One Billion

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Ever seen a billion dollars up close? Run your hands over it, or your eyes. Slowly.
Even when it’s in hundreds, it fills a room.
You can make a room out of it. Stack it up, make walls, a roof.
Maybe even live in it. But it would make more sense to buy a place with it big enough for what’s left over and you to fit comfortably.
It doesn’t take much. You’d barely miss that little bit at all.
And it wouldn’t miss you. A billion dollars doesn’t care.
It just sits there. In a room. Doing absolutely nothing.

Weatherman

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We’re a small town, barely a thousand people.
Everybody knows everybody else, or at least knows about them.
George is the town’s weatherman. Had a job at a big television station before he got sick of city life and retired here.
Well, maybe not retired. More like cracked up after blowing a bunch of forecasts, getting fired… drinking a lot.
Whatever. He’s a lousy weatherman, but the best we got.
When the tornado siren went off, he just laughed.
“No tornados today,” he said.
Those were his last words. During the cleanup, we found his body smashed against a tree.

Sloppy Fred

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Sure, you think you know all about the Sloppy Joe, but I knew Joe, and he wasn’t sloppy.
No, the real problem was the waiter Fred.
We called him Sloppy Fred.
Joe would make beef sandwiches and smack the bell. Fred grabbed the platter, and all hell would break loose.
Sauce this way. Sandwiches that way.
Sure enough, by the time he got to the table, he’d gotten them all messy.
Fred tried to blame Joe, the chef.
But he didn’t count on these things being a hit.
Joe killed Fred. Covered his tracks really good.
Not sloppy at all.

Pet

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So, you want to pet the kittycat?
I can’t blame you for wanting to.
Follow the rules:
The kittycat decides who may pet the kittycat.
The kittycat decides when you must pet the kittycat.
Not may. Must.
The kittycat will decide where on the kittycat you may pet and where you must.
The kittycat is not obligated to tell you where.
And the kittycat can decide to change its mind about anything it has decided.
Sure you still want to pet the kittycat?
Fine.
But don’t bitch when your other hand ends up in a bandage like the first one.

The Kidder

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My dad, the kidder.
Every time the old man tried to tell me his favorite joke, something interrupted him.
Usually, it was the phone. Or a knock on the door.
The last time I talked to him, I asked him again.
He stared out the window, just smiling. “I’ll be with your mother soon,” he said. “Anything you want me to tell her?”
He was calm, relaxed. Maybe a little tired from the pills.
This morning, he was gone.
I opened the envelope and read the note.
“I forgot the punchline,” it said. “But, trust me, it was really funny.”

Weekly Challenge #113 – Purity

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Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Thirteen, 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 selected by ArminasX, and we went with Purity.
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
VOTING

Which stories were the best from Weekly Challenge #113?
Justin the Space Turtle
Guy David from Sixteenth
Mike
Steven the Nuclear Man from Idea Trash
Tom from Footnote
Sister Mary Edith
Thomas Merkel
Sougent from SL Adventures of a South Gentleman
Pond Nitely
Anima Zabaleta likes Explorers Web
JD White from Writing.com
Planet Xray from Planet X Podcast
Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com


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


JUSTIN

We exist in the most pure, simple state we can. We choose not to stand out with looks and keep it to the standard, basic color: gray. We avoid all the needless accessories that so many of our kind have, such as lasers, rockets, and blade arms. We run on the simplest form of energy, rechargeable batteries. We stick to wheels and don’t use hover plates. We even forgo transistors and use basic circuit boards and vacuum tubes. Others of our kind make fun, call us outmoded. We pay no processing power to this. We are proud to be robo-Amish.

GUY

Oh, the purity of salmon, done with just enough olive oil and a hint of coriander. Tom would give us another tasty culinary footnote, then Elisson would bring the whiskey, and the party would begin. Terrence would bring his friend Raoul to play around while Laieanna, the belly dancer would give us her best dance, Caleb would add the twist of the twisted and Daphne would take us right down to the sewage, then, the idiot in chief would appear with all his cogs spinning and the dish would be truly ready for upload. Another weekly challenge would be posted.

MIKE

Quality Control’s a real pain, the owner reflected, recalling the chain of events that had led to this. Due to record demand, the backup system had been brought into production. Feeling the pressure, the supervisor had only inspected each filtration seal, not replaced them as directed. The last one failed, sending contaminant downline, and an alert operator had hit the emergency shunt. The company guaranteed 99.5% purity – well above the industry norm; had the contaminant reached the main storage vats, the consequences would have been beyond imagining.
Another whipcrack and scream echoed through the room. Yep – QC’s a real pain.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

Snowflakes float lazily as she begins shouting. I do not fight back,
and this infuriates her. Crystalline water sparkles in angled
sunlight, like the shining stone in her ring that bounce bounce
bounces on the floor.
She leaves tire tracks in the driveway, a bit of rubber on the street.
Her suitcase, her car are gone, and so is she.
Fat wet flakes fall, coating my hair in age, weariness, fear. They
come down down down and fill in the tracks with a coat of purest
white.
For a little while, I can forget. For a little while, I pretend.

TOM

Purity has taken a serious hit during the latter 20th century. Its became the plutonium of discourse. None the less it best describes that which is best. The distillation of the raw to the refined. The purity of pen is Mont Blanc. Its weight gives substance to the stroke. Perfectly balanced and contoured to the task at hand. I am partial to the gold nib over the silver but I”m a purest when it comes to glide. The latest of the line is the cobalt blue StarWalker. Image a $400 ballpoint pen the good Sisters of Mercy are wailing somewhere in penmanship purgatory.

SISTER MARY EDITH

My story centers on my own purity, or lack thereof.
Some of you may remember me as Sister Mary Edith. Alas, I’ve been defrocked, which isn’t as much fun as it sounds. It was a routine clergy-net sweep for kiddy porn that turned up my brief fling with 100 word stories. I was cast out, and my pc exorcised by the Cardinal himself, which is why, when Lawrence played my mp3, pure silence. On the upside, did you know exorcism completely uninstalls Windows Millennium Edition(R)?
A year later, I’ve found my new calling. You can call me Scout-Master Mary Edith.

THOMAS

The priest droned as the crowd murmured. With their sins absolved, the village would be pure once more.
Ena stood before the cold obelisk, trembling… resolved. Purer than the sacrifices before her. No evil thought or deed found purchase in her soul. This fact made her ideal to remove the sins of her peers.
The priest recited the ancient text, knife raised asking his god’s blessing on this sacrifice. Then motioned Ena to kneel.
As the knife came down, crimson lightning issued from the obelisk, killing the priest, and the ogling crowd. Ena walked quietly away; the village pure again.

SOUGENT

Back in January 1919, I was a traveling salesman and I had just made a big sale down in Beantown and was walking down the street to a bar I’d spotted earlier ta get a sip of whiskey when all of a sudden I hear a rumbling sound down the street in the direction of the Purity Distilling Company and the ground started shaking.
I looked and there was this big old wave of molasses coming straight for me, so I did the only thing a body could do…..
I hopped on and body surfed that sucker clear across town.

POND NITELY

“Hope”
“No”
“Faith”
“No”
She sighed.
“How about Grace?”
“Uh uh”
The newspaper in his hands, a wall between the two of them, rattled as he shook his head.
“Prudence? Patience?”
“No, no and no!
What is with the goofy names, I don”t want our daughter running around with a tag like Prudence.
And do we have to talk about this tonight, I”m just bagged””
She sighed.
“I read today that the Puritans named their children after virtues to give them strength. I really want to give our child the best start possible in this uncertain world.”
He sighed and turned the page. His wife used to read the Wall Street Journal, now the coming baby ruled her focus completely. He peered over the paper.
“Well if you want to give her a good start, how about a name that suits the new millennium, not some outdated ideal. Why don”t we call her Cynicism, or maybe Apathy.”
“I”m not even going to dignify that with a reply”
Several breaths worth of pause, and…
“Chastity? Charity?”
He folded the paper, rubbed his temples and mentally reached for the white flag, waiting.
“Purity?”
“Fine”
Poor kid.

ANIMA

Vitaly had some, and I needed it, bad.
It had been days ” the brainfog was settling in” News on the vidscreen was sounding
plausible.
Come on Vitaly, I whine. Scanning the room, I spy the scarred PIOSK bottles. I know
you fired up the Elektron yesterday. Liquid’s better, but chemical will do.
Vat have you trade?
A foil of pop tarts and six Twinkies”.
Prakhaldna ” 10 minutes.
How about liquid?
Chevo? ‘K ” 5 minutes.
Inhaling, the purity of the O2 hits my brain better than anything I remember.
I wheeze again, growing sharper and more cynical with each passing moment.

JD

In the beginning we were driven out from the garden.
Latter we were driven across the face of the earth.
At last we were driven into the sky and across the universe.
In all times and places we searched for what had been lost.
The void between the stars, our last hope.
For eons we searched in the darkness of that void.
And then we found the Children of the Light.
We saw that they had what we had lost and then we understood.
So, in our terrible rage we killed them all.
Once lost, purity can not be regained.

PLANET X

The oldest house in our neighborhood was always the center of activity, in it lived the pastor of the local church.
Purity, the pastor’s daughter, was always prim and proper, an example for the neighborhood.
When they moved, the house sat empty for a very long time, until Purity bought it for her family.
Soon, Purity had her own daughters living with her, each were very pretty, and had names like, Charity, Destiny, Faith, and Grace.
And her mission was so much like her step-father’s, to provide a little heaven for each of their visitors, twenty bucks at a time.

PLANET Z

The quest for genetic purity has been the foundation for the greatest evils throughout history.
Disposing of those deemed imperfect, flawed, or inferior.
However, sometimes it can be a good thing.
Take Nardo the cat as an example. He’s the perfect specimen of Ginger Classic Tabby in all regards except for one minor detail ” he’s a polydactyl.
Those thumbs cost him a life of poking, prodding, and harassment at cat shows.
Instead, he got dumped at a shelter. My ex girlfriend picked him out, she moved to California, and left him with me.
He’s not perfect. Then again, who is?

The Chart

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My doctor put down the chart and did a little happy dance.
“Does this mean I’m cured?” I ask.
“No,” says the doctor. “You’re not in fact, it’s terminal.”
“I’m going to die?”
“Yes, but not soon. In fact, it will be a long, painful, agonizing death.”
“Then what’s the dance for?”
“Nobody’s seen what you’ve got before.”
“Why is that good?”
“I’ll get it named after me,” he said. “I’ll be famous.”
He asked a nurse for a bottle of champagne. “Drink up, it can’t hurt. At least, I don’t think so.”
And he toasted to my bad health.

Businessman Specials

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They call early afternoon baseball games “Businessman Specials.”
You might ask why call them that?
After playing a full game the night before, the teams aren’t going to be at their best. So, the players take the day off and the front office suits up.
Ever seen a marketing and branding specialist try to charge a bunt from third?
Almost as ugly as one trying to justify seven-dollar beers while watching a sub-500 cellar-dwelling bum squad.
Or your 100 million dollar cleanup man picking up a broom and cleaning up the stands.
Seen his slugging percentage?
Better make him mop.

The Play

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Every Thursday, the neighborhood kids gather up at the local church and put on a puppet show for the town.
This week was different.
You see, someone burned down the shed the kids used to store their arts and crafts.
Years and years of handcrafted puppets, up in smoke.
So, the children used cheese. They put hunks of cheddar, gouda, and havarti on sticks and a bedsheet curtain rose to thunderous applause.
Hamlet had never been so… delicious.
When the curtain fell for the last time, we gave them a standing ovation.
And then, got out our wine and crackers.

Billy the Kid

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Feelin’ lucky tonight?
William Bonney over in Accounting was a renegade CPA who settled down and went corporate.
But during Audit Season, the Call of the West got in his blood, and he became Billy the Billing Kid.
Forms? Ledgers? Books?
He’s put them all away and reached for his sixguns.
He’d shoot down lawyers and tax agents and all sorts of credit service representatives.
Accounts Payable and Accounts Receivable became Accounts Dead when he faced off with them on Main Street at High Noon.
Billy wasn’t killed by no sheriff.
Downsizing, man. It gets us all in the end.