Screwball

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Ned held the ice pack to his head and realized that he’d been hit in the head with a foul ball every game he went to.
He pointed this out to the stadium’s medic.
“Interesting,” he said.
The next day, free season tickets arrived. Courtesy of the team.
Outfield boxes. Home run territory.
So, for the next home game, Ned sat in the stands and waited for a ball to hit him in the head for a home run.
In the fifth inning, a bat slipped out of a batter’s hands, flew 300 feet, and clocked Ned in the face.

The Hero

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Lenny Spiderman was the class clown.
We were kids together, growing up on Long Island. And Lenny used to drive the teachers nuts.
He’d build webs up by the ceiling in homeroom, and then swing up there and hide. Mrs. Hentoff never thought to look up, but he’d be hanging there making faces. It was all we could do not to laugh.
But when he got older, he got serious. “With great power comes great responsibility,” that crap.
Peter Parker? Bullshit for the reporters. It was always just Lenny.
But I’m the guy who got him to use the hyphen.

Evil

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Odd tales abound in the mind of Andrew Ian Dodge as he continues to parlay with the Sage…

“With all the evil about you would think the Catholic and Protestant churches would have better things to do than rail against a novel. What with the earth shaking in the pacific, apocalyptic Mormon prophets on the loose, stones with Jesus’ face and all other nastiness you would think they would have their hands full. But then again Christians always tend to pick on the easy targets ignoring the real evil out there.” And with that the Sage sighed as hit the send button on his email.
“Those fools are the ones that call me satanic… ” He thought to himself.

Lord of the Flies

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I was sitting at my desk in the Home Office, pounding out the PowerPoints, when I heard the buzz of a housefly.
We don’t get flies in the house too often. Where had this fucker come from?
As I toiled, I kept hearing the buzz more often. It became evident that there were several flies performing reconnaissance runs through the house. What the hell was going on?
By nightfall, almost all of the flies were dead, their corpses scattered like raisins throughout the house.
Damn. I’m going to have to stop leaving that poisoned raw meat in my sock drawer.

The Odd Daughter

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Doctor Odd looked at the destruction in the yard, sighed, and kneeled down to talk to his daughter.
“Pumpkin,” he said. “Remember when Daddy taught you about grafting?”
Pumpkin nodded her head.
“Well, there’s a good kind of grafting and a bad kind. Good grafting is when you combine plant varieties to make bug-resistant species or crops that survive droughts.”
Pumpkin smiled.
“Bad grafting is what you did with your friend Bobby, the lawnmower, and your dog.”
Pumpkin frowned.
“Daddy will clean up this mess. Now go wash up for dinner.”
Pumpkin ran inside and squealed happily for tater tots.

The Wacky Adventures Of Abraham Lincoln 58

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After much shouting, Abraham Lincoln could take no more.
He stood face-to-face with General Grant.
Well, as close to face-to-face with General Grant as one could manage. Grant’s beard presented a formidable barrier, his whiskey breath even more so.
Not wanting to waste more time arguing, Abe put his hand on his heart and said, “I now wish to make the personal acknowledgment that you were right, and I was wrong.”
Grant grunted, holstered his guns, and leaned over a railing to throw up.
Abe would wait until Grant passed out before doing what he was going to do anyway.

The Songs

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Andrew Ian Dodge turns the creepy dial another notch with his latest reading from his arcane tome of horror…

The Sage hit a key to open his webcam eye.
Good evening all. I am glad you enjoyed last week’s poser. Leo is telling me you like my research questions. He paused.
This week I want you to try to explain why religious types are so paranoid about the Devil’s Interval yet all we read about – evil – music from Lovecraft’s writings and classical authors is that they sing beautifully to lure unsuspecting mortals to their doom.
I bet the Sirens of Greek myth sound more like Celine Dion or Barbra Streisand than Arch Enemy, Slunt or Die So Fluid. Discuss.

Oliver’s Obsession

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As soon as Oliver noticed the burnt-out bulb in the vanity mirror, he ran for the utility closet.
It was full of light bulbs. The obsessed Oliver hated burnt-out bulbs.
Just as he pulled out a replacement, the power went out.
That wouldn’t stop Oliver, however.
Feeling each bulb, he tried to tell which was burnt-out. But none felt warm.
He unscrewed each one, shaking it hard… no telltale jingle, either.
So Oliver sat on his bathroom countertop for three hours until the lights came back on.
They did. All of them. No burnt-out bulb.
He replaced them all, anyway.

Weekly Challenge #3 – Cinco de Mayo

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Welcome to the third 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 is: Cinco de Mayo.
You have until midnight on Friday the 5th to email me your story.
It would be preferred that you attach your own recording of the story, but if I have the time I will record and include all of the contributed stories in a single collection, which will be posted next Saturday.
If this takes off and there’s a healthy amount of participation, I may go ahead with my plans to create 100 Words Or Les Nessman 2.0. (With weekly themes instead of daily themes to cut down on burnout and attrition.)
Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.


Time’s up!
Seven stories submitted this week. Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorite:

Who wrote the best story
Rahel of Elms in the Yard
Elisson of blog d’Elisson
Andrew of Dodgeblogium
Beck of Incite
Borealis of Suidesus
Tommy of Striving For Average
The Mystery Man From Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com


Thanks to everyone for sending in their stories, and I look forward to what you’ve got to write (and say) next week.

The Monkeys

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Bill bred the monkeys specifically for manual dexterity and docile temperament.
The typewriters, hauled out of some warehouse, just needed dusting and fresh ribbons.
Writers Guild representatives caught wind of Bill’s plan and used everything short of poisoning the banana supply to stop him.
Despite these evil schemes, Bill persevered, and his simian legions grew.
And produced.
At first, random garbage was the result. Lots of stained, crumbled sheets of typing paper covered with garble.
Then, smashed typewriters and the occasional dead monkey.
They never did manage to produce Shakespeare, but made a fine line in Bill’s obituary years later.