The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Weekly Challenge #68 – Yak

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Welcome to the sixty-eighth Weekly Challenge, 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 Rocky Torok from the Northwest Territories of Edloe Island, and it was: Yak.
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
SOMETHING NEW
Due to popular demand, I am going to include stories that were sent to me, but without a recording. However, since the midget has left for sunny Coral Gables, Florida, those stories will just be posted in the show notes. You’re more than welcome to vote for them, but they will be ineligible for prizes or topic selection.
I feel that this is a fair balance between the podcast and blog natures of this content.
Feel free to share your thoughts on this decision in the comments, and we might possibly come up with an even better and more fair policy for handling these kinds of situations.
VOTING
Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

WE GOTS PRIZES:
I will be sending the winner a prize… it’s refrigerator magnets for the podcast. Massive amounts of fridge magnets were mailed out in the past week… watch your mail, and let me know if I’ve missed you.
It is your voting that determines who wins. So listen, vote, and tune in next week to find out who won!

TOM

Yellow Yoni Yurt Yearned Yuri.
“Yolanda Yellow Yak,” Yelled Yuri.
Yearling Yolanda Yak Yarelessly Yawned.
Yuri Yanked Yoked Yellow Yak.
Yolanda Yapped Yipped Yelped Yes.
Yeasty Yam Yen Yolanda Yielded.
“Yonder Yankee Yahoos” Yelled Yuri.
Yak Yolanda Yexed Yellow Yams.
Yuri Yammered, “You You You!”
Youthful Yahoos Yanked Yearling Yak.
Yuri Yelped Yipped Yapped Yes.
“Yellow Yurt Yet,” Yelled Yuri.
Yeshiva Yale Yachtsmen Yes
Yeshiva Yale Yachtsmen Yup
Yodeled Yearly Yule Yodels
“Yuck Yuck,” Yelled Youths
Yankee Yahoos Yielding Yearling
“Yeah,” Yelled Yuri “Yeah.”
Yarrished Rolanda Yawned Yernlessly.
Yielding Yellow Yoni Yurt
Yuri’s Yarn Yesterday’s Yarn
“Yakity yak” Yammer Yolanda

The 4th Mounted Yaks were the heart of the regiment. They had fought in every war for a 100 years. Each campaign had brought new glory. Each battle had added to the legend. Only foes knew the terror of the charge of 500 yaks. Sparks jumping from their flying hooves as they pound across a rock covered plain. Flame red eyes stabbing deep into the soul. Steel encrusted horns gleaming in the early morning sun, ready to gore. Line after line of hairy humped bovines closing in, blood lust filling their brains.
Did you ever smell 500 yaks?
Yaks.
Yuck.

CALEB

Poised the attack yak is ready to pounce
Natural born killer this fiend ounce for ounce
The fearsomest deadliest of all of the yaks
Very few ever see one even fewer come back
Hooves like thunder, lightning for veins
Joe went looking for one but all that remains
Are his screams of anguish from up on the hill
Sometimes in autumn I hear those screams still
Now we square off this attack yak and I
I go for my rifle I hear his wild cry
And how does it end with defeat or aplomb
To find out just visit yakpenis.com

GUY DAVID

The Red Yak of Destiny is an understanding god. When we need crops for the winter, he gives us crops. When we battle with the twotelgloo tribe, we win.
Last summer, I went and asked The Red Yak of Destiny for a son, but instead he gave me a daughter. I got angry at him. I went back to him and said “you gave me a daughter when I asked for a son.” He just smiled and asked me to bring my wife. Next summer I had two boys. Sure, they have long red fur and horns, but their mine.

LAIEANNA

The auditions weren’t going so well and Lydia was tired. She buzzed for the next potential failure to be ushered in. None of the actors had been right for the part. The company needed someone who was perfect to appeal to their target buyers. With a new product, the first ads were always crucial.
The door swung open. Lydia glanced up at the next actor shuffling in. Shocked, she stared in awe as he began his line.
“I can’t believe it’s not yak butter,” he said with confident surprise.
Lydia sprung up, applauding wildly. “That was fabulous, Fabio! Absolutely fabulous!”

ELISSON

Morris was a miserable Mongol.
He was the hindmost in his Horde. Weak of arm, near of sight, with compromised riding skills, there was no chance he would ever amount to anything in the empire of the great Khan.
Worst of all, he hated yaks. Loathed everything about them: their stinking wooly coats, their rancid milk, their stringy meat.
Unfortunately for Morris, the Mongol diet was 98% yak, 2% green leafy vegetables. Clothing? All made from yak wool, including the boxers. Itchy.
And, of course, everyone lived in yurts made of yak-skin.
“It’s enough to make me yak!” shouted Morris.

ROCKY

It began as a social experiment.
I wanted to bring in livestock to my community, for several reasons. Besides the fact that
I’m just crazy about Yak, I really wanted to bring a little something extra to my neighbors,
besides richer soil.
I noticed the other day, one of the females was looking a little bit sad. I’ve seen that
look before. It was heartbreak.
With a series of dashes and dots, I had Bessie stamp out in Morse Code what was bothering
her.
With a big yak tear in her eye, she stamped out in code her pain in one single word…
RADAR….

CHRIS

Hello Clarice. Don’t bother with the trace, I’ll be brief.
I understand you just had a birthday. Did you receive my gift basket? The hand crème contains a special moisturizer derived from yak’s milk, something you can’t get stateside. I do hope you’ll try it once forensics is done with it.
Tell me Clarice, was there a party at the office? Did the FBI spring for a cake, pass a card around for signatures, gather at your desk to sing happy birthday? Sounds charming; pity I couldn’t make it.
Well I believe our time is up. Happy Birthday, Agent Starling.

A mad, shaggy beast is running amok on Main Street, smashing cars and breaking store windows.
Sheriff calls for help, and a pickup truck pulls to a stop in the middle of the street.
His ancient boots are cracked with time, caked with mud from distant lands.
He raises his hand slowly and approaches the beast, humming a Himalayan sleeping chant.
The tornado of horns, fur, and hooves slows… and stops with a grunt.
The Yak Whisperer places his hand on the beast’s forehead and smiles.
His other hand holds a gun, and he shoots.
The town will dine well tonight.

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Gertrude

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As we wait for the water to boil, Old Gertrude pulls glass jars down from the shelf, lifting lids, taking a pinch of this, a pinch of that.
“I’m glad you finally came to see me,” she says.
Sally, crying, holds the baby and mumbled “Thank you” in between sobs. I twist my wool cap in my hands.
Gertrude mixes the leaves and herbs, sprinkles them in a cup, and pours the water from the kettle.
We dip a rag into the tea and put it to the baby’s lips.
She won’t drink. She’s not breathing. She’s…
We’re too late.

Bobby

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Bobby died three days ago. We kept him the the tub, trying to decide how to get him out of here.
Man, did he stink.
We opened all the windows, but the stink just got worse.
“Let’s leave him,” I said. “Let’s leave him.”
Joe said no. “He’s got the key inside him.”
Without the key, no money.
So, we cut him open, slipping our hands all inside him, pulling things out, squeezing and searching.
Still no key.
Did he really swallow it before we shot him in the leg? Or did he palm it…
Where did that key go?

The Cult

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Right in front of their eyes, vision fades to static.
Frightened and confused, we, the masses, heed the call.
Stripping off our clothes, we gather in the woods, swaying in the summer heat, naked… writhing.
One beast, many mouths… many fingers… many hearts beating.
The flesh circle opens briefly, and our leader mounts a tree stump, the cow skull over his head glowing in the moonlight.
We have no choice. We are compelled to listen.
He raises his staff and tells the tales of our childhood, like many generations before.
This is what happens when the neighborhood cable goes out.

The Swarm

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Gigantic swarms of insects crawl the globe, disassembling buildings and erecting massive, looping cellulose towers.
We few survivors watch from Mars, peering through the spy satellites they hadn’t bothered to destroy.
Landmark after landmark, civilization swept away.
St. Basil’s… gone.
Manhattan… gone.
The Eiffel Tower… gone.
For a moment, yarmulke in hand, I get grim satisfaction as the Dome Of The Rock is crumbled to dust.
Maybe… just maybe… this time they’ll leave it clear?
I mumble a brief prayer.
Yes?
My smile fades as another brown tower takes shape.
Oy. If it isn’t one bunch of assholes, it’s another.

The Dusty Siren

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Wearing white lace, just like when we first met.
I chased her into the desert in the heat of the moment.
She sits there, beckoning, just out of reach.
Look again. A ragged sheet, blown across a dead tree stump.
Did I imagine her? Or did she imagine me, begging for one final kiss?
I can’t reach her. Too weak to crawl. Too damn weak to crawl.
Reach for me. Reach out to me and pull me into your embrace, my love.
She sits there, watching.
One final scream, a groan into the wind, and my mouth fills with dust.

The Symbol

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I saw the eagle symbol on her wrist.
Eagle symbols are for good luck and strength, but usually the eagle’s got the beak pointing to the fingers.
Hers points to the elbow, so I know it’s a fake.
It’s got the right colors, and it’s very well done.
But it’s a fake. It’s covering up another symbol.
While she sleeps, I look closely at it… the outline of something is under that eagle.
Weasel? Owl? Snake?
It’s some kind of criminal brand, something she got from the Eagles before they threw her out of their camp.
What has she done?

Weekly Challenge #67 – Fatal Wound

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Welcome to the sixty-seventh Weekly Challenge, 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 Laieanna of Hodgepodge Point: Fatal Wound.
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
SOMETHING NEW
Due to popular demand, I am going to include stories that were sent to me, but without a recording. However, since the midget has left for sunny Coral Gables, Florida, those stories will just be posted in the show notes. You’re more than welcome to vote for them, but they will be ineligible for prizes or topic selection.
I feel that this is a fair balance between the podcast and blog natures of this content.
Feel free to share your thoughts on this decision in the comments, and we might possibly come up with an even better and more fair policy for handling these kinds of situations.
VOTING
Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

STUART

The couple argued intensely as former lovers with passion as fiery than any other relationship anyone ever saw quickly descended into a flaring argument that could be heard down the streets of Brooklyn.
He said, She said thats how it goes. He smashes the glass bottle, she screams in anguish and pain
His body fell still, He could hardly believe his eyes at what devious act he had just watched and committed. It all happened so fast and then crashed into slow motion like out of a Hollywood blockbuster.
The blood begins to drip like raindrops on his cold skin.

TOM

The titanium rail gun’s sight was centered on that Austrian Art School
want-a-be prick. Wolfgang Z14 contently smiled as he pulled the trigger a
fatal wound for a future Führer. Within Z’s brain the holocaust vanished
replaced by a 1000 years of Pax Zionose Europa.
The spinning mangled marionette of a man suddenly righted himself, woundless.
Wolfgang Z tried to blink but failed to close his lids before he vanished.
The dead returned to dead, the unborn remained unborn, a golden Europe became
gray. When the time rift settled the last of Hitler’s genetic pool reappeared
and took aim again.

LAIEANNA

Ours was an epic battle that raged through timeless years, never ending, never slowing, but we were losing to our enemy. They were constantly changing with the centuries, inventing destruction in bigger, more powerful ways. And yet it was the simplest of weapons that we truly feared. We, on the other hand, always remained the same.
My day to fall came when one of their foot soldiers took an axe to my side. I awakened to the pain of cold steel vibrations. The wound was my end. With a push, I went down to the sounds of his triumph.
“Timber!”

GUY

There was a strange buzz sound. Something was definitely wrong. The microphone was not supposed to make such a sound. Than it made a gurgling noise. I thought “that is strange”, then I looked closely and, suddenly I could see it, the microphone was wounded, and… it was a fatal wound.
I gave it a decent burial. It was still young, but I have already grown attached to it. I’m now using an old mike I found laying somewhere around the house, but, it’s not the same. I shell always remember it fondly. That mike was such a dear friend.

CALEB

I told her that my love for her was like a fatal wound and that only she could save a life. That she was the balm in Gilead; that the power of love over death was in her hand and her hand only. But she just laughed. She didn’t care if I lived or if I died. So I am very sorry for everything. I’m sorry that such extreme measures had to be taken but be assured that it could’ve been avoided. Take that, you heartless bitch! I never said it was MY life she could save. I’m not crazy.

SARAH

She sat in the room quietly crying.
Crying like she had cried all those times he never came home.
Crying, like those tears would bring him home to her again.
Out of the arms of those other women who ‘meant nothing to him’.
She sat in the room staring at the picture of happier times.
“Fuck him” she muttered through the snot dripping from her nose.
She picked herself up and walked to the doorframe.
She slowly placed the noose around her head.
“You were never worth it…..”
Who would have thought a broken heart could be a fatal wound??

Yesterday, while walking home from the bus stop, I bumped into God. I know, your going to say “God!”, but before you do let me tell you that he didn’t even say “excuse me.” Well, here is God walking down the street, not paying attention to anything, in his own little world and, bam, down I go in a heap on the sidewalk. I know, I know, your going to say “But that was God!” Well, I say, the heck with predestination, from now on I go with free will and it should be a week before his shiner goes away.

The difference between a knockout punch and a fatal wound is a proud opponent who doesn’t have the sense to get out of the ring when he’s beat.
It helps if you’ve got a referee who’s trying to keep the fight going for the television network coverage instead of stopping it when over is over.
Coaches factor in, too. Telling your fighter to dehydrate himself to fool the scale ends up leaving him too weak to fight, too weak to fight back.
A whole lot of brain damage.
Kim went fourteen rounds with Mancini and went home in a box.

Thanks to everyone for sending in their stories, and I look forward to what you’ve got to write (and say) next week.
The theme for next week’s Weekly Challenge will be posted shortly.

Go to PodcastReady
Sign in with your username and password
Click on Preferences
Scroll down to Promo Code and type in CRAP
Click on the OK button.

Isn’t that simple?

Finished

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We went to the hospital to visit Grandma.
She wanted to say goodbye to the kids, so we brought them along.
They were scared at first, but Grandma told them life was a long, marvelous journey. You meet so many amazing people while you take it, and she told the kids they were the two most amazing ones she’d known.
But that journey, as wonderful as it is, doesn’t last forever. When God decides you’ve earned your rest, well, it’s time to stop.
“Then God tells you to shit yourself,” said a guy mopping the hallway.
No, that didn’t help.

Feng Shui

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The news called them diplomats. Let’s not bullshit: they were spies.
Countries like the idea of spies with diplomatic immunity. Rules were meant to be broken, right?
One by one, important men were turning up dead in their embassies.
No bullet-holes. No knives sticking out of them. No poison in their bloodstream.
It was a real mystery.
Until one day, someone noticed that no Chinese “diplomats” had died. And the furniture of each death scene was arranged similarly.
It turns out, there’s a Dark Side of Feng Shui. The proper arrangement of furniture can kill.
Assassination through interior decoration.

Who had the best stories in Weekly Challenge #68?
	Tom from Footnote
	JD
	Caleb from Black Tie Martini Club Oddcast
	Guy David from Guy David dot com
	Laieanna from HodgePodge Point
	Elisson from blog d’Elisson
	Rocky Torok
	Chris from Chris Carlisle.net
	Z

Free polls from Pollhost.com

What were the best stories of Weekly Challenge #67?
	Stuart Warf of The Ten Cast
	Tom from Footnote Podcast
	Laieanna of HodgePodge Point
	Sarah
	Guy David from The Sixteenth
	Caleb from Black Tie Martini Club
	JD
	Z

Free polls from Pollhost.com

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