A 100 word story by Laurence Simon about a girl with a doll in her arms.

The voices are coming from inside your head, not the doll.

No, I don't know why I can hear them, too. Yes, that's very strange.

Maybe you're mumbling the words like a ventriloquist. Can you bite down on this piece of rubber for a moment and we'll just have a listen?

Okay, I still hear it. It's talking about burning down the cornfields.

That's a very pretty dress. Here's something you can wear over it. Just put your arms in the sleeves and try to relax.

I'll just hold the doll for a moment, okay?

This won't hurt a bit.

I love it when I have the chance to take a seemingly ordinary person and make them totally batshit insane. It's an awesome power that only a god should have.

This was my story for today's 100 Words Or Les Nessman theme, which was the sentence "I looked behind the soldiers and saw bones in a suit of clothes on the grass."

Schultz shook the dice, praying for snake eyes.

The rest of the company looked on.

Why can't we just draw straws? thought Schultz. Or draw cards, or slips of paper from a helmet.

There was a lot of work to do.

And avoid, if possible.

Schultz smirked.

"Hurry up!" yelled a corporal.

Schultz threw.

The dice sailed down the dirt path and into the few stubborn blades of grass that still grew in this ashen hellscape, landing in a stack of ragged, scorched clothes.

"That cinches it," said Lieutenant Waldheim. "You're on Burial Detail."

Schultz grabbed a shovel and cursed.

Yes, this was inspired by the recent anniversaries pertaining to the Shoah.

Another story written for 100 Words Or Les Nessman, this time challenged by a theme of a picture of a stone. Obviously, I had trouble sticking to the theme, but I imagined someone sitting on the rock and being as uncomfortable as the chairs at work, so...

I work in a call center and the company owner is really cheap.

Of all the awful things here, the chairs here are the worst. They are old, worn-out, and cause frequent painful injuries.

One guy was speared with a spring and lost a kidney. Another broke a wrist and an ankle when a wheel just completely let go. A third rolled out of a window, never to be seen again.

Bob got it the worst. One day, he's typing away, and we hear a loud CRACK!

He's in a wheelchair now. Can't feel anything below his neck.

Lucky bastard.

Inspired by the chairs at work.

Another story written for 100 Words Or Les Nessman, this time challenged by red, hate, destiny.

"When you see the color red, you will experience so much hate that you will kill the Senator. It is your destiny."

Arthur heard this phrase six hundred and forty-eight thousand, seven hundred and nine times before they stopped the recording and wiped the drool from his chin.

It used to be that you had to loop a recording with a razor and cellophane tape. Now you just hit "REPEAT" on an MP3.

They gave him a gun and a bus ticket. Two days later, he shot four seals at the Boston Zoo.

Hey, nobody said this stuff was perfect.

A cheap rip-off of Manchurian Candidate, for sure.

Yet another fine effort for 100 Words Or Les Nessman in response to a photograph by Ray Soemarsono. The car was the inspiration for the story.

She once had legs, but over time she let herself go. Varicose veins, a deep hacking cough, and stints in rehab for a heroin problem finished off her partying days.

The dream guy she hooked with the help of ZZ Top's gang of gals had long slipped the line and swam back for deeper waters.

Rags filled her closets.

Still, she kept the car in the driveway. The paint faded, the tires rotted, the engine seized up, and rust spread like brown cancer and covered everything.

Sometimes, she'd go out front and snap her nicotine-stained fingers, wave the keys.

Nothing.

So, where's the band?

It goes to show that controlling the topic for 100 Words Or Les Nessman doesn't always result in a good story. This time, I was supposed to write about a key that I didn't know where it went to.

Nigel tapped Middle C again.

Still nothing.

He lifted the green piano's lid and checked the striker and the wire. Everything worked fine.

But he didn't hear anything when he hit Middle C.

B played. D played. Every other note played.

But not Middle C.

Nigel blew out the candelabra and hit Middle C again.

Of course it wasn't that, he thought. That would have been silly.

Nigel tried another piano. Middle C worked just fine.

He went back to the green piano, lifted the lid, and plucked Middle C.

Perfectly tuned.

He hit the key again.

Nothing at all.

So where does it go?

This time on 100 Words Or Les Nessman we were supposed to write about some person in a faerie costume standing like a statue in some kind of park with a bulldkye-looking chick smoking a cig.

Things are hard all over, but especially in Europe.

In Rome, taxis have been replaced by rickshaws pulled by starving pensioners.

You can't walk in London without tripping over three people shining your shoes.

Have problems folding a map in Berlin? Not any more - every petrol station features map-folders for hire.

It's easy to mistake the purse-snatchers of Paris for the porters and bearers.

But of all the fallen, pity Prague the most. The poor are stripped, painted like statuary, tangled in vines and daisies, and displayed in eight hour shifts.

Sad beasts, lining the grand avenues of yesterday.

I figured I'd get a little political and mock some EU countries.

Yet another fine effort for 100 Words Or Les Nessman in response to a photograph with an angry face in the sky. Let's head back to the greedy days of the 80's for a moment...

I look up, and I see the Face Of God in the angry, boiling skies.

I look down, and there's piles of clothes everywhere. A few unguided cars roll into streetlamps or bushes.

Rapture? Well, isn't that nice. Bye bye, fundamentalists.

I'm sure that a few houses will start to burn because ovens have been left on. Or planes will crash because pilots have vanished and cockpit doors are locked these days.

My next-door neighbor's empty Armani suit in a pile. In his driveway

Next to his lovely, perfect Ferrari.

I may not be Saved, but I am truly blessed.

Okay, we're back.

Looking for lousy science-fiction? Well, here's another fine effort for 100 Words Or Les Nessman in response to the theme of the day...

Last century, they had competing standards for cellular. There was TDMA, CDMA, GSM... all sorts of different ways to slice up spectrum and get people chatting and sending snapshots around the globe. Carriers fought over which was best, and handset manufacturers fretted over the incompatibilities.

Same with hyperwaves. Luna went MS-HW. Mars Colony implemented HW 2.0. Alpha Proximi did MS-HP and StarTalk. Migdal Mayim's doing StarWave.

Imagine your brain exploding because some Lunatic calls without a gamma-compensator. Or a Reaganite goes catatonic after faxing Io because the compression algorithm resembles sonic stunner harmonics.

What? The phone's ringing?

It's for you.

Wouldn't you like to read the rest of that?

So would I.

This time we were asked to describe a crash on 100 Words Or Les Nessman. I decided that a crash diet might be amusing to torture a character with.

Bob watched the man toss pizza dough up and down.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Bob drooled.

Just thirty pounds to go, he thought. I just need thirty more pounds.

Up and down.

Bob opened his wallet and looked at The Card.

LETTUCE, WATER, AND VITAMINS it said.

Up and down.

Bob tried to remember what a pizza tasted like.

His mouth tasted lettuce.

And water.

And the bitter pills.

Up and down.

Bob swore that once reached his goal weight, he'd bomb insurance company for rejecting his gastric bypass surgery.

Up and down.

Just thirty pounds to go.

(Also, I've reduced the quality of the encoding to get a smaller filesize)

Proving once again that having control of the topic doesn't always lead to quality, I penned this sick little number for 100 Words Or Les Nessman today.

They drive the backhoe off, jump into the hole, and shovel out the remaining dirt.

A crane lowers into the vault and bumps the casket.

"Who disturbs my rest?" I think.

They raise the casket, lay it on a gurney, and roll it into the truck.

Two hours later, the coroner cracks open the casket.

It's so rare to see a body with a spear through its skull, but not everyone dies from mooning a Zulu tribe.

Somehow, this excites him.

Unspeakable, disgusting acts follow.

Finally, he takes my arm in his latex-covered hand and winds my watch.

Gee, thanks.

I'll try not to make a habit of it.

I swore I'd get a better microphone, and I'm planning on getting a USB setup tomorrow. Until then, try not to scream too loudly at the poor quality of this one, okay?

Here's yet another blasphemous effort I penned for 100 Words Or Les Nessman. Also, Redsugar Muse podcasted her story from yesterday.

Pretty soon, all of 100 Words Or Les Nessman will follow where I lead.

Juan and his burro Steve went up the mountain to pick coffee beans.

A bush was on fire.

"I AM THE LORD JEHOVAH, GOD OF ABRAHAM," it said.

Juan stared. Steve brayed.

"I HAVE TEN NEW COMMANDMENTS FOR MY CREATION!"

"Que?" said Juan.

The bush rustled.

"OH GREAT," it said. " DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?"

"Que?" said Juan.

"YOU... SPEAKA... ENGLISH?" the bush said, slower and louder.

"No habla," said Juan.

"SHIT," said the bush. "NEVER MIND THEN."

Juan stared.

The flames grew. "LEAVE! GO! GET YOUR ASS OUT OF HERE!"

No more weed before harvesting, thought Juan, running away.

Just wait until they start penning their compositions while packing pasta in their pants! Ha ha!

Another day, another 100 Words instead of a ditty about Les Nessman. And let's welcome my new Logitech USB Microphone! It's much clearer! (Yes, I know it's "Threatened by shadows at night and exposed to the light" but I figured that Bob was too messed up to recall the lyrics exactly.)

Bob dropped his bong and looked up at the swirling green skies.

"Radical," he whispered. "This needs Floyd."

He went back inside, humming "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" while hunting for his iPod.

He found it, went back outside, and scanned his playlist.

"Damn," he shouted. No Pink Floyd. Must have cleared it out.

He went back in to search for the files.

Gone.

He then dug through his CD, but they were too scratched to rip.

Ten bucks and two hours download later, he synced up and went back outside.

The lights were gone, and so was his buzz.

Don't do drugs, kids.

Today on 100 Words or Les Nessman, we learn what happens when Andy asks the group to do something with: "In case you're wondering, I don't spend the entire workday inside my tailor shop."

When the clock strikes one, I put down my shears, grab a spear, and head out the front door of my shop to challenge Hans, the baker across the way.

"SHAKA ZULU!" I shout, and I hurl the spear at his shop's front door.

*THUNK*

When the clock strikes two, I know that Hans will soon hurl the spear back at my door.

"SHAKA ZULU!" echoes across the street.

*THUNK*

Folks around here know to get down or keep clear.

So today, when I hurled the spear...

*AAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHH*

Screams pierce the air. Sirens in the distance, approaching fast.

Bloody tourists.

These guys will be back.

Well, it's time for another story for 100 Words Or Les Nessman. This time, it's a picture of someone in a homemade feather costume.

You know, if someone posts the theme as a draft the night before, I can't see it. No flying start for me in the morning.

When the clock strikes one, I put down my shears, grab a spear, and head out the front door of my shop to challenge Hans, the baker across the way.

"SHAKA ZULU!" I shout, and I hurl the spear at his shop's front door.

*THUNK*

When the clock strikes two, I know that Hans will soon hurl the spear back at my door.

"SHAKA ZULU!" echoes across the street.

*THUNK*

Folks around here know to get down or keep clear.

So today, when I hurled the spear...

*AAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHH*

Screams pierce the air. Sirens in the distance, approaching fast.

Bloody tourists.

And yet, I still avoid the Les Nessman trap.

What a guy!

100 Words Or Less Nessman challenged the authors to use the word FISHBOWL.

Every week, Chang pulled a business card out of the fishbowl and the winner got a free lunch at The Happy Dragon.

Every so often, another hand would dip into the fishbowl and draw a business card. But they never got a free lunch.

They found Mary's body in the dumpster the next day. The same with Steve, Lynn, Arthur, and Jose. Sixteen in all.

One day, the killer reached into the bowl and got his hand wet.

No business cards. Just a goldfish.

Sure, there is such a thing as a free lunch, but it's not worth the risk.

So I did.

So I had control of the topic and I chose SOUP.

The result was... um... er... pathetic.

There's nothing left to eat but soup. Everything else went bad while I was out.

I put the least-dirty pot on the stove and light the burner.

No electricity here, so the electric can opener is useless.

There's a manual can opener in the drawer. Looks a bit rusty.

What the heck. It's worth a shot.

Or not. It breaks on the lid. And there's no pull-tab on the lid, either.

Great.

I put the soup can on the back yard fence, draw a bead on it, and squeeze the trigger.

Chicken and noodles everywhere.

I'll be eating out today.

Soup's on!

We were asked to do our worst with: penitence, bureaucracy, amnesia. It's sad to say that in my case, the result was less than impressive

I've got two cans of gasoline in my trunk for the job. They're awfully light, though.

In fact, they're... empty? How?

Didn't I fill them up today?

I run back to the offices. The only way to build new ones is to burn the old ones. Otherwise, you have to wait years for the plans to get approved.

This is madness. I can't go through with it. I won't do it. I-

But someone's beat me to it. Another torch-job, perhaps?

The flames light up the night sky.

What kind of madman does such a thing?

And where's my lighter?

I promise to do better.

A kid with hip-huggers is walking through a playground, bullets as a belt? What can this mean? Well, to me, it's Buddy Lee gone mad.

Buddy Lee grew up.

Nobody expected him to, but as with all little boys, he did.

And he grew up fast. He outgrew his dungarees quickly, and the company no longer needed him as a spokesman.

He hit the streets hard,

All those years of getting knocked around made him angry.

They made him crazy.

Buddy roamed the world, looking for people wearing those dungarees.

He swore an oath that if there was anything left of his victims, they'd be buried in them.

That's why I wear a kilt. Buddy ignores kilt-wearers.

And I've got the knees for it, too.

Actually, I don't.

A special delivery that just has to get there? Sure, let's have some fun with it.

The diamonds that Yuri stuffed into the volleyball were priceless.

Lost in transit, said Fedex.

Years later, Yuri read: FEDEX EMPLOYEE FOUND AT SEA

After watching Chuck Noland deliver a package to some ranch, Yuri learned he had spent all that time on the island talking to Yuri's volleyball.

Where was it?

Yuri turned on the news, sighing.

Chuck was being interviewed. Again.

"My friend just floated away," mumbled Chuck.

"Who?" asked a reporter.

"Wilson," said Chuck. "He was a volleyball that had a-"

Yuri switched off.

Wilson? Friend?

Should have used Airborne, he thought. Those Fedex employees are nuts.

Yeah, I liked "Cast Away."

A long time ago, Trading Spaces was good. Now it sucks. I take out my frustrations using the 100 Words Or Les Nessman theme of the day, which was a photo of a run-down house.

I hope you enjoy it. Otherwise, I may just have to kill you.

Vern likes ultramodern. Those fiber-optics they hung him with sparkle nicely.

Genevieve's always barefoot. Someone tossed poisoned carpet tacks around the living room. Oops.

Laurie loves lemons. When life hands you grenades painted like lemons... too late!

Frank's in the kitchen, brained by a pig figurine. Supper's ready!

Christi had bold ideas for that fireplace. They didn't involve being charred in it, though.

Nikki's the noble one. She drowned in the commode. Sorry - the throne. Nice gold handle, though.

Kia specializes in curtains. Now it's curtains for Kia.

Edward won the million bucks. That'll buy a good lawyer.

Would that be called The Reveal?

Leave it to me to take a picture of a naked chick on graph-like tile and think Battleship and art thieves.

"You sunk my naked chick!" yelled Bobby.

Joey laughed. "All I need is your Magritte pipe, and you're so toast!"

Mandy and Greg smiled. They didn't like war toys, so they figured that substituting the ships for works of art would help somehow.

Not exactly.

Twenty years later, they were in the courtroom as their sons were convicted of trying to steal Michelangelo's David.

"I told you that the damn alarm was in B7!" growled Joey.

"I thought you said E4!" Bobby yelled back. "Asshole!"

They were sentenced to twenty years apiece

Bobby's in cell F7. Joey's in cell F8.

If I recall, this was cut down from 200 words or so.

I decided to make the topic one of a severed head, and then I came up with this bizarre story.

What's with the singing box?

Well, remember the old story about Orpheus going to Hell to free his girlfriend?

He looks back - WHAM! Eurydice is back in Hell. A gang of women tear Orpheus apart, and his head falls into the stream, still singing.

Some chick puts the head in a box, sells it to a joint on the island, and it becomes the first jukebox.

Here it is. Just fifty bucks.

Problem is, it sings in Greek. It sounds so painful and sad, but beautiful. Too bad I don't know Greek.

Do you?

Oh well. Still sounds beautiful.

The tale of Orpheus is one I like very much, and the story didn't end when his wife went back into Hell because he looked back. The fact that his head was still singing down the stream made me wonder "When did it stop singing?"

I don't know who is more pathetic, Star Wars or Star Trek junkies.

So I had a little fun with both.

I am not a loser. Dressing up for a movie premiere is fun, dammit.

I spent hours working on the makeup. It's a pale cream-white body makeup. Leaves one hell of a rash later on.

Ordered a set of special yellow-iris contacts. They scratch my corneas.

Got my hair cut short, gelled it flat. It will all fall out afterwards.

Lost seventy pounds to fit into the uniform, too. Those illegal diet pills may have caused massive hemmoraging in my brain, but other than the facial tic I'm fine.

I'm so ready for The Revenge of the Sith.

This will get dated really fast.

Watch out! It's a squirrel with an AK-47 for the theme today on 100 Words or Les Nessman, so I couldn't resist a jab at Old Dead Napkinhead.

The trembling from Parkinson's dissipated, itself a victim of the destruction HIV was doing throughout his body.

The machines kept him going. Until...

They found the account numbers.

Dam-

He was gone.

And then he was back.

Yasser looked around.

No Paradise. No seventy-two virgins. No throne of Allah.

"What is this madness?" he wanted to say.

It came out as: "Chitter!"

Yasser scampered out of his knot-hole, down his tree, and he looked in the pond.

"Chitter!"

He looked around, and saw a squirrel in a tiny wheelchair.

Yassin?

He blamed the Jews, and declared a jihad. For...

NUTS!

Don't you wish all their jihads were for nuts?

So, you're wondering about cannibalism and cookbooks? 100 Words Or Les Nessman challenges, and I accept the challenge by telling the next chapter of a sordid tale from The Twilight Zone.

"It's a cookbook!" was the last thing Dr. Chambers heard before the spaceship door closed.

The Kanamint had said they were here to serve man.

Quite literally, as dinner.

Chambers sighed, slumped against the wall of the crowded cell, and slept.

He woke up, alone.

The door opened, and a Kanamint wheeled in a cart.

"Your dinner," thoughtcasted the Kanamint.

At first, Chambers wasn't hungry, but the smell was... captivating.

He took the lid off of the tray, tasted a sauce-covered cube, and moaned with delight.

"I must have this recipe," he said. "Delicious!"

Eventually, they made him a chef.

I like expanding on stories or writing parallel stories.

What if Santa Claus were a pirate? well, you'd get today's story at 100 Words Or Les Nessman, of course.

"Mighty Servant 5 leaves Hong Kong tonight," said Blinky. "Manifest is a beauty."

"Yarrrrrr!" said Winky, giggling.

Elves make excellent hackers, thought Santa.

Later that night, the sleigh raced over the Pacific and spotted the massive vessel.

It looks like an oil tanker with Legos on top, thought Saint Nick.

They landed quickly.

"Hit the Mattel containers, ye scurvy elves!" yelled Santa to his crew. "Watch out for Dobermans!"

"Aye aye!" yelled the elves.

This was so much more fun than making toys.

Santa drew his cutlass and chortled, his belly shaking like a bowl full of grog.

More Santa stories will be coming up as the holidays approach.

We were faced with a Neil Gaiman quote today about sunken cities coming back to life. Since the next big city to go under will either be Venice or New Orleans, I pondered its return to the surface in a blaze of glory. Head over to 100 Words Or Les Nessman for the text.

Or...

Jessica was the greatest of Bigeasyologists, scholars of the Sunken City of New Orleans. She'd researched the films, books, holocordings, music, and cooking her whole life.

Now, the final force-barrier against the Gulf of Mexico was in place. The osmotic pumps were revealing what was before only accessible to divers, drones, and avatar-subs.

Sure, the French Quarter would take weeks to dry out, but Jessica didn't want to wait. She wanted to be the first.

She'd earned it.

The hover-cameras followed as she landed on Bourbon Street, took off her helmet, and then her top.

"Bon temps roules!" she shouted.

Wait for me to archive it here.

"It occurred to him that he might see scenes now that would shatter him forever. No matter: he had to know." was the challenge at 100 Words Or Les Nessman. This was my response.

George was free. No more of the space crap. The endless reworking and tweaking of the movies had finally come to an end. Besides, all futzing ever did was annoy fans and make the stack of hate mail grow faster.

Done. Finished.

He could hand the remaining video games and TV series to subordinates.

Just independent films for George.

But still, after everyone was gone... he enjoyed making his little alternations.

What harm could that be?

He clicked on the "Jar Jar" file, dragged it over the "Casablanca" icon, and selected "Render."

The credits came up.

And then, his lunch.

I hope you like it.

I wasn't happy with today's effort at 100 Words Or Les Nessman today. I just didn't conect with the photograph, so I decided to go with yet another absurd monologue with a hidden ugly political agenda.

Such magnificence, birds spread in flight.

I watch the images every ten seconds through my monitors.

Standard film is 24 frames per second. This is 240 times slower.

A lot can happen in ten seconds.

We're supposed to watch and count Mexicans trying to sneak across, but we'd rather count rabbits and wolves.

And birds.

Especially birds.

Frozen in time, they look like angels.

Soon, we'll get a live feed from these Observation Stations. And they will turn the gun turrets back on.

As I said, a lot can happen in ten seconds. It can really mess up your aim.

Good luck, boys.

Today's story at 100 Words Or Les Nessman was a challenge with yet another quote from a book.

"How could a man become a god?" Nell asked.

"By living in an extremely pragmatic society," said Constable Moore after some thought, and provided no further explanation.

I focused on the god thing and sorta blew off the pragmatic society bit.

Contrary to popular belief, the Greek God Of Thunder Zeus and the Roman King Of the Gods Jupiter were not the same being.

Sure, they look alike, but the truth is they're not exactly alike.

You can easily tell them apart by the thunderbolts. Zeus prefers javelin-like lightning strokes with small jaggies in them while Jupiter prefers massive strokes with only three or four jaggies.

I learned this from Vulcan, who has the manufacturing contract for both.

And, yes, Vulcan actually is Hephasteus. But his real name is "Leslie."

Try being a big macho blacksmith with a name like that.

Will you ever forgive me?

Sure, Stephen Hawking is a theoretical physicist, but that doesn't stop me from having a little fun at his expense today on 100 Words Or Les Nessman.

Chemists get eyewash stations and fire extinguishers.

Physicists get Geiger counters and thick rubber gloves.

Biologists get innoculated for everything.

That leaves zero budget for the mathematicians.

Cheap bastards.

It's drilled into every schoolkid not to divide by zero. The government's done a great job of distributing "safety zeroes" to schools to protect kids who go ahead and try, but the professionals have to work with the uncoated wild variety to get the equations to stick.

Long ago, I fell asleep next to five blackboards full of wild zeroes. The exposure destroyed my nervous system.

ALS? Just a cover story.

I kind of like the idea that zeroes are coated for protection because schoolkids might try to divide by them. Sort of like safety scissors.

I have a grudge against idiot savants. They're flesh machines, devoid of personality, and yet the news goes all ga-ga over these human-shaped robots as if they're some kind of miracle.

I find it all annoying and creepy, which is why I wrote my 100 Words Or Les Nessman Story mocking the whole thing.

We don't like it when you call them retards. They're gifted or special now.

Some of them do amazing things. They were called idiot savants, but we dropped the idiot part.

Political correctness. Bah!

See that drooling sack of crap in the corner?

Can't tie his own shoes. Can't put on a shirt. Barely knows to go to the toilet.

Put an onion and a cleaver in front of him, and he'll dice that sucker up in less than a second.

Potatoes, celery, cucumbers...

Perfect little cubes.

He's the reason we stopped doing Animal Therapy, you know.

Don't ask.

A machine is only as good as the input and the materials it works with.

In a very special 100 Words or Les Nessman, we look at a disturbing interpretation of an old photograph oin terms of an even more disturbing Father's Day tale.

He wasn't really her father. He was just some bum she'd picked up off the street.

She did this every year - picking up a bum, washing him up, putting him in her father's old clothes, filling him with liquor, and then letting him sleep it off.

Hopefully, the bum would attack her. Just like all the others.

She'd scream "Happy Father's Day!" through the pain.

Exhausted, she would try to forgive him for it all. She needed this.

At sunset, she'd cut his throat and bury him in the back yard. Just like all the others.

And her father.

What's even more disturbing is that you're still listening to this stuff.

Soldiers don't grow on trees. They grow in vats. Davidson is the breeder, and he's looking for that one special soldier on 100 Words Or Les Nessman.

Alarms went off. Davidson stubbed out his twizzlestick, waved the purple vapors out of the air, and went back to work.

TARGET? asked the viewport.

"Quadrant 3," said Davidson, twiddling the viewport's knobs. "Section 5. Platoon 37. Unit 9-alpha."

Davidson blinked as his avatar flew through the fields of vat-grown soldiers.

Powerful.
Identical.
Almost perfect.

Except for Q3-S5-P37-9a. He was better.

Every now and then, a drone's matrix would self-enhance, and its milk-white skin would turn dark.

"Obtain," said Davidson.

Tendrils reached from the ground and pulled Q3-S5-P37-9a into the placentadirt.

OBTAINED.

Davidson smiled. Dark ones were worth bonuses.

Racist? Not sure.

Midsummer is here! But where isn't it Midsummer? Well, it's Midsummer there by bureaucratic decree and budget constraints! 100 Words Or Les Nessman tells you how.

Up in the North, no faerie can resist the call. The blazing sun sings to them, leaving other merriment to the all-too-brief night.

But down in Tierra del Fuego, unlucky faeries toss newspaper scraps in their tiny fire pit and huddle around the flames.

"This is s-s-s-s-s-stupid," chattered Mugwort, rubbing his hands.

"Let's dance," said Flitwicket. "It might warm us up."

"Eurocentric b-b-b-b-b-bastards," grumbled Mugwort. "Why'd they change the schedule?"

"Something about a bulk discount on Pixie Dust," said Flitwicket. "Thank bureaucracy. Someone needs to frolic his frowns away."

Eyes narrowed. Delicate throats growled.

Flitwicket sparked nicely on the flame.

Never trust a faerie.

What happens when you're looking at a book and there's a strange inscription in it? Well, what if you can't see the inscription? That was the challenge at 100 Words Or Les Nessman today.

After the DaVinci Code came out, everything Galileo ever wrote or painted was searched for hidden messages. X-Rays, magnetic waves, deep-radar signals, and refractive lasers wobbled the molecules to and fro until the researchers declared there was nothing to find.

Or as they say in Italy: "Niente!"

Then someone realized that Galileo invented the "This page intentionally left blank" page.

That someone was me.

Know what you get when you rip all those blank pages from his diaries and journals, rub them with a lemon, and hold a match up to them?

Arrested.

But now I know God's shoe size.

Yup. And wouldn't you like to know it, bub.

We were supposed to come up with "one away from something but when I read that aloud, I was reminded of a certain millionaire who owns a mansion and a yacht.

The hunter cowered behind a tree. He took off his fur cap, wiped the sweat from his gigantic bald head, and breathed heavily and rapidly.

He stopped.

Can it hear me?, he thought.

A twig snapped.

He'd lost his gun. His beloved double-barreled shotgun.

In the distance, click.

It has my shotgun.

After all these hunting seasons, the hunter had finally become the hunted.

More footsteps. Big, furry footsteps.

His heart pounded. His throat clenched.

"Don't bwast me!" shouted the hunter. "Fow God's sake, wabbit, pwease don't bwast me!"

Click.

The hunter ran, wishing it was still Duck Season.

What about it being better than going to Alcatraz?

I combined the setting of The Dead Zone with an old KTRK screwup by a news manager and a reporter over the Yates Pregnancy into this fun little tale.

Five small bodies in the morgue. Their mother strapped to a bed in the jail.

Yesterday, she'd drowned them in the tub.

And Bannerman had snapped.

"SHERIFF BEATS BATHTUB KILLER," screamed the paper.

Crap.

Bannerman looked through the paperwork. The intake form was a mess, so he rolled another in the typewriter and copied things over.

He got to "PREGNANT: YES/NO" and stopped.

He recalled her berserk rants as they dragged her in. He swore he'd heard "I AM CARRYING SATAN'S SPAWN!"

Screw it. It's Friday.

He checked YES, and then dialed that asshole reporter.

"Enjoy this exclusive," he grunted.

Although it no longer feels cathartic, only a tad obsessive and demeaning now.

Bobby really digs Wendy, but not in the way you think. Well, okay, in the way you think, but not just in the way you think.

He finished carving "BOBBY AND WENDY FOREVER" on the tree, then folded his knife.

Perfect.

Bobby had all of her albums. Every concert bootleg too, thanks to other obsessives and Napster.

Obsessives, not stalkers. Stalking is bad. Very bad.

He had other trinkets from her life. A curl of her hair from a hotel shower drain in a locket. Photographs that the corner drugstore duplicated and collected for him. And dresses that the cleaners said they'd lost.

All he needed was her. He had to prove his love.

He patted the gravestone, picked up a shovel, and began to dig.

Graveyards are a common theme of mine.

What do I see when I see the cover of Mike Oldfield's Crises? I guess I see a bad groundskeeping operation.

Paco was a lousy groundskeeper.

Every flower he planted wilted, every tree he planted died, and the sidewalks were crooked and cracked.

Paco thought about using Astroturf for the grass at Park Tower, but the building owners said no.

"This is your last chance, Paco," said the owners. "Make the grass grow, or you're getting deported."

Paco watched the grass slowly turn brown.

He panicked. In desperation, he spread fertilizer over the lawn, turned the sprinklers on full blast, and prayed for a miracle.

What he got was a five-hour nap, the miraculous Lake Park Tower, and a pink slip.

I love the album, though.

Brunettes may be nothing but trouble, but I sure enoy having fun with them now and them. I also like to play with gravity. And nothing beats a good street vendor hot dog...

Every day at noon, I head down to Harry's Hotdog Cart for a footlong with mustard, sauerkraut, and relish.

“The usual, Sam?” asked Harry.

“Work your magic, Harry,” I said.

Harry smiled and waved his tongs.

“Abracadabra!”

The man's a hotdog wizard, I tell you.

Just as Harry handed me his latest masterpiece, a scream came from above. And then WHAM!!!! a red blur smashed into the cart, scattering bottles and buns everywhere.

I picked myself up and looked at a woman sprawled across the cart.

Red dress. Dark hair.

Very dead.

“No cutting in line, bitch!” I yelled.

Women.

See my point?

The topic at 100 Words was a bit confusing, but I managed to dredge up an old character from a series of stories I wrote a long time ago for the occasion...

Across history, there was no name more loathed than Elias the Time Jerk's was.

At any moment of his choosing, he and his Temporal Easy Chair would fade into sync.

He liked to watch History in the unmaking.

Not this time, however. A temporal rift had tossed him facedown in the dust of Yuma, Arizona.

Elias brushed himself and walked into a diner.

"Mafle Garfle Mumgle," said the waitress.

"Great," said Elias. "Phaseshift sickness."

Elias smiled, gladly accepted some coffee, and headed to a mall for a new chair and radio parts.

Rebuilding was easy, all it took was time.

I have a whole slew of stories about Elias and the Howards Bar just waiting for revival.

It's been a while since I've wanted to say "This is one of my favorites" but this is one of my favorites. ("Doctor Odd" is probably the best so far.)

Russia denies it was a stunt for desperately-needed cash. "How do spacewalk weddings work?" is legitimate research in their opinion.

"Bullshit!" NASA seethed, but it's all fair game in the partnership contract.

The Sultan wore a specially-made Tuxedo-suit. In reality, it was just standard cosmonaut's gear painted black with tails and a bowtie.

The bride's gown was an elaborate sculpture of gossamer and a mile-long glittering silk train.

Dazzling, it was.

When the preacher said "You may now kiss the bride," The Sultan lifted his visor and unlocked his helmet seal.

The Russians shrugged. The fool had paid in advance.

Sure, I chose the theme, but I tend to sleep on it and come up with a new story so I can't be accused of pre-writing stories and stacking the deck. Otherwise, I'd be picking Mustard Man and Abraham Lincoln over and over.

The challenge was to come up with a story based on a quote from a book. I decided to go a bit off-color with it.

Suzy wasn't cheap, but the Boosters were picking up the tab.

Every year, the same thing. Sort of a graduation ceremony for the football team.

She still had a scar on her lip from last year, thanks to a quarterback with a piercing and a thing for slapping.

They paid her double to keep her mouth shut, so to speak.

This time, it was behind the Science Building. Suzy found it funny that some didn't even know where it was despite getting A's and B's from there.

She heard a zipper.

"Showtime," she sighed, as the line started to move.

Want her number?

The circus is coming to town, and in 100 words we learn why the kids are so excited to see it.

"The circus is coming to town!" the kids shouted.

It was nice to hear that sort of thing these days. With videogames and the Internet, wholesomeness like kids getting excited by the circus coming to town was refreshing.

Of course, nobody was looking forward to the circus itself, but what happened while the circus was in town.

Stampeding elephants down Main Street.
Murder-suicides among the sideshow freaks.
Food poisoning scares on the Midway.

And just because you can stuff twenty drunk clowns into a sedan, it doesn't mean everybody gets a seatbelt.

You can't fault the EMTs for laughing, though.

Ride inspectors? What are those?

You've always wondered about Marcie, Peppermint Patty, and Velma from the Mystery Machine crew. Well, it only took 100 words to learn the awful truth about these three.

Patty? Yeah, I knew her. She was always a bit dyke-y.

Her parents were so in denial. They were always joking about her being a tomboy. She'd grow out of the sandals and flannel shirts some day. Despite always running him down, that Chuck kid would make a good boyfriend, perhaps?

Yeah, right.

Instead, she turned to me. And heroin.

God, she was fun, but I swear I tried to get her to go clean. I really did.

I was the one who found her body, the needle still hanging out of her arm.

I wonder what Velma's doing tonight.

I still have doubts about those Teen Titan chicks.

The topic of the day was Bush, so I mused a bit on the Hannukah Bush. It's more of a rant than a story, I guess.

Other kids had Christmas Trees.

I had a Menorah.

No, I didn't have a Hannukah Bush. We never had a Hannukah Bush.

What's the origins of that stupid Hannukah Bush anyway? The Menorah represents the Burning Bush, so what is this other bush for?

Next thing you know, they'll dress some jackass in a blue suit and call him Rabbi Goldstein or something.

Can we look forward to Ramadan Ralph putting presents by an ivy-covered trellis?

How about a Buddhist Bob passing out Zen Candy in an algae-covered dish?

Whatever happened to Holiday Spirit? Good Will? All that Jazz?

Rubbish!

I piss on your bush!

Michele thought that the topic sucked, but I dug deep and found something fun to do with it. Nothing beats a confession by a strand of pasta, in my opinion. I hope you like this one, it's rather bizarre.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

It's not easy for a strand of spaghetti to confess his sins, let alone sin. But somewhere between the pasta factory and the boiling salted water, I engaged in horrific, lewd, and perverted acts in my box with the stockgirl whilst on the grocer's shelf that I dare not mention.

I thought that the tomato sauce and grated Parmesan would cover all of this up, but I realize now that I cannot hide my transgressions in the eyes of The Lord.

Please put that fork down and take a moment to forgive me.

Yeah, I played with my food.

I coddled my inner moonbat with this slap at Guantanamo on July the Fourth. I won't apologize for it, though, because it's so nonsensical that you'd be a fool to take it seriously.

It's morning in Guantanamo Bay Prison. Wakey wakey, everyone.

Normally the guards yank a detainee out of their cell, strip them, put a frilly dress on them, and parade them around the camp. However, it's the Fourth Of July, and things get a little patriotic.

"Open 157!" shouts a voice.

Mohammed rips another page out of his Koran, sighing. He's used to the drill.

"Forget the beard," says a corporal.

Mohammed goes limp, letting them clothe him in the red, white, and blue suit.

"Now get on the stilts, Uncle Sam," said the lieutenant. "And mind the hat. It's windy."

I wish they actually did this. Patriotism is infectious.

I took a photo of an ugly rat-hole sleeping berth and had some fun with it at Bill Clinton's expense. Nothing says comedy like "Millard Fillmore" in my opinion.

"Welcome home, Sir" said the staff. "The Lincoln Bedroom is unavailable, but you can sleep here."

Bill held up the sweat-soaked pillow, sniffed it, and tossed it back on the stained lumpy mattress.

Oh, the indigity.

First, he had to sleep on the floor when he was off touring the tsunami-stricken areas of the Indian Ocean.

But now, after all those years of sleeping in the master bedroom of the White House, he was consigned to this disgusting closet.

The Millard Fillmore "Suite."

Eight years of lousy tips, back to haunt him.

Time to find an intern and a cigar.

Beats sleeping on a plane's deck, right?

I really didn't like the topic for the day, but I made the best of it and swore I'd pick an even worse one as revenge when my time came up again.

Bond held up the gun and raised an eyebrow.

"Excuse me, R," he said. "What does this do again?"

"Pay attention, Double Oh-Seven!" admonished R. "First, it kills a person for just ten minutes. Then, it turns their hands bright orange, enough to see from 8 kilometers away."

"Eight kilometers?" asked Bond. "Lovely."

"Of course, it also turns your hands blue," said R. "And you get only one shot."

Bond put the gun down and sighed.

He looked around Q's old lab, tables piled with other useless creations of R.

"I miss you, Q," he muttered. "This fucker's a loony."

Bond. James Bond.