Weekly Challenge #637 – Stab

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:

Sleepy Tin


I was willing to take a stab at it. I had never done anything anywhere like it before, but I had enough whiskey in me to try it. The prize was two hundred dollars and a week of free drinks at the bar. It started slow, but the contest attracted a dozen more contestants in a few minutes.

The rules were clear. If you agreed to participate, you had to go out into the busy street and start singing Cindy Lauper’s True Colors in a high, falsetto, while Twerking in a tight, knit, pink, thong.

Naturally, I won, hands down.


Stabbing has become a team sport in many large, metropolitan cities in Europe and the United States.

You can be shopping or taking a leisurely walk with your sweetheart and some maniac will run up to you and jam a long blade into your back or your neck.

They will take a couple of shots at it, making sure they have done enough damage to end your life. They might yell some incoherent words at you, or the familiar Allahu akbar!

If some fool tries this with me, I’d put a few holes in his head with my umbrella sword.


The two men sat on the porch, looking at the inferior ones, they’d say. The porch became a symbol of power, of dominance. Only those who ruled could sit there and watch the others while they went about their lives. Ron felt like he was in jail and those two men were the guards.
One day, in a moment of lunacy, Ron took over the porch. He stabbed one of the men and knocked the other one out. He was king of the porch for 10 minutes. The best 10 minutes of his life. After that, it was all downhill.



I thought I’d take a stab at the hundred word story writing thing.

At the time, I had no idea of the evils of the drabble – in fact, if you’d told me at the time that it can become a habit as addictive as crack cocaine, I’d have laughed at you.

Shows how much I knew!

It’s nowhere near as bad as crack though, obviously…

Apart from the compulsive need for more, ever more; the cold sweats; the rage; the mood swings; the feverish nightmares and the inability ever to let it go.

No, nothing like crack at all!


Pole Position
by Jeffrey Fischer

The big-boned woman at the other end of the bar winked at him. She wasn’t his type, but he was a “two at ten and a ten at two” sort of guy and the bartender had already shouted for last call. He made his way to her and decided on the direct approach. “Wanna see Mister Stabby? Let’s go somewhere private and he can come out and play.” She agreed and they drove to a cheap motel.

As he started to undress, she stopped him with a hand on his arm. “You don’t want to see what I have under there?” he asked, leering drunkenly.

“I sure do,” she said, discarding her skirt, and the bulge was obvious, “but me first. Meet *my* Mister Stabby.” He yelped and ran unsteadily to his car.


Addictive Damage

“I’ll take a stab at it,” said Jerome. The ‘It’ was six feet four, weighed in at 290 pounds. Jerome, no piker himself, was well over 11 feet and 400 plus. He had to make his way over a few bodies to get to ‘It’. If ‘It’ had a superior mental capacity there would probably have been twice the bodies, this was not the case. Dumb as a boot, just mean as junk-yard dog from LA. So when Jerome got into the bit radius ‘It’ lunged forward. Jerome dropped to one knee raised his blade upward. ‘It’ provided the force.


You know what? I’m starting to get tired of your constant failure to leave your husband and move in with me.

You tell me you don’t want to cause him pain and that every time you psych yourself up to do it, you lose your resolve and realise just what a special person he is.

You tell me about all the wonderful things he does for you, and that even though you want to be with me, he’s done nothing wrong; nothing to deserve being dumped.

You tell me, you just can’t stab him in the back.

But, I could!


The eagle lands with a thud knocking the wind from the lamb’s body. Its front talons clamp around its ribs, and the rear talons stab it through. It heaves its prey into the air, and eventually returns to me, deposits the body, and goes to its recharging station.

Eagles are almost extinct, but these are the next best thing. We’re also working on a pack of robotic wolves that can bring down a man. The military are interested in that one.

The lamb will not go to waste. I have a recipe for new-born lamb that is to die for.


Roderick looked about to hit Billbert when Linoliumanda climbed on the bus. She sat behind the two.

With a gentle stab of her finger into his shoulder, she said, “Billbert. You’re still coming to my party tomorrow night, right?”

“Hey. No one invited me. Are you disrespecting me?” Roderick grabbed a handful of Billbert’s shirt.

“Come on, Roderick. You don’t really want to go. It’s just seventh-grader stuff,” Billbert begged.

“You could come if you want, Roderick. It’s just me and Billbert.” Linoliumanda shrugged.

“What?” Billbert gasped.

“Forget it. I don’t want to go to any seventh-grade party,” Roderick sneered.


A Simple Inquisition


Jon DeCles

“Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

“Hmm, I’ll take a stab at that. Because Poe wrote on both of them!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, you understand, Edgar Allan Poe wrote on the subject of a raven, and he also wrote the poem, on paper, which was on a writing desk. So he wrote on both a raven and a writing desk.”

“I am afraid that both of them being utilized by a poet in completely different categories of usage is not the same thing as a case of similarity. You fail! Now, the pit or the pendulum?”


Fuckin’ beer guys, are they on strike?
Frankie got up and went to get beer, but he never came back.
He felt a stabbing pain in his chest while waiting in the line, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.
The medics got him to the hospital.
They checked his pockets, but Bill always held on to the tickets.
And he never took his phone to game.
“Where the fuck is Frankie with our beer?” growled Joey. “God damn Frankie!”
The doctors called Frankie’s wife, she called us with the bad news.
We had to get our own beer.

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