or ratchet, as his cousin from New Orleans used to say.

Not wanting to hit his head on the ceiling, he stepped outside and looked up into the branches of the maple tree above him.

Next thing he knew, he was hovering among the leaves, twenty feet above the ground.


Rat Chet

Chet had no honor. Everyone who had taken him into their confidence were soon betrayed. When maximum density was reached in his small village he was strapped to a pillory and the letters R-A-T were branded on his forehead with a red hot iron. His last remaining friend gave him money for passage to France. Settling- in in Paris he took up the profession of rodent exterminator. If paid well, he became rich, and soon a member of the French court. Marquis Rongeur never lost his tendency to rat folk out, thus, an early victim of the reign of terror.


Few people appreciate the difficulties those of us in the hurting and killing professions face daily.

It’s not just the constant hiding of evidence and running from the cops that make it such a stressful occupation: Blood soaked clothing means sky high laundry bills, for a start; and you’d be amazed at how prevalent repetitive strain injury is, as a result of constantly hacking away at bodies for easy disposal.

That’s why I invented the ‘Ratchet Hatchet’™ – a labour saving device that takes the strain out of removing limbs.

Not coming to a home shopping channel any time soon!


When I grew up in New Orleans, everyone thought I was a ratchet, and that I would never make anything of myself.

Today, in my early twenties, I am a Certified Arch Support Technician for the largest woman’s shoe emporium in town. When a customer comes to my kiosk in the back of the store, I can see their problem before they say a thing. Most of those that have bad feet are a hundred pounds over weight.

I ask them to sit, and then I slather on hand sanitizer up to my armpits, and under my watch and bracelets.


I had to borrow a ratchet to tighten the main universal on my dildonic device. It had loosened way outside of spec after the bachelorette party with the ladies.

I torqued the base, arms, grippers to spec, and plugged it in. Next, I called the main sex hub and asked them to run a test series on the device. It whirred, spun, then, when warmed up it went into full operation.

Myrna was at the house for the day, insisting on testing it. She had me wait in the other room. A minute passed and I heard a frenzied scream.


by Jeffrey Fischer

“It was night.”

No, you need the opening to be punchier, more suspenseful. Give it another try.

“It was a dark and stormy night.”

Better, but maybe ratchet up the suspense even a little more.

“It was a really, really dark and especially stormy night.”

That’s not exactly what I…

“As soon as it got dark, the frustrated author killed the annoying editor with his pen.”

Better, better. How about changing “killed” to “stabbed” – or even “slaughtered”? Wait, we can talk this over… “killed” is just fine… what are you -”


Slow and sure

Growing old and slowing down never suited grandpa – especially the slowing down bit.

He used to grumble constantly that his stair lift was too slow, and that he had a good mind to make his own modifications to speed it up. I told him to leave it be, but he never took any notice.

I’ve no idea what he used to replace the old ratchet mechanism, but I do know it was way too powerful, and that somehow he got the gearing all wrong.

Last we heard of him, he was headed for the earth’s core, at breakneck speed!


Rest assured. This will not happen again, you said.
Aim for the future and don’t look back, hey? May those sorrows stay in the past, you said. Bury them deep. What you did cannot be undone, can it?
Time will tell, of course. Time will tell.
Call upon the meek, you must. Their sorrowful, all-forgiving smiles will free you.
Haul and cry if you must. Haul and cry. They’ll forgive you.
Each new day will bring new hope, we hope. You hope.
Then, it’ll be the end. Where? Right there. Find the place. Rest assured. This will not happen again.


She picked up the ratchet off of the garage workbench, walked up behind Bobby, and smacked him in the back of the head.
He fell to the ground, dead.
She washed off the ratchet and put it back in the set,
Then, she called the police.
By the time they got there, she was gone.
The police took photographs and measurements, collected things to check for fingerprints.
But they found nothing. No sign of her.
Bobby got zipped up in a body bag and hauled into the back of a van.
The house went on the market, are you interested?

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