The instructor said that I should read the manual carefully.
So, I did.
But I read it backwards.
Instead of getting in the airplane and jumping out of it, I was standing in the middle of a field. The parachute was draped over me, and I was tangled up in its lines.
When the plane passed overhead, I shouted "I'll be right up!" and I jumped as high as I could.
No, I didn't fly up to the plane. Instead, I twisted my ankle on a rock and got tangled up in the parachute lines even worse.
The moonbeams cover the forest floor, and we gather the magic sparkles and put them into glass jars.
We elves have been gathering for centuries. The deep, rich forests that produce the best moonbeams may be gone, but there's plenty of trees left in hard-to-reach places to harvest under.
Besides, we're more efficient at refining moonbeams now. It only takes ten jars of sparkles to fill a Moonbeam Bomb where it used to require thousands.
My water-basin swirls, and a message arrives from Germany. Another ancient forest is in danger from developers.
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, the winner was Danny.
And the topic is Step into a Slim Jim.
You have until midnight on Friday July 3 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 #168 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 Sixty-Six, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):
Danny
“Next!”
They shaved our heads and stripped us of our possessions.
We're forced into uniforms and our identities raped into numbers, some have forgotten their own names.
My steady surgeon's hand used scalpels to save people's lives once. Now it holds hard plastic and is weighted down with chains.
“Next!” the voice ordered everyone to shuffle forward.
It was her fault for making me teach him a lesson. She was the unfaithful demon, I was the angel of justice, of love.
“Next!”
A ladle scrapped the steel drum as the last bit of prison gruel was served on my tray.
Justin
Oliver stared down mournfully. His tummy rumbled with despair. He clinked his spoon into the empty bowl, picked it up and stood. Even though what passed for food around here made his mouth numb, likely to keep the boys quiet, he wanted more. He walked up to the kitchen master.
"Pleath thir, Mah I have thum moa?"
The master leaned over, squinting.
"More what?"
"Fewd, pwease."
The master crossed his arms.
"What kind of 'fewd'?"
"Grue, thir."
The master grinned, picked up a bucket, and dropped it on Oliver's head. The bucket fell from his empty shoulders. Inside, only darkness.
Lynda
For sale: One lightly used bucket of gruel. My children don't appreciate the healing properties of my fine millet and honey recipe, so I'm selling it along with their video games to teach them a lesson.
What makes this bucket of gruel so special is that after my son vomited in it last Thursday, the spirit of a Mayan priest emerged from the swirling chowder and summoned a delightful goblin who cleaned our house top to bottom before playing many amusing tricks on us.
Don't miss out on this one of a kind delicacy with bonus goblin! Local pickup only.
Jeffrey
"It is always about this line with you. You can never be happy."
"Well what do you expect. I mean this is the longest line in town and you always want to come here for lunch."
"Their food is good and they are cheap."
"Good, it may taste good but it is not good for you."
"I like it and that is what matters."
"if you say so, but I think we should find a better place to eat."
"What would you like better?"
"I don't know, but even the name is, well wrong."
"You don't like Bucket of gruel?"
Anima
Buckets of grueling tension and flop sweats wash over me. The plane has finally landed; I’m reviewing my continuation to Calgary. CHECK INTERNATIONAL DOCUMENTS. Shit. I “see” my passport. At home. A thousand miles away.
This morning, the car wouldn’t start. Once jumped, the fuel filter failed. Change plans: cancel appointments, call mechanic, hastily pack.
On the flight there’s no diet soda. I overhear, “Think this is contagious?” A child screams, “We’re landing in the river!”
Teenage ninja mutant terrorists are taking over the terminal. Is Mars in retrograde? Note to self: Fire travel planner. And find overnight express office.
Guy David
The bucket of gruel looked like a thimble at the hands of the oversized baby. The servants running around it looked like midgets, though in regular perspective they looked massive. The baby was ancient. No one knew how ancient it was, they just knew it was there long before the empire was founded, long before the wars, long before civilization came and fell. Suddenly, a bus came out of the porridge, taking the baby with it. “Thanks for taking me from that place” said the baby, his voice deep and resonant, “I was getting tired from playacting the baby part.”
Norval Joe
The orc guards were distracted from their watch by their nagging hunger. "What's for dinner?" One orc said. They both eyed the bucket of gruel.
Silently a hobbit slipped past, making his way into the stockade. Rumors of the rich treasury inside the stronghold was adequate motivation for the diminutive thief.
He noticed the bag of gold hanging from the guards belt and thought to add it to his stash.
Suddenly the guard sat.
The two orcs stood looking at the dead hobbit. "Not much to eat there."
"Nope. That and a bucket of gruel would almost make a meal."
Mick Bordet
Shug sat, staring at the burger between his calloused hands.
His wife left after they lost the farm, his faithful dog died and the welfare cheque didn't cover his rent. He was living a classic country and western song.
He blamed the scientists; they eventually spotted the pattern – mad cow disease, bird flu, swine flu, sheep lurgi – but it was too late. Mother Nature's course correction was in place. Contaminated meat stocks led to Government restrictions: “Families can thrive on a bucket of gruel per week.”
“Bunch of damned hippies,” he muttered and sank his teeth into the delicious beef.
Laurie
When the Congee finished cooking I poured two bowls. I ache for my retired General to be young again. As I spoon fed, I began to daymare of my General pushing me to the floor. Barking elicit commands through clenched teeth. Seething with lust. Violating me repeatedly until satisfied. The General begins to aspirate pulling me from my fantasy. He spews the milky rice all over my face and breasts. I smile at the irony of my twisted thoughts and reality. Once fierce, now he is nothing more than a puny, diseased invalid. I scrape the leftovers into a bucket and draw the steaming bubble bath. I disrobe and lift him ever so gently into my arms. I wrap his gnarled fingers around the sweet scented bar of soap and guide his hand slowly over my tan skin. I search under the bubbles and confirm his eagerness for me to begin cleaning him.
Planet Z
He was The King.
He always would be, and this made him sick.
Since he was a child, the spotlight blinded and burned him.
His sullen, manipulative family withered in his shadow.
A brother, his name lost in a prescription haze, subjected to continuous disfiguring surgeries...
Snip this.
Slice that.
Shift it around.
Smooth it out.
I swear, it's as if they were twins.
The day came to fake his death, but the dosage was wrong.
Dead.
Maybe, just maybe...
No. The doppleganger in the basement, face down in a bucket of gruel.
Jackals and jokers line the streets.
Licking their lips as the coffin goes by.
A nice juicy leg would make such a treat.
You bite through the knees while I tug on the feet.
Don't lock down the lid.
We all want a peek.
No? Not this time?
What if we promise not to suck out the other eye?
We made him. We own him. He is a part of us.
Let us tear him apart. Let us scatter his bones.
When we are done all is left is his suit.
What size did he wear? I take forty-two long.
Every so often, we get someone who needs to send a fax.
I got careless with the office supplies and ran out of fax machine paper.
No, it doesn't use the cut-sheet paper. It needs the old thermal rolls.
So I ended up loading the machine with pancakes.
That's right. Rolled-up pancakes.
I didn't expect to get a fax all day, and the office supply store was going to deliver another roll tomorrow, but I heard the phone ring and that telltale fax sound.
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.
IFOC Network
Subscribe
To keep track of updates to this podcast, you can use any of the following friendly directory services or podcatchers:
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.
