Weekly Challenge #14 – Heat

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Welcome to the fourteenth 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 heat.
Nine stories were submitted this week, two of them are first-timers. The word is spreading… spreading…
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 this week?
Elisson of blog d’Elisson
Caleb from Black Tie Martini Club
Laieanna
KPayne from YNE
Andrew of Dodgeblogium
Marcus from LITB
B
Kolek from The Kollektive
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 theme will be posted shortly.

Egg Timers

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Two egg-timers sat across the negotiating table from each other.
One was an antique of iron, clear crystal, and sand.
The other was made from plastic, filled with a fine powdered silica.
Both were cracked and pitted, weary of endless war. But neither was yet willing to yield to the other.
Another arbiter was led into the room, and he sat down at the table.
“I’m sure we can find something in common,” said the arbiter. “You’re an egg-timer, and you’re one too.”
Five hours later, the arbiter left for a cigarette and never came back.
Just like the others.

Blood Donor

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Like clockwork, Harold went to the blood bank every sixty days.
At first, he kept a calendar. Big red circles, dutifully crossed off each time.
He’d been doing this for twenty years when one day the receptionist held up her hand.
“There’s a note on your file,” said the receptionist. “One moment please.”
Harold wondered what it was about…
Was it some kind of disease they found?
What is a horrible, incurable disease he’d gotten somehow?
Was it… was it…
The receptionist put a cap on Harold’s head.
“Happy twentieth anniversary!” everybody shouted.
Harold thanked them when he came to.

Chicken’s Soup

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Wally’s pet chicken was sick. Wally hated to see his chicken sick, so he took him to the vet.
“Is my chicken gonna be okay?” asked Wally.
The vet said that the chicken would be fine. The little clucker just needed rest, that’s all.
Wally thought back and remembered what his grandmother used to say:
“Bed rest,” she’d say. “And chicken soup.”
Wally thought for a moment. If a person is sick and needs chicken soup, would a sick chicken need person soup?
He put his foot on the cutting board, reached for a knife.
What’s a toe between friends?

It’s all fun and games until someone loses an I

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Frantic, Marcia followed the paramedics rolling her daughter through the ER into the trauma room.
“I swear, I didn’t know!” shouted Marcia. “Oh, God, can you save her? Please?”
A nurse grabbed Marcia by the shoulder and tried to calm her down.
“How old is she?” asked the nurse.
“Seven,” said Marcia. “She’s turning eight next week. She turns eight next week!”
Marcia babbled and cried some more while the nurse looked at a box in Marcia’s hand.
“SCRABBLE: Ages 8 and up” it said.
The nurse shook her head. Third time this week.
Damn parents, always rushing their kids.

Galad’s Reprieve

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Sorry for sitting on this one for so long, Andrew. Hopefully it hasn’t lost its bite…

Not quite in his padded cell; Galad said a prayer for DPM John Prescott MP. The bloody great row about him and his relationship with AEG did a great job of deflecting unwanted attention from Galad’s latest project. Even the reports of disappearances from Scottish cities had disappeared into the back pages of the newspapers. Yet again, Galad had been saved by the stupidity of others. He wrote his spell in blood on the ancient parchment. It was fortunate that tramp’s blood worked as well as virgin’s. “Nicely done John ole’ boy.” He smirked as he murmured aloud to himself.

Dwarf

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It was when the third henchman died in a cave collapse I really got suspicious.
Our Dwarf is no Dwarf, but a very short human.
Perhaps I should have known before then, like when we’d ask him to parlay with creatures Dwarves are well-known for conversing with.
Instead of talking to them, he’d draw his axe and charge them.
He was also lousy at identifying gemstones.
“Ooh, pretty!” he’d say, stuffing them in his pockets.
“What is it?” would ask the paladin.
“Well, it’s mine now,” he’d say, grinning.
Now I realize the greed was just a cover for ignorance.

Ice Cream Truck

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Explosions are ripping apart the skyline of the city, but the ice cream truck rolls on.
No music is playing, but not because the driver doesn’t want to be targeted. Those who would destroy his truck are hundreds of miles away from hearing it, manning the missile batteries and piloting the drones which unleash the death around him.
No, the music is off because there is no ice cream today.
The coolers are full, sure, but they are packed with the corpses of his neighbors.
He figured as long as the bombs were falling, why not settle a few scores?

Weekly Challenge #13 – Defenestrate

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Welcome to the thirteenth 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 defenestrate.
Six stories were submitted this week, but one was from last week that I had missed. Sorry, Marcus.
We’ve got yet another rookie, plus the usual madness from the planet of insane bards, Planet Z. Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorite:

Who had the best story this week?
Celeste
Elisson of blog d’Elisson
Beck from Incite
Andrew of Dodgeblogium
Kolek from the Kolektive
Caleb from The Black Tie Martini Club
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 theme will be posted shortly.

The Zombietron is not a toy

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Attorneys no longer have to worry about their witnesses turning up dead.
Now you can just stick the witness or victim in one end of the Zombietron, pour in a teaspoon of nanobots, and let them soak in the machine overnight.
Sure, they reek like a latrine pit full of rotten meat, but functional and lucid zombies are admissible as evidence.
The worst part of the process is watching them die again. I wonder if they suffer.
So, what happens when you put a living person in the Zombietron?
I don’t know.
Hey, let’s grab a bum and find out.