The shock

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Today, we fill our bodies with drugs to make up for reckless lives.
In the world of tomorrow, futurists say there will be nanobots making adjustments, repairs, and corrections.
At what point do we stop being ourselves and end up at the mercy of machines?
Does it matter who controls the machines?
Does it matter who dispenses the drugs?
What raw animal instincts are we prisoners to?
Perhaps we never have had any control over ourselves?
I feel a spark and my vision flickers for a bit.
I feel better now.
That shot didn’t hurt at all. Thank you, Doctor.

Caulk

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I stood over the sheriff with my caulking gun, a ribbon of white goo still swinging from the nozzle.
The sheriff was confused. “Do you know how hard it’s going to be to get this crap out of my shirt?”
Not hard at all if you know what you’re doing.
You see, I run the town’s drycleaning shop.
Caulk is easy to get out of a shirt. Easier than blood.
That’s why I gunfight with a caulking gun.
He gets up, draws his gun, and shoots me.
Great. A huge bloodstain on my shirt.
This’ll be a bitch to fix.

Skydiving

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The instructor said that I should read the manual very carefully.
So, I did.
But I read it backwards.
Instead of getting in the airplane and jumping out of it, I was standing in the middle of a field. The parachute was draped over me, and I was tangled up in its lines.
When the plane passed overhead, I shouted “I’ll be right up!” and I jumped as high as I could.
No, I didn’t fly up to the plane. Instead, I twisted my ankle on a rock and got tangled up in the parachute lines even worse.
Stupid manual.

Moonbeam Harvest

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The moonbeams cover the forest floor, and we gather the magic sparkles and put them into glass jars.
We elves have been gathering for centuries. The deep, rich forests that produce the best moonbeams may be gone, but there’s plenty of trees left in hard-to-reach places to harvest under.
Besides, we’re more efficient at refining moonbeams now. It only takes ten jars of sparkles to fill a Moonbeam Bomb where it used to require thousands.
My water-basin swirls, and a message arrives from Germany. Another ancient forest is in danger from developers.
Not for long. Send a bomb to Berlin.

The Knife Tossers

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Two men toss a sharp knife back and forth.
They catch it each time.
One man tries to catch it in his teeth, and with a head-spin he comes up smiling, blade in his mouth.
He tosses it to the other man, who leaps and kicks at the knife, catching it in his toes.
This goes on for hours, until one man is lying on the sand, knife buried in his chest.
The other man pulls it out, wipes the blood off on a sleeve, and says “So, what do you think of my suggestion to flip a coin now?”

Cupid’s Arrows

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That’s not a tattoo on my shoulder.
It’s a scar.
Damn Cupid got his arrows mixed up with hunting arrows.
I saw my true love, worked up my courage, and took an arrow in the chest.
He missed my heart, thankfully.
Unlike my true love. She was dead within a second.
But then, we both were hit with hunting arrows, not with Cupid’s.
Were we hit by Cupid’s arrows, I’d believe it.
Maybe it was just the heat of the moment.
Cupid apologized at the funeral, offered to hit us again with the right arrows.
“What’s the point?” I said.

Weekly Challenge #166 – A bucket of gruel

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Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Sixty-Six, 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 A bucket of gruel.
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
VOTING

Which were the best stories this week?
Danny from http://dannymachal.com
Justin from http://www.thespaceturtle.com
Lynda from http://sisterpepperspray.blogspot.com
Jeffrey from http://GreatHites.blogspot.com
Anima from http://zabbadabba.com
Guy David from http://www.guydavid.com
Norval Joe from http://norvalsoutlook.blogspot.com
Mick from http://mickbordet.blogspot.com/
Laurie from http://www.myspace.com/sufferingraven
Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

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


Danny

“Next!”
They shaved our heads and stripped us of our possessions.
We’re forced into uniforms and our identities raped into numbers, some have forgotten their own names.
My steady surgeon’s hand used scalpels to save people’s lives once. Now it holds hard plastic and is weighted down with chains.
“Next!” the voice ordered everyone to shuffle forward.
It was her fault for making me teach him a lesson. She was the unfaithful demon, I was the angel of justice, of love.
“Next!”
A ladle scrapped the steel drum as the last bit of prison gruel was served on my tray.

Justin

Oliver stared down mournfully. His tummy rumbled with despair. He clinked his spoon into the empty bowl, picked it up and stood. Even though what passed for food around here made his mouth numb, likely to keep the boys quiet, he wanted more. He walked up to the kitchen master.
“Pleath thir, Mah I have thum moa?”
The master leaned over, squinting.
“More what?”
“Fewd, pwease.”
The master crossed his arms.
“What kind of ‘fewd’?”
“Grue, thir.”
The master grinned, picked up a bucket, and dropped it on Oliver’s head. The bucket fell from his empty shoulders. Inside, only darkness.

Lynda

For sale: One lightly used bucket of gruel. My children don’t appreciate the healing properties of my fine millet and honey recipe, so I’m selling it along with their video games to teach them a lesson.
What makes this bucket of gruel so special is that after my son vomited in it last Thursday, the spirit of a Mayan priest emerged from the swirling chowder and summoned a delightful goblin who cleaned our house top to bottom before playing many amusing tricks on us.
Don’t miss out on this one of a kind delicacy with bonus goblin! Local pickup only.

Jeffrey

“It is always about this line with you. You can never be happy.”
“Well what do you expect. I mean this is the longest line in town and you always want to come here for lunch.”
“Their food is good and they are cheap.”
“Good, it may taste good but it is not good for you.”
“I like it and that is what matters.”
“if you say so, but I think we should find a better place to eat.”
“What would you like better?”
“I don’t know, but even the name is, well wrong.”
“You don’t like Bucket of gruel?”

Anima

Buckets of grueling tension and flop sweats wash over me. The plane has finally landed; I’m reviewing my continuation to Calgary. CHECK INTERNATIONAL DOCUMENTS. Shit. I “see” my passport. At home. A thousand miles away.
This morning, the car wouldn’t start. Once jumped, the fuel filter failed. Change plans: cancel appointments, call mechanic, hastily pack.
On the flight there’s no diet soda. I overhear, “Think this is contagious?” A child screams, “We’re landing in the river!”
Teenage ninja mutant terrorists are taking over the terminal. Is Mars in retrograde? Note to self: Fire travel planner. And find overnight express office.

Guy David

The bucket of gruel looked like a thimble at the hands of the oversized baby. The servants running around it looked like midgets, though in regular perspective they looked massive. The baby was ancient. No one knew how ancient it was, they just knew it was there long before the empire was founded, long before the wars, long before civilization came and fell. Suddenly, a bus came out of the porridge, taking the baby with it. “Thanks for taking me from that place” said the baby, his voice deep and resonant, “I was getting tired from playacting the baby part.”

Norval Joe

The orc guards were distracted from their watch by their nagging hunger. “What’s for dinner?” One orc said. They both eyed the bucket of gruel.
Silently a hobbit slipped past, making his way into the stockade. Rumors of the rich treasury inside the stronghold was adequate motivation for the diminutive thief.
He noticed the bag of gold hanging from the guards belt and thought to add it to his stash.
Suddenly the guard sat.
The two orcs stood looking at the dead hobbit. “Not much to eat there.”
“Nope. That and a bucket of gruel would almost make a meal.”

Mick Bordet

Shug sat, staring at the burger between his calloused hands.
His wife left after they lost the farm, his faithful dog died and the welfare cheque didn’t cover his rent. He was living a classic country and western song.
He blamed the scientists; they eventually spotted the pattern – mad cow disease, bird flu, swine flu, sheep lurgi – but it was too late. Mother Nature’s course correction was in place. Contaminated meat stocks led to Government restrictions: “Families can thrive on a bucket of gruel per week.”
“Bunch of damned hippies,” he muttered and sank his teeth into the delicious beef.

Laurie

When the Congee finished cooking I poured two bowls. I ache for my retired General to be young again. As I spoon fed, I began to daymare of my General pushing me to the floor. Barking elicit commands through clenched teeth. Seething with lust. Violating me repeatedly until satisfied. The General begins to aspirate pulling me from my fantasy. He spews the milky rice all over my face and breasts. I smile at the irony of my twisted thoughts and reality. Once fierce, now he is nothing more than a puny, diseased invalid. I scrape the leftovers into a bucket and draw the steaming bubble bath. I disrobe and lift him ever so gently into my arms. I wrap his gnarled fingers around the sweet scented bar of soap and guide his hand slowly over my tan skin. I search under the bubbles and confirm his eagerness for me to begin cleaning him.

Planet Z

He was The King.
He always would be, and this made him sick.
Since he was a child, the spotlight blinded and burned him.
His sullen, manipulative family withered in his shadow.
A brother, his name lost in a prescription haze, subjected to continuous disfiguring surgeries…
Snip this.
Slice that.
Shift it around.
Smooth it out.
I swear, it’s as if they were twins.
The day came to fake his death, but the dosage was wrong.
Dead.
Maybe, just maybe…
No. The doppleganger in the basement, face down in a bucket of gruel.
Also dead.
They both were finally free.

Jackals and Jokers

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Jackals and jokers line the streets.
Licking their lips as the coffin goes by.
A nice juicy leg would make such a treat.
You bite through the knees while I tug on the feet.
Don’t lock down the lid.
We all want a peek.
No? Not this time?
What if we promise not to suck out the other eye?
We made him. We own him. He is a part of us.
Let us tear him apart. Let us scatter his bones.
When we are done all is left is his suit.
What size did he wear? I take forty-two long.

Faxcakes

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Every so often, we get someone who needs to send a fax.
I got careless with the office supplies and ran out of fax machine paper.
No, it doesn’t use the cut-sheet paper. It needs the old thermal rolls.
So I ended up loading the machine with pancakes.
That’s right. Rolled-up pancakes.
I didn’t expect to get a fax all day, and the office supply store was going to deliver another roll tomorrow, but I heard the phone ring and that telltale fax sound.
It printed, and I picked up the pancake.
They faxed a photo of butter and syrup.

Let’s all thank Finland

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The meeting went long, so I asked who was responsible for that.
“Finland,” said Joe. “The meeting went long because of Finland.”
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s thank Finland.”
We tried to open the windows so we could shout THANK YOU FINLAND at the same time, but like all office buildings, the windows were sealed shut.
It took just three hits with a heavy chair to shatter the glass.
“THANK YOU FINLAND!” we all shouted at once.
Except for Joe. He was laughing.
“You’re all morons,” he said. “Finland can’t hear you. Those windows face South. Finland is to the East.”