The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Welcome to the forty-fifth 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 Elisson from Blog d’Elisson, and it’s The Steaming Heap.
Twelve stories were submitted this week.
Two rookies joined in… yay!
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 Weekly Challenge #45?
	Tom from Footnote
	Mike from Mike Thinks
	Tabitha from Strangely Literal
	Lisa from Lemons and Lollipiops
	Elisson of Blog d’Elisson
	Terry from Never Was
	Patti from Smitty Gal
	Laieanna from HodgePodge Point
	Ted from Ted’s Podcast
	Andrew of Dodgeblogium
	K-Nine of Dead Dog Walkin’
	to4m
	The Deranged Bard Of Planet Z
Free polls from Pollhost.com

WE GOTS PRIZES:
I will be sending the winner a prize… it’s a packet containing a pair of refrigerators magnet and a CD with the archive of the entire 100 word stories podcast. (Well, minus promos and junk)
It is your voting that determines who wins. So listen, vote, and tune in next week to find out who won!

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The full text of each story:
TOM

There are jobs destine to go to the young.
They are physical and as a class tend
to be offensive to the orafactorial sensibilities.
Mr. Russell directed John to the shingled shed,
handed him a shovel.
“To the floor,” he said
It was dead winter but the vapors
of the steaming heap danced in the air.
Fifty years of newspapers.
Rain on peed on and pooped on.
Chemical reactions from fermentation to
fractional distillations possibly even
nuclear fission gave the heap a core temperature.
John laid shovel to its skin.
Beneath was a blacker steamer goop.
John lost his lunch

MIKE JAMES

Tom stood still, just staring. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed,
but no, he knew it would be. The chilly air made it seem even less
agreeable than usual. It was early, it was quiet, perhaps no one had
even noticed. Salvation seemed so close. Just then, Agnes’s door
opened. As she walked past Tom to her mailbox the look in her
eyes was more than enough to signal that it was too late.
Tom bent over, baggie in hand, and picked up the warm steaming heap.
He waived to Agnes, as he and His dog walked on.

TABITHA

“What is it?” Willow said, looking up at Giles.
“Dunno,” Giles adjusted his glasses, leaning in closer he made a horrible face.
“It ain’t no blooming rose garden.” Spike grumbled.
Buffy watched it cautiously. “How can I slay something like that?”
All of them stood dumbfounded while Clem chortled with glee. Finally Anya stepped in from her weekly counting of money. “Why aren’t you all buying something?”
Xander pointed at the spectacle lying on the floor of the Magic Box store.
Anya looked at it, then shrugged. “You humans always impressed by a steaming pile of demon excrement.”

LISA

Marcel had aspirations to play on the varsity hockey team, but the only position he made the cut for was waterboy. Disappointed, but wanting desperately to be part of the team, he took his duties seriously. He always arrived early for each game and was last to leave, cleaning up after everyone.
When Marcel didn’t come home by 10:30, his family became concerned. By midnight, they called the police. A school-wide search began and the dogs were brought in. They were able to sniff out poor Marcel, who was found knocked unconscious under the still-steaming heap of putrid hockey gear.

ELISSON

“It’s been years now, but I’ll never forget when we tried to rescue Ann from that giant ape.
“A bunch of us came along with Driscoll. He had seen Kong grab Ann and knew we had no time to lose.
“Skull Island? Horrible. Dinosaurs, swamps, and a ravine fulla giant bugs! I still get the sweats thinking about it.
“Anyhow, it was pretty easy to track that monkey. Every couple hundred yards, there’d be a steaming heap of Ape-Shit.
“But when we saw the blond hair in that last heap – why, that’s when we turned around and went home.”

TERRENCE

“What is that?” The cloaked figure said.
“What?” Raoul looked up at his brother on the ashen horse.
“The steaming heap,” The figure raised a thin arm and pointed behind Raoul.
Innocently Raoul looked over his shoulder at the unidentifiable mass a
short distance behind him. He turned back to his brother and
shrugged.
“I do not have the time for this.” He checked the list in his hand.
“So what did this Simon do?”
“Not returning emails, misspelling names.”
“And what is that thing?” Raoul turned again.
“That?” Raoul smiled. “Is a former sex slave midget, dancing with joy.”

PATTI

Joel knew his arm was broken, badly; shock was setting in.
“Broken … arm,” he mumbled to the Emergency Room clerk.
“Have a seat; we’ll call you,” she said.
Pulling up his sleeve, he shoved his mangled arm inches from the clerk’s face. The fractured bones overlapped each other beneath the skin, shortening his arm by at least four inches and giving it a “Z” shape.
“Look at this shit,” he yelled, “I’ll be seen RIGHT FUCKING NOW!” And he collapsed.
They found him covered in a steaming heap of the clerk’s vomit; it was her first and last day in the ER.

LAIEANNA

It worked! When a steaming heap of…well, no need to be graphic,
poured out of his mouth, I wanted to puke. He was so freaked out. He
wouldn’t stop babbling and more stuff plopped onto his clothes. I
laughed, but a small part of me felt guilty. I left for awhile and
when I returned he was still talking to himself. The smell was
overwhelming. I handed him a sign language book. Now that the curse
had taken place, I figured he needed to find a new way to spew his
shit when he’s hitting on women in the bar.

TED

The medical examiner was silent. I still say he was a loss for words. There is absolutely NO excuse for any human being to morph into what he saw here before him.
She lay before him, bloated and stinky. What was once the American dream, the desire of most red blooded American males, now was nothing more than worm food. Let the worms have their way with her.
Drugs, alcohol, old men, internet porn.. It was obvious that she had indulged in them all,. Here she was, cold and dead, a steaming heap of goo..
We’ll miss you, Anna Nicole.

DODGE

The steaming pile filled the air that not only smelled of excrement,
rubbish and braken but left a taste in one’s mouth that was foul just
by standing near it.
The policeman who stood next to me could barely keep is dour face
straight. To open his mouth to speak to me was to gag.
I was here to see the bloated shape that lay below us the body look
humanoid, the large head and obviously webbed hands & feet saw to
that.
A creature of fiction lay there…in reality. The proximity to my flat
worried me intensely…they knew me…

K-NINE

Colonel Stratton was a cavalry officer first and
foremost. He rode a gallant steed all across France
in the First World War. The Army was his life, but
here in Europe during the latest global conflict, he
was starting to hate the changes of the last twenty
five years.
Once, he had ridden his horse through thick woods,
through muddy fields of bogged down artillery.
He stared at the broken broom handle that pierced the
radiator of his Jeep, the engine sputtered, and he did
the only thing an old horse soldier knew to do. He
shot the steaming heap.

to4m

Superbowl Sunday. The Guys would be there soon . I had to get the
yard work finished although it was freezing cold outside. I quietly
resented my teenage boy staying late getting high. He should’ve been
the one out there in the cold.. When brought it up to the wife she’d
say I was being too harsh on the boy. I found myself working my anger
out in the yard work. Especially with the wood chipper that is until
I slipped and as I had my first and last out of body experience I
saw a steaming heap of me.

Z

Linda looked at the menu and pointed at “The Steaming Heap.”
“It sounds like it’s describing… well, a pile of fresh horse crap,” she said to the waiter.
“It’s dumplings,” said the waiter.
“Oh, okay,” she said. “I guess I’ll have those.”
Fifteen minutes later, the waiter brought out a platter with a steaming heap of fresh dumplings.
“Enjoy,” he told her.
Linda speared one with a fork, tipped it into the bowl of ginger-and-soy dip, and took a bite.
She swallowed it before she realized the flavor in her mouth was, indeed, steamed horse crap. (With ginger and soy.)

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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.)

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.

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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.

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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.)