Fiddle Faddle

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I admit it. I’m addicted to Fiddle Faddle.
I love the stuff. It’s so much better than Chex Mix.
Some people will eat any snack, but I refuse to eat anything but Fiddle Faddle for a snack.
Once, on April Fools, my friends told me they weren’t going to make Fiddle Faddle anymore.
Oh no! What would I snack on?
That night, one of my friends turned out to be a vampire and he bit me on the neck, turning me into a vampire.
Since then, I’ve just had blood.
I’ll live forever, but without Fiddle Faddle?
Stake me now.

Boxcars

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The commercials called Boxcar Willie the king of the hobo musicians, but old Willie never spent a day riding the rails.
He was a gambler. Craps was his game. Guy owned a pair of dice, loaded for sixes: Boxcars.
“Boxcars Willie” didn’t sound quite right, so they called him Boxcar.
The same went with his bandmates Snake Eyes Sam and Acey Duecey. They were in his band as well as at the craps table as much as Willie.
Get Drunk And Hole Up With A Transvestite Hooker Howard, well, he didn’t gamble. So we called him Howie. He played drums.

Blind Man’s Wallet

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Joe has been blind since birth, but he keeps photos in his wallet.
We ask him who they are of.
His wife. His daughter. His parents.
He opens up the wallet to show us.
All three are beautiful, almost-perfect.
They are the photos that came with the wallet.
We know they are fakes, but does he know they’re fakes?
And does he know that we know they are fakes?
We play along.
Or is he playing along with us?
Does he really have a kid? Is he really married?
He’s got the ring, but then… the photos.
What’s the truth?

Weekly Challenge #155 – Rusty Steel

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Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Fifty Five, 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 Rusty Steel.
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
VOTING

Which were the best stories this week?
Anima from http://zabbadabba.com
Houston Keys from http://tatertotsforthemasses.blogspot.com
Lynda from http://sisterpepperspray.blogspot.com
Justin from http://www.thespaceturtle.com/
Tom from http://footnote.libsyn.com
Norval Joe from http://www.norvalsoutlook.blogspot.com/
Daniel from http://dannymachal.com
Guy David from http://guydavid.com
Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com

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


Anima

I hunt along the rusty Steel river… Eerie hulks list and careen; weeds grow out of the crazed asphalt. When cars ran out of gas on I-95, travel halted on the east coast. Anything salvageable is long gone.
The seats and mirrors are missing, but the trunk is still latched. How did this get missed by the others? The lock gives, and I find- 2 blankets and a box of powerbars. A corner of the carton is gnawed, but most bars are whole. Enough to trade.
Today is a good day, I think, as the cold sun reflects off my face.

Houston Keys

Hello there everyone this is Republican Chairman Michael Steele in for
Bill Bennett. Let’s go to the phones, Rusty from Lenoir City,
Tennessee, you are on!
Mikey, it’s your brother.
Yo my homie brother! It’s good people realize I DO have street cred. WORD!
No, Mikey, it’s your REAL brother.
I don’t have a biological brother sir, but we are all brothers in the
conservative movement.
Mikey, brothers as in we share a mother. My name is Rusty.
Rusty Steele?
Yes.
Oh lordy lordy, this has to be either a bad joke or a REALLY GREAT one
hundred word story.

Lynda

“Excuse me sir, are you Hattori Hanzo?”
“No.”
“With all due respect, sir, I was here when that lady came in here before and–”
“Yeah, alright, it’s me! What do you want?”
“Well, sir, I was wondering if you could do anything about this sword?”
“Oh…what have you done to it? This is not a disposable weapon, you fool! It is a work of art! My steel must be treated with respect! Oiled, cleaned, kept…out of certain things. Tell me, how did it get into this state?”
“It’s really hard to shower with a sword through my head, sir.”

Justin

Everything changed when the aliens took the moon away. Over time the tides stopped and a desolation crept across the planet. Small teams of aliens arrived to slowly wipe out survivors. They came across a lone clock tower that rose above the ruins. Rhythmic ticking quietly protested alien onslaught. The usurpers of life climbed the tower. In the center was a lone figure, weathered and aged. It raised its ticking eyes to the aliens. They raised their rifles. The figure reached reached to its back and wound up a key. One by one the aliens fell from the tower, dead.

Tom

Rusty Steel played petal guitar for Buck Edward’s Chaparral Stumpers. He hated being on the road so he only played session work on their albums. Buck begged him to come with, it took two guy playing as hard and fast as they could to give the road show that Rusty Steel sound. One year it was DuPre Reinhardt and Blind Willie Lang the next it was Baxter Gibson and Gusty Winds. When Rusty passed away Buck learned the reason he never toured was he just couldn’t bear to be away from his daughters for even one night. That’s a Dad.

Norval Joe

Inigo lay dead, the thrust to his heart so rapid and deadly that little blood oozed from the fatal wound.
It wasn’t a thrust from the shinning, razor-sharp, blade of a master swordsman, like Arnesto Cervantes, nor was it the rusty steel of a clandestine, blackguard, mercenary.
He had no opportunity to use the Agrippa defense and take advantage of uneven ground, or engage in witty banter with his attacker.
He couldn’t thrust his fist into the gaping wound and difiantly challenge his murderer.
Lawrence cut him down with an attack he could not counter; an expletive to the heart.

Daniel

In the onset of winter, the blink of an eye is all the time it takes to split the sternum and pierce the heart.
Four days will have gone by when the maggots and other insects begin to consume the flesh.
Thirty days until the beetles come to feast on the tough dry meat.
One hundred twenty days for the moths and bacteria to consume the remaining hair.
Spring will bring the warm humid rains as summer creeps upon what is left.
Fourteen days more until the steel blade bleeds dark red onto the newly polished and washed bone.
Eternity for the soul to forgive.

Bluesmoke

Don’t bring me any of those shiny steel rods. I like my steel rusty. I like it crunchy. I like steel that makes little popping sounds when I chew. I like that steel that slowly dissolves inside my body, leaving a warm sensation in all the right places. I used to nibble on rocks, but it wasn’t the same. Tiny pieces would get stuck in my teeth. Would take hours clearing. It was messy, and the taste was kind of stale. Now I’m on a steel diet. I’m telling you – rusty steel is the way to go. It’s the best.

Planet Z

We made the worker drones with simple carbon steel.
Planned obsolescence for a rainy planet. They lock up before they achieve individual intelligence.
Stainless steel wouldn’t have rusted as quickly. The same goes for zinc-electroplated.
So when chrome and zinc inventories were short last month, we knew something was up.
“Follow The Energy” is my first rule.
Three unauthorized taps from the solar halo grid.
Deep underground, scrap metal and drones were melted down and rebuilt with the stronger steels.
The Robot Army, waiting silently for the command to strike.
And so, by pushing a button, I give it.

I Killed The Moon

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Look at this knife.
This knife is mine.
I threw it at the moon.
And killed it.
Its blood raining down.
Dead.
Police station.
Jail. Behind bars.
Arrested for murder.
Other cells hold drunks. Hookers. Thieves.
I am the only murderer.
“Why did you do it?” asks the cop.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I had a knife. It was there. It followed me home.”
This angers him.
“Why did you do it?” he shouts.
I really don’t know. All I know, is that I killed the moon.
Every night, my victim up there in the sky.
Still following me.

Fresh Thursday

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What do you mean you’re having a bad Thursday?
Thursdays don’t spoil.
I pick my Thursdays fresh from the vine and gently place them in the basket.
So ripe and delicious they are, I can hardly believe they’re gone by Friday.
I wake up, rub the Thursday from my eyes.
Oh, why can’t every day be a fresh Thursday, picked from the vine?
Mondays… Wednesdays… not for me.
This man in the alley offered me Thursday pills. Ground up from dried Thursdays.
No. Fresh Thursdays or nothing! I deserve the best!
Today, my friend, I take a long, slow bite!

The Labels

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Something strange happened last night.
All of the labels on the cans in the pantry vanished.
I don’t know how or why. It just happened.
Now, I have no idea what’s in these cans.
Well, okay, maybe the tomato paste is easy to identify. They’re small and thin.
Soup cans are all the same. I never buy soup that I don’t like, so I can just grab any can shaped like that.
The rest are canned fruit. I should eat more of that.
Every can I will open will be a new mystery solved.
This is going to be fun.

Shoelaces

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Damn. I broke a shoelace.
So let’s go out to the woods and look for a replacement.
They drop from the tree branches and slither on the ground, looking for a spot to burrow a hole.
You catch a few, check their sizes and colors, and then hope to find just the right one.
Grab each end and pull tightly to snap their spines.
That’s how a shoelaces go all soft and limp.
Nobody wants a living, writhing shoelace in their shoe.
Don’t try to keep one as a pet. They just sit there in the bottle and wither away.

The Birds

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The trees are filled with so many birds.
Black as the night, silent and watching.
They only move their heads to follow us.
I’ve never seen them fly.
For as long as I have watched them, not a single one has left or arrived.
Just turning their heads without a sound.
I haven’t seen any other kinds of birds around since they arrived.
I haven’t heard any, either.
Where have they all gone?
Where did these birds come from?
Nobody knows.
We watch them in shifts now, and nobody’s seen any changes.
Just staring at us.
And we stare back.

Weekends

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When I was young, time crawled.
Now that I’m older, and the schoolweek is now the workweek, things feel a whole lot faster.
And it’s a good thing that the workweek goes by so fast. So much crap I just want to just get through.
It’s the weekends that matter to me. I live for the moment I can walk out that door and I’m free until Monday morning.
The problem is, if the week goes by fast, then the weekends go by even faster.
Sadly, Friday to Monday is a lot shorter than Monday to Friday.
When’s retirement again?