Goliath’s Fall

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It was the final battle.
For all the shekels.
Goliath never knew what hit him, that dumb son of a bitch.
One moment, he was waving his war club around and rallying the troops.
All of the sudden, a rock hits him in the skull.
The giant didn’t even say “OUCH!”
His eyes took on that thousand-cubit stare and he toppled like a broken column.
A minute later, his lieutenant arrived, breathlessly apologizing to his commander for his tardiness.
“You really should keep your pack mule better organized,” he muttered. “It took me forever to find your helmet.”
“Sir? Sir?”

Fatal Attraction

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Lois had had her sights trained on Superman for years, and tonight was the night it would all pay off.
Coaxing him out of his iconic super-tights had taken all of her feminine wiles. He had resisted, citing her safety, his desire to avoid romantic entanglements.
“What if you get pregnant?”
“You’re from Krypton. We have no DNA in common. No worries.”
Now, sitting astraddle his hips, she grasped his Super-Manhood, guiding it into her. She moaned with pleasure…
…until his orgasm blew her to pieces.
Damn, he thought. A Woman of Kleenex shouldn’t mess with a Man of Steel.

The Final Hours Of A Professional Slut

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Anne Nicole sat in her hotel suite and wept.
From the other room, her lawyer’s bastard baby shrieked.
The porn star wept harder.
She always got this way when she read the letters from her dead billionaire husband.
One after the other, his words tore at her heart and she yearned for him to be here with her again.
When she was finished with the last letter, the tears turned to rage.
“You found time to write this shit, but you couldn’t write a goddamned will?”
She poured out the pill bottle into her hand, swallowing them one by one.

Choose Your Death

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The catalog makes it very simple.
Every page has a different kind of death on it, a full-color photograph in all its grisly wonder.
I looked cold and hard at the page featuring the carbomb, but it was just a little too messy for my taste.
Plus, I kinda liked Steve’s car. Was hoping to buy it after… he bought it.
Then I saw the death I wanted: electrocution.
Their number was busy, so I went to the website… entered the data… and…
Transaction completed.
Wait… hold on…
Did I get the billing and shipping addresses mixed up?
Uh oh.

The Game’s Aftoot

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The line outside the Las Vegas Chabad House snaked around the building, with Morty bringing up the rear. He mopped his forehead, feeling the sweat darken his armpits. Despite the heat, he smiled.
Every two minutes, the door would open and someone would come flying out with a shoeprint on his buttocks, a happy grin on his face. “Next!”
A curious passerby got Morty’s attention. “What’s going on?”
“You know that Kabbalah racket? Load of crap. This here’s the real deal, worth every penny they charge.”
“You mean…?”
“Yeah. Can’t make it in this town without a lucky Rabbi’s foot.”

Those Lousy Bums

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These days, the Doomsayers write their Armageddon spells on pieces of cardboard and wave them around in crowds, foaming at the mouth.
Back in the day, they’d glue their signs to wooden sticks or make up one of those… what were they?
Sandwich boards! That’s it!
The end of the world is coming, and these crazy bastards know it.
After all, it’s their job to cause it.
They gather at night, light their campfires, and chant in unison in praise of The Great Destroyer.
When I find them, I roust them out.
I have yet to miss a gathering.
Yet.

Zombie Garden

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You think of this place as a cemetery, but I think of it as a zombie garden.
See this bottle?
Let’s just say that this potion is the zombie equivalent of Miracle Gro.
I just pour it over the grave, wave my hand around, chant for a few seconds, and I’ve got a brand new zombie.
Well, not exactly brand new. Depending how old the corpse is, there’s the problem of rot and decay.
There’s another problem with this garden. The fruits of my labor don’t grow out of the ground by themselves.
Speaking of which, pass me the shovel.

The Wacky Adventures of Abraham Lincoln 75

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A barrel-chested metallic man marched around the White House lawn, occasionally belching steam and smoke.
“What is this that thing?” asked Mary Todd.
“It’s a steam-powered mechanical man,” said Abraham Lincoln. “I built it to garrison forts, positions, stations, and other places.”
“So it can do everything a human soldier can do?” asked Mary Todd.
“Well, there are some limits to its abilities,” said Abe. “It certainly won’t replace those men you sleep with when I’m busy.”
Weeks later, Mary Todd walked into the White House, covered in oil and grease.
And smiling.
“I stand corrected,” said Abe. “You whore.”

Weekly Challenge #44 – Whiffle Balls

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Welcome to the forty-fourth 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 Ted from Ted’s Podcast, and it’s Whiffle Balls.
Eleven stories were submitted this week.
More of the Smith Family joined in as rookies!… yay!
An interview with Tom of Footnote about his story!
And, once again, some disturbing madness from Planet Z.
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):

Who had the best story in the 44th Weekly Challenge?
Elisson of blog d’Elisson
to4m
Clayton
Tom from Footnote
Patti the SmittyGal
Caleb from The Black Tie Martini Club
Andrew from Dodgeblogium
Laieanna from HodgePodge Point
Houston Keys from Tater Tots For The Masses
Ted from Ted’s Podcast
Terrence from Never Was
The Mad Bard Known As Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com


The winner will determine the next topic in the series.
WE GOTS PRIZES:
I will be sending the winner a prize… it’s a packet containing a round refrigerator magnet, a rectangular refrigerator magnet and a CD with the archive of the entire 100 word stories podcast. (Well, minus promos and junk)
Normally, it is your voting that determines who wins. But this week, I’m going ahead and giving them out to all participants, past and present. Send me your address via email and I’ll mail it out the packet to you.
But the offer is open to people who respond this week and this week only.


The full text of each story:
ELISSON

Dr. Cox never missed an opportunity to harass the new first-year residents.
As he led the group of newbies on rounds, he made a point of seeking out patients with the most revolting, horrific conditions. Mrs. Finster, a 300-pound woman with a prolapsed rectum. Mr. Jones, who suffered from the increasingly rare Hansen’s disease. Leprosy had eaten away half his face. Nonetheless, the residents were unfazed.
But when they saw the guy in 303B, half of them retched on the spot. His scrotum was perforated, a mass of weeping sores.
Cox laughed inwardly. Wiffle balls – gets ’em every time.
[Please note that the WIFFLE® Ball is a registered trademark of The Wiffle Ball Inc., Shelton, Connecticut.]

to4m

Having left home in her parallel universe, every day was a challenge.
After her physics class project went awry she found herself trying to make sense of her exceedingly similar new world. She was able to speak and understand the language but it was the subtle differences that were so difficult. She was used to celebrating the mid winter not with
trees and material gifts but with loving gestures. There were the elbow rubs, which the people of the new world didn’t mind but it was the ball whiffing that confused the men and got her arrested

CLAYTON

The warm Sun shone down on Cedar Park, Texas, the small field, the thousands of spectators, and little Timmy. Timmy stood in the batter’s box, plastic yellow bat in hand. This was the national whiffle ball championship, and he was going to win the distance competition. The warnings from family and friends that he was too small and too weak, that he would embarrass himself, did not discourage him. He had mowed endless lawns for 2 summers, saving every penny for the entry fee.
This was his one chance, his dream, and he believed in himself. A full two weeks after his body was found hanging from the ceiling fan, Timmy’s mother was still locked in her room mumbling to herself “Four feet, four inches, the shortest hit in history. Why didn’t he listen? Why?”

TOM

Brother Liberwitz moved away from the edge of the excavation. A 1000 years ago this had been Connecticut. At the bequest of the Duke of Montreal the good brother had begun the great work of locating the reliquary.
Liberwitz had never actually held any of the relics. From the manuscripts he had pieced together a ruff description and a crude test of authenticity. It glowed in his hand. The holy markings matched the Illuminations. To the horror of the monks he through the relic across the field. It curved and whistled. The monks chanted “Wiffle ball wiffle ball whiffle ballallallallall”

ANDREW

“Wiffle ball?” He paused, ” Does it have anything to do with a crushed
testicle? Or something gay men do…”
“What?” I replied, “What the hell are you on about mate? How did
testicles show up in this conversation?”
“What pray tell is a wiffle ball then?” He asked flustered.
“Well beside a rubbish topic to write about it’s a plastic ball that
children learn to baseball with so they don’t brain each other.” I
replied.
“Ah yes, your equivalent of health & safety have banned real baseballs
for under 10s I guess?”
“Probably, they tend to meddle in everything.”

PATTI

Mother thought it unladylike for me to play ball with the boys. Basketball, football, whiffle ball … it didn’t matter; it was too dirty, too rough, and having a tomboy for a daughter was not in Mother’s plan.
“You’ll get your good shoes dirty.”
“But I’m wearing my Keds.”
“You’ll p-p-perspire.” She looked faint.
“I’ll take a shower before bed,” I yelled, slamming the front door and running down the street to where the boys gathered.
A few minutes later Mother appeared, looking very disappointed.
“Mom,” I said, stomping my foot, “I’m 46 years old, let me play!”

CALEB

You see that faded antebellum mansion there? It’s long abandoned but that used to be the whiffle estate. One time, they was the most celebrated family around. You see, the lord blessed them with many children but nary an heir. So they used to have coming out parties year after year. Now they was charming girls, bright and well mannered but they never did marry somehow. They just kept throwing coming out parties.
The last one died a couple years ago left the whole estate for anyone who would bring back those magnificent whiffle balls she missed from her youth.

LAIEANNA

I’m going to vent. If you suffered with my shit on the Valentine’s Special, here’s why.
I was stupidly under the impression it was going to be full of 100 stories. So I asked how many to send, response was “I’ll take as much as you got.” I asked if I should take out the intros or send text copies (Still thinking 100 stories) Response? Nothing! Who’s to blame? None other than Laurence whatever middle initial Simon. Now, I’m not typically mean so if I ever meet Laurence in person, I will throw a whiffle ball right at his head.

HOUSTON KEYS

Marge – Mr. Burns, I need to talk to you.
Burns – Smithers! Who is this saucy blue haired lass?
Smithers – Simpson sir, wife of Homer Simpson in sector Seven G.
Burns – Simpson eh? Fetch the hounds Smithers!
Marge – I can hear you!
Burns – Oh, very well. What is it?
Marge – Well Mr. Burns, my Homie has been having a problem lately. He can’t… You know.
Burns – No, I don’t.
Marge – Well, uh.
Burns – Spit it out woman! These genetically engineered organs of mine aren’t getting any younger!
Marge – He can’t, you know, perform.
Burns – Ah, Excellent. He has “Whiffle Balls.” Fetch me my blue pills Waylon.
Smithers – With pleasure Sir!
Burns – Not for me Smithers! For Simpson!

TED

I got the call at 5am. It’s never a good sign when Don Giovanni sends for you. My heart pounding in my chest, I flagged down a cab and gave my destination.
As I arrived, I wasn’t greeted by the usual niceties I had been used to since I became a made guy.
My last job was easy. All I had to do was grab some whiffle balls and mail them to the Charmin Toilet paper Company.
“I trust you did that which I asked of you?” said Giovanni. “You mailed those guys both of Mr. Whipple’s balls?

TERRANCE

The dogged bounced around my legs with joy. His tail wagged so fast it was a blur. I looked around for the owner but the park was empty.
“Get out of here.” I yelled.
The dog stopped and looked up at me with large brown eyes. It dropped a ball at my feet and barked. I reached down and picked the ball out. I looked at ball and then threw it as hard as I could; the ball few about ten feet before hitting the ground.
“If I find the man that invented whiffle balls, He will eat that ball.”

Z

Susan dropped the dodgeball in the back yard.
“You will be the sun,” she said to it, smiling proudly.
She was going to be an astronomer. Or an astronaut.
Many seven year-olds have those dreams.
Few went to such lengths, though.
Susan looked at her notebook, and placed other balls around the dodgeball to represent planets.
She had to sneak outside of the fence for the whiffle ball Juipter.
A tennis ball marked Saturn sat in the Nelson’s lawn.
The next day, the police found Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto in the street.
They never found Susan. Or her dreams.


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.
(In case you’re interested, I’ve settled on “Clair de Lune” as the opening music and “Moonshine” by Michael Oldfield from the Tubular Bells II album.)

Kotel

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When I told the congregation I was going to Jerusalem, they warned me about the Kotel.
“Try not to be shocked,” they said.
After weeks of travel, I was finally in the presence of the Holiest of Holies.
The only thing between me and it was an Arab market. Camels and horses, tied down to fixtures embedded the wall.
A merchant spits on the wall, walks back to his tent.
Elohim
My children will reclaim your Temple
Theodor

I slip it in a crack and pray.
Then I get out my briefcase and I begin to buy up the deeds.