Contrived

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The police reviewed the tapes from the bank and admitted that the scene looked somewhat contrived.
Robbers were holding sheets of paper in their hands, reading their lines, while the bank teller kept prompting them every time they went off-script.
Their guns looked like toy guns. The orange tips gave them away.
When the bank teller accidentally hit the alarm switch with his knee, he kept saying “I’m sorry about that!” and helped the robbers carry two sacks of cash to the getaway car.
As we questioned him, the bank teller shouted: “I kidnapped the Lindbergh Baby!”
Crazy little twerp.

On the eighth day…

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On the seventh day, God rested.
But on the eighth day, the angels came to God’s office and found the door locked.
There were strange sounds coming from behind the door.
Nothing the angels immediately recognized.
Maybe heavy breathing, or a wet finger stroked along the lip of a wineglass.
They knocked a few times, but the door didn’t open.
And the sounds became louder and stranger.
Some of the angels wanted to break the door down, but in the end, they just walked away.
On the ninth day, there was no door.
The angels walked in circles and screamed.

The Prayer Flags

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Atisha Cho was a Tibetan stripper who’s routine involved the judicious use and slow removal of strings of prayer flags.
As she peeled away the blue flags, the skies darkened.
As she peeled away the white flags, the wind ran through her hair.
As she peeled away the red flags, the fires burned brighter.
As she peeled away the green flags, it started to rain.
And as she peeled away the yellow flags, the ground shook and cracked open, swallowing her up, screaming and naked.
Since then, Tibetan strippers only use veils.
And leave the prayer flags to the wind.

Weekly Challenge #224 – Everyday

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Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number Two Hundred and Twenty-Four, 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… was…. um…
It’s Everyday!
VOTING

Which were the best stories this week?
LizzieBeth
Matt
TJ
Kelley
Zackmann
Jeffrey
Norval Joe
Justin
Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):


LizzieBeth

Devastation lay everywhere. This was not something that one saw everyday.
Rubble littered every part of the city, a sign that something big had taken place.
Overturned cars. Empty boxes. Broken windows. Abandoned homes. There was no sign of life wherever you looked.
Thick layers of grime and dust covered every surface. It was hard to believe that the town had prospered, just moments ago. To see the remnants of life extinguished in the town within the blink of an eye was astounding.
Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.
All was still.
A nuclear bomb had fallen somewhere, taking everything with it.

Matt

Every day my alarm clock goes off like an air raid siren during world war three.
Every day my water heater produces just enough hot water to last half of my shower.
Every day I end up late for work because some moron can’t understand the fundamentals of driving. The left lane is for going fast people!
Every day the problems I deal with at work are more complex and idiotic than the one before.
Every day the dog leaves me a gift when I get home.
And every day I feel better when listening to a hundred word story.

TJ

Every day, another piece arrived.
Small items, insignificant in themselves, had been arriving in the daily
mail for as long as I could remember.
When I was 10, a manual arrived. I could see the items were in fact
components for a large, complicated machine.
Machines, rather. I’d construct the machines – odd monstrosities I
couldn’t quite understand. Every day more pieces, new manuals, me
fitting them together. The machines themselves were combined into
something even larger, but I still didn’t know what it all was.
Today, a key arrived. I turned it. The machine killed me.
The pieces stopped coming.

Kelley

Everyday I see him, but he doesn’t know I’m there.
I dyed my hair, fixed my nose, but he didn’t even care.
I wave hello, give a nod, offer my brightest smile.
I wait for him to say, “Hello. Come sit. Let’s talk awhile.”
I’ve never seen his eyes, the glasses he wears are dark.
He strums the guitar and sings a song, his voice is like the lark.
Today I will approach him, make him notice me.
He says, “Hello? Who’s there? You know that I can’t see.”
I turn around and run. He never hears me flee.

Zackmann

Sometimes you just have to do things for yourself but the Internet can help. Can’t I get my wife to do that for me as an everyday duty? No, it is more of a special favor in today’s busy world you will be lucky if she does you that special favor twice a week. I am not sure you are ready to get married. So we won’t have sex every day? If you mean sex right after you get married but before you have children, the chances are good. Wait, I was talking about your needing to learning to cook.

Jeffrey

The emperor has two wives. In public the are a very loving family. In private it is a different story
Every day the Emperor brings a lover to the palace. Everyday he insists on having tea before they consummate their new relation ship. Everyday he leaves her alone while he goes to the kitchen and puts the water on.
“Hair.”
“Gag.”
“Knife.”
“Throat.”
“Incinerator chute.”
Every day at dinner with his wives the emperor shakes his head and sighs. “Why do all the pages run away from me?”
“I hate you,” whispers the first.
“I hate you more.” sings the second.

Norval Joe

Everyday that summer, the young man waited at the Sycamore Street bus stop of route 54b.
Everyday he awaited the bus, monthly pass in hand, held high like the statue of liberty.
Everyday he wore a bathing cap, swim goggles, speedo swim shorts and a towel pinned around his neck.
Everyday he sat in the first bench and nodded sternly to each passenger that boarded between Sycamore and the mall.
Everyday the driver asked, “Why you dress that way, son?”
“To protect the world from evil,” he replied everyday, until the weather turned cold and he was never seen again.

Justin

The following is an unpaid shameless plug:
Every day this year the Compassion 365 podcast is releasing an episode to raise funds and awareness for Compassion International. The show topics have more variety then Apple has versions of ipods.
There’s shows about movies, music, UFC fights, zombies, and dramatic readings of Wikipedia articles.
Want to help? Record ten minutes of something, or pick a few of your favorite podsafe songs and send an email to compassion365@gmail.com and we’ll put you on the show! Do it for the children. Get more info at Compassion365.com.
Give it a listen!

Planet Z

There once was a time when I loved to hear the song “Everyday People.”
I could listen to it all day, lifting the arm on the record player and starting it back up on the turntable.
When I wasn’t home, I’d request it on the radio.
Now, after all these years, I can’t stand to hear it.
It wasn’t just my song, you know.
It was also hers.
Ours.
It was love at first note, really.
Then, one day, the record player broke.
By the time I bought a replacement, she was gone.
Can’t stand it anymore.
Turn it off.

The Minister

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We are a small town on the prairie.
Not many people come here from the rest of the world.
And we really like it here, there’s not much reason to leave.
We don’t bother with televisions, the one radio station’s fine enough.
It plays the same music it has always played, over and over.
Because we grew up with it, and like it.
There’s one church we all go to every Sunday.
The minister starts at the pulpit, gives the same sermon every week.
Then we go home, step on to our recharger pads, and all shut down.
Good night.

The Middle Name

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I don’t have a middle name.
I mean, I don’t have one anymore.
I sold it to someone who didn’t have a middle name, found mine interesting, and offered me money for it.
“Why not just change your name?” I asked.
“We don’t do that in my culture,” he said. “There are only so many names available, and we compete for them. If we cannot win one, we buy it.”
He handed me a check.
There was a large number on it.
I agreed and wrote my name on it.
Then scratched out the middle name. It’s not mine anymore.

Fear

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Final evening approaches: Ramadan.
Father enters, asks “Ready?”
Forty elders and relatives.
Fatima expects a riot.
Find everyone a rug.
Face east and recite.
Fatima’s excited. Allah! Rejoice!
Fasting ends. All relax.
Fried eggs are ready.
Fennel, eggplant, and rice.
Fish, endive, and rosemary.
“Fantastic! Elegant! Amazing! Righteous!”
Friends eat and ruminate.
Finish eating and regroup.
“Fun? Entertainment?” ask relatives.
Farts. Embarrassment. Awfully rude.
Flustered excuses and revulsion.
Family endeavors are rowdy.
Former enemies are restless.
Fighting erupts! Anger! Retaliation!
Flailing everywhere. Angry responses.
Father exclaims: “All right!”
Fighting ends abruptly, respectfully.
Finding exits, all retire.
Fatima, exhausted and run-down.

Knots in my stomach

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I feel knots in my stomach.
So, I swallow a Boy Scout.
He crawls back out.
“I forgot my flashlight,” he says, and crawls back in.
He tries to untie it, but it turns out that his knots badge is a fake.
So, I go down to the docks and swallow a dockworker.
You’d think that a professional who works with knots all day could untie it, but he was stumped.
“I just do boat hitches,” he said, tipping his cap and going back to work.
So, you say you’re a backpacker?
Handy with bungee cord?
Mind taking a look?

My Spy

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An assassin is following me.
He’s an expert at this. Wouldn’t suspect a thing if you saw him there.
Friendly. Polite. Well-groomed.
But I know what he’s really doing:
Following me.
So, I turn the tables on him.
I put on a disguise, cover my tracks, and follow him.
He doesn’t suspect a thing. Doesn’t break cover. Maintains his routine.
Excellent.
I corner him in an alley, a knife to his throat.
He’s surprised and denies being my assassin.
Just like all the rest.
I bury him in the park with the others.
And wait for another to follow me.

The Kraken

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Off the coast of Port Byron, the seas boil with tentacles.
The Great Kraken has returned for its Solstice Sacrifice, part of the pact our ancestors made with the beast.
We load up a boat with murderers, thieves, and the feeble, lowering it into the water and sending its shabby crew to their doom.
Some townsfolk make a picnic out of the occasion.
They toast the ancestors with champagne, and feast on kraken tentacles, boiled in butter.
We give up our own, the Great Kraken reciprocates.
One taste, and you’ll agree that we got the better end of the deal.