Somewhere in the basement of the records office, I swear, you could hear clicking.
I dug around, opened up an old wooden crate, and found a telegraph key.
As I held it up to the light, looking for some kind or label, the switch clacked.
I nearly dropped it.
Maybe it just... you know...
It clacked again. And again.
Pretty soon, it was tapping a sequence. I put it on the crate's lid, pulled out a notebook, and wrote it down.
I'm not good with Morse Code, but I swear it said: “Get me out of here.”
Where?
And who?
Daily Splice interviewed some jerk who still thinks Adam Curry is an idiot and couldn't help but mention that Ed Roberts has 1,000 episodes, man!
It's all about the weird kinda community wandering around folks doing stuff connecting disconnecting playing over here hopping around yeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhh!
Hubert was bored, so he picked up a camera and hucked a pie tin through the air to make a UFO photograph.
After sixteen reports to the FBI, they stopped taking his calls.
Later that month, gigantic pie tins floated down from the sky and landed in Hubert’s cornfield.
Hubert remembered The Boy Who Cried Wolf and realized he was completely and totally fucked.
Then, he remembered… he was the pie-eating champion of Bucktooth County ten years running.
Hubert ran towards the pie tins and… was blasted into smithereens by alien robots.
Come Fall, someone else will be pie-eating champion.
I have a small favor to ask.
You may notice there's no ads on this site. And I don't rattle a tipjar, either.
No, I'm not changing that,
But what I am asking is that you take a moment and think of what you'd have sent in for a blogging tipjar to this site and instead put that towards buying Grace Buford's music.
She's playing a gig in my Second Life venue tonight, and what she raises in tips and the appearance fee is going to help towards filling out her new home. (She's been living the Gypsy lifestyle and hasn't carried much furniture around with her, so she and the kids could use a few shelves and other things... yeah, I've been there before.)
Okay, so some of you won't take my word for it that she's absolutely wonderful. Fine. Be that way. To hear some of the tracks before buying, you can listen using The SixtyOne. It's a rather weird Web 2.0 kinda music site with bumps and other stuff, but it's pretty straightforward on how to play tracks from performers and whatnot.
(Then, you can admit that you were wrong about not taking my word for it, eh.)
If you're interested in contributing more than just an album sale to her furniture fun, let me know in the comments or via email, and I'll send you a PayPal address where you can contribute directly.
Right after breakfast, when it's time to go to school, Danny does this trick - he hits the garage door button and then watches the garage door go down and down and down...
When the time is just right, he runs for the garage door and rolls under it.
“Garage Door Limbo” he calls it.
One day, Danny's principal calls his mom at work.
“Is Danny sick?” he asks.
His mom races back home, sees Danny trapped under the garage door.
Stone cold dead.
She weeps. If the garage door didn't kill him, well, running him over sure finished him off.
Don't forget to check out The Diary of Anne Frankenstein, a demented screenplay made even more demented by Caleb and Will.
The 100 word stories weekly challenge is where I post a topic and then you write and record a story based on that topic.
Sounds, simple, doesn't it?
Topics are selected by the winner of the previous weekly challenge. This week reveals the triumphant Thomas bringing the topic of.... Jimmy Buffet?
You have until midnight on Friday May 16th to get the following in my hot little hands:
The text of your story so I can post it on the site. Just post the text of the story in the body of your email message. Do not put it in Word, Word Perfect, Sun Office, or any other document format. Just copy-paste the text into the body of the message. This will save me the hassle of firing off another program to read it and it will reduce the chances that gmail will flag your message as Spam.
If you have a blog, podcast, or other site that people can go to so they can learn more about your handiwork, the URL would be appreciated.
What you would like the topic of Weekly Challenge #110 to be. Failure to send in a topic with your selection will mean that if you win, whoever is in second place will be considered for the topic, and so on.
A recording of your story in .mp3 format. Please use your name as the filename if you can, okay? Makes it easier to produce the show quickly.
If you do not feel like recording a story for the podcast, well, go ahead and send the story in anyway. I'll include it in the show notes, but it won't be eligible for choosing the topic or winning the magnets.
Send the stories to isfullofcrap (at) gmail.com and then add a comment here saying you've sent it in.
Once all the stories are in, I'll assemble them into a single podcast collection for your enjoyment.
Good luck, and feel free to e-mail me with any questions you have.
Hear y'all in a week, and as always, keep it brief.
Welcome to the Weekly Challenge Number One Hundred And Eight, 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 Planet Z, who is going for broke with...
Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):
THOMAS
Melvin Goldberg was his name, but his fellow demons called him “Gold”. He was impatient. Plenty of work still laid ahead of him, but Gold loved his job. The campaigns were in full swing with everybody eager to sell their soul.
Just a flash of his smarmy smile and they were Gold's. Whatever promises he had to make he would. Democrat; Republican; hell, even Jedi! They would cast principles aside and sign on the dotted line. Winners and losers didn't matter. He was, after all, in sales, not fulfillment. That was somebody else's department.
So many politicians, so little time.
MCJC
Hip wears silver, family wears gold. She chose copper bangles, colored glass beads. On holidays she would receive gold hoops or rings, tennis bracelets, charms. She dreamt of melting them down into a bar as a door stop. Meaningless. Save, Lame' tops, frosted hair, big broaches at JC Penney. Save, time spent before growing apart. Each unworn piece, treasure of mall trips, and distant sisterhood. Friends, adorned in silver and hemp shirts, said titanium lasts forever. Yet gold survives, fluid like memory and love, familiar in the glow, the ancient desire to capture the sun, the warm, and the good.
JUSTIN
Ehh you, Golden Boy, dat's right, you. I've had enough of your shenanigans... makin' my boys disappear... I don't know where they go, but I don't believe you turn criminals into people that help the poor, and me and my bat here are going to settle this disagreement.
The thug swung the bat. The man with a yellow ingot symbol on his chest grabbed it. The bat turned gold, as did the man that held it. The Golden Boy then melted the body down, forming it into golden bricks, which he then sold, donating the money to the poor.
TOM
Bill Ray slid across the vinyl in the booth. Alma Sue fingered the crystal salt shaker. The smell of coffee embraced the acrid tinge of sweet crude. Billy flipped the edge of the tiny black velvet box. The glow in Alma’s eyes reflected the gold and diamonds his token of love. Irene glided between the couple and deposed a piece of absinthe pie. "Oh Billy such opulence," purred Alma sliding the golden ring onto her finger. The last rays of a golden sun was setting on loves labor lost. The tiny gold cross upon her neck glowed. "Oh Fuck ……………..Zombies"
STEPHEN THE NUCLEAR MAN
The machine goes ping and she stifles a laugh. They loved that movie.
His hands are cold in hers, so she is not surprised when the rhythmic
ping changes to a whine, then to the chaos of nurses and doctors
performing a full code. She allows herself to be ushered out to the
sterile comfort of the waiting room.
Couples fight silently overhead, the trash tv thankfully muted. Her
fingers caress the worn gold of her ring. She wonders if she will
wear it once he has gone.
She sees the doctor in the doorway, and stands to meet him.
HOTSPUR
How do I explain? I had no clues to his identity. To me, he was a wandering drunk that passed out in my rose garden in his own vomit. A man in my position has to show munificence. It’s expected.
So the servants made inquiries and sent him back where he came from.
The magnificent gift I received in return.. well.. I’m set for life, I thought. It was delightful transforming mundane into fabulous. Then I got hungry. And, well, you know the rest.
What will I tell her mother? And yet, she makes a lovely statue, does she not?
EVA
At last a small cove yielded up a crescent moon of smooth sand.
The crossing had been harrowing and the coast, after months at sea, taunted
them for days with impenetrable cliff walls. But the promise of a new land
of gold and riches kept them at the ship¹s rail.
Ernesto leapt from the boat into the foaming surf, ignoring the water
streaming into his leather boots. He scrambled up the rocks and gazed at the
expanse of small yellow flowers that carpeted the land to the line of
distant trees.
"Capitan!" he shouted, grinning, "We have found the gold!"
ALMO
The robber stood in darkness, flashlight in his teeth, and admired the exquisite inlay on the lid of the box. He ran his hand over the gleaming wood. He didn't know wood, but it felt expensive, smooth and warm to the touch.
What jewelry would the rich have?
He opened the box and was awed by the way the contents sparkled under his light. The diamond earrings were first to be plucked. Then the necklace. Antique. Valuable.
Finally, he took the gold wedding band and let the lid of the casket drop as he slipped away into the night.
MIKE
Thousands have killed for it; millions, possibly, have died for it. In leaf form, it graces countless domes at all levels of government, as well as untold numbers of universities and church buildings. Few things are as beautiful as the gilt accents seen in pottery, porcelain, and glass, as well as on the edges of the pages of a fine book. I speak of the most desired of metals - gold.
But the gold that stirs my heart and fires my blood are the flecks that dance in the eyes of my one true love, every time she smiles at me.
JD
Johnathan stands next to the creek and watches the water wash through his homemade sluice.
His left hand, holding the long wooden handle, pushes and pulls causing the wooden box to rock gently left and right.
Johnathan's eyes, ever watchful of the gravel in the bottom of the box, glints at his first sign of color.
His right hand, quickly diving into the water, grasp the nugget and lifts it to the sky.
The nugget sparkles in the sun.
Behind Johnathan's back Ellen climbs onto the big stallion with the dark stranger and rides away.
Truly, this is fool's Gold.
ANIMA
"Here you go," says Jason, holding out the glass amphora to his cousin, King AEetes. A metallic pinging emanates from the jar.
The arrogant youth prates on, "I'm ready to take over the throne, like you agreed to…"
"What are you babbling on about?" Asks the king.
"You said, if I brought back the golden fleas, I'd get my throne back. You never thought I would go all the way to the gates of Hades and pluck them from Cerberus. Man, does he have stinky dog breath…."
"You Greek goof, clean your ears. You're to bring me the GOLDEN FLEECE!"
GUY DAVID
Chaketo have really grown. Mama Chirapa always worried about him, so thin and pale. “Why can't I go and play on the surface?” he would always ask. “The humans are suspicious of strangers” Mama Chirapa would say, “we can't risk them knowing about us.” Chaketo could never understand this, why would anyone be suspicious of anyone else? “When I grow up, I would find a way to earn their trust” he thought. Meanwhile, The Chirapa mind the gold from the dipper underground tunnels in order to keep their cloaking devices operational. They really didn't want those Humans to discover them.
CRAIG
Walking into the local vegetarian restaurant I felt tension, was my leather jacket setting them on edge.
Placing my order I smiled, looking deeply into eyes that didn’t look back.
My order of a simple brown rice bowl came with a bonus, a side of silence, no charge.
In the restroom HOWL played in endless loop. I washed my hands mouthing
“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness,”
“who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars”
“who cut their wrists three times”
I stood looking at my gold watch wondering about different roles, then left.
ELISSON
Theodoric was in trouble. Deep trouble.
As an up-and-coming young alchemist at the Magisterium, he had boasted openly of his ability to turn base metal into gold. Too openly...
...for when the Regent’s men overheard him, they were swift to pass word to their master.
Now he shared a fetid cell with a heap of leaden ingots. Transmute or die, they had told him.
Sweating, trembling, he closed his eyes, tonelessly reciting the incantation.
An ill-timed stutter on the last word added fifteen protons and twenty-seven neutrons too many, whereupon the Magisterium, along with the surrounding countryside, ceased to exist.
TERRENCE
Over the years many had feared Raoul. Many trembled at his mere presence. People fled from him. He was after all the most feared of all his brothers, even if he had been written out of the 'Good' book.
There was, however, the one time all that changed. People were not running or quivering at his presence. They were cheering him. This had not been his intent. He had hoped that his actions would lead to the damnation of millions. He would have never guessed people would be happy that he turned all those hopeful singers in to Golden Idols.
PLANET Z
For months, we sack and pillaged the New World, plundering the riches of Empire and carting away tons of finest Gold.
Cortez check his math.
“Did we plunder six or seven cities of gold?” he ask.
Some of the men say six.
Some say seven.
One say eight, but Pedro, one who say eight, he not so good at math.
“Do we go back?” I ask.
“No,” say Cortez. “We have enough. It give something to go back to, no?”
We load the ships, raise the sails, and head back to Cleveland.
Commonly known as the Drabble, 100 word stories are an extremely brief form of flash-fiction. My obsessive-compulsive nature forces me to write them, record them, and then publish them here for all the world to enjoy or ridicule. Recently, other talented and tortured writers have joined me in my quest to combine brevity with what we hope is wit.
Every Saturday, a new Weekly Challenge will be posted. I'll offer up a topic or theme which you will use as the inspiration to write and record your own 100 word story. Then, send them to me via email so I can include them in a podcasted collection for all to enjoy.
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Guy David wrote the theme music and music bed for episodes after #1,000. Hopefully I've got it assembled, timed, faded, and leveled in a manner that does his excellent composition justice.
