The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Richard Lisa Lizzie Tom Serendipidy Norval Joe Planet Z The next topic is PICK TWO Street life Pox Behind That old classic… Standard lamp RICHARD Random Words Every week I go through the same process. I retrieve the old cardboard box from its place under my desk, give it a good hard shake, remove the lid and close my eyes. Reaching into the box, I rifle around its contents and pull out a selection of folded postcards, and then I can open my eyes. The postcards have a selection of random words written on them. I lay them out on the desk and rearrange them thoughtfully. When I have what I'm looking for, I add some filler words. And, hopefully, end up with a hundred word story. LISA The One That Got Away She was delirious when I entered the woodcutter’s cottage. As ever I was amazed how cramped the space was with so many living in it. I clasped my scarf to my face; burned rosemary to try to cleanse the air. She lay there, wet from the sweats, rambling random words. I couldn’t feel any lumps under her armpits so felt perhaps this time there was still hope. I stayed just long enough to give her a draught to bring the fever down but made my decision to answer the King and to live at the palace ‘til this pestilence passed. LIZZIE 'I don't... you... me'. This could mean anything, said the detective, where's the rest of it? No one knew. Is this blood? No one knew that either. Did you search the rest of the house? That they did know. And? Nothing? Nope. How about the garden? Silence. OK, forget it. Send this to the lab. They all nodded, relieved. By the way, said the detective, I don't care what you think about me. I'd fire the lot of you. Amateurs, thought the detective. Wait a second, what I just said... Perhaps these words are not as random as they look. TOM Without Merit I have found no matter how vacuous two individual might be, if one passes by during any random collection of words that flow in the public space, those random words will sound pretty cogent. Lingering for additional context will help one to understand the form and purpose of the discourse, but nearly always leds one to question why matters so banal, merits the level and length of inquiry. Chalk-it up the mind-numbing list of stuff one needs to get done in the average day. Little time to ponder the deeper questions of life. As why isn’t any more penny candy? SERENDIPIDY They may sound like random words to you. You may think I've made some of them up, or perhaps I'm speaking a foreign language. What could they possibly mean? Nobody really knows. I certainly have no idea! I found them in an old leather bound book, hidden away in my grandmother's attic. Many thought grandmother was a witch, and if the book is anything to go by, she quite definitely was. You'll see. As I chant the mysterious words, you'll start to feel very strange. Until, with a poof of smoke… All of a sudden, you'll turn into a frog! --- NORVAL JOE Mandi and Bobbie sat in the back while Mrs. Weinerheimer drove north out of Eureka. A small gray-haired lady with dark glasses held both hands flat on top of her head and muttered random words, “Kelp, wind, stinkweed, bottlebrush, cardboard box, thunderhead.” After passing windy beaches littered with piles of kelp, Mandi glanced out of the window, and shouted, “Over there.” A single cloud rose above the low hills. They quickly turned onto Bottlebrush Lane and drove until they came to a broken down cabin, the front yard crowded with weeds, and a tattered cardboard box rotting on the porch. PLANET Z If you stir alphabet soup enough, you’ll see words. Usually short words, but the longer you stir, a few longer words will appear. I imagine the noodles sloshing around in my stomach, forming words and sentences and poems nobody will know about. Dissolving into goo as I digest them. Maybe they’re not gone? And somehow,

Oh, Greta. You little Nazi. Hitler Youth wet dream, blonde and blue-eyed. Chiseled features, the Nordic ideal. Danish? Dutch? It doesn't matter which master race you come from. Like any child star, you've memorized your lines. Your father's words, hurled at the audience from your mouth like a plunger thrusting sewage down a clogged toilet. America is bad. America is evil. The America full of universities researching solutions to the ills you blame it for. While Chinese factories spew more poison and death into the world. But your blind hate knows no reason. Leni Reifenstahl's ghost smiles, and says "Cut."

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. His captain asked him how the crew felt, and George conducted a poll. "Your approval ratings are down," said George. "Maybe if we had a battle," said the captain. "That always boosts approval ratings for politicians." So, the captain set course for the nearest ship and they fought it. They won, but took heavy casualties. George polled the crew again. And the numbers were even lower. "But we won a battle!" said the captain. "Yes," said George. "But unlike the politicians, I polled the people who did the fighting."

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. When the crew raided a slave ship heading for the Americas, George insisted that they free the slaves. At first, the captain resisted the idea of letting a valuable cargo go, but in time George wore him down. "Okay, fine," said the captain. "But let's be realistic... we can't just release them in the middle of the ocean." "Then we'll teach them how to be pirates," said George happily. And George taught them everything he knew. It didn't take long for the slave ship to sink without a trace.

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. "What kind of pirate was he?" asks someone from the audience. The author thought about that for a minute. He'd established that George wasn't a very good pirate, so what did that make George? Average? Below-average? Awful? Horrible? Or did "very good" refer to his nature and character? If George wasn't very good, was he evil? The author hadn't meant to delve into ontology and the spiritual realm. "George is just George," he said. "Can I please continue?" The audience agreed, but the author had run out of words.

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate Somewhere, he'd read about people hanging themselves to get more out of sexual pleasure. So, George tied himself by the ankles to the boom and let himself dangle. Then, he tried to lower his breeches. Which, him being upside-down, was kinda hard to do. After a few minutes, he felt a warm stickiness hit him in the face. "Blech," said George. "That wasn't enjoyable at all," The captain was tempted to say "That's because you're supposed to hang yourself from your neck." So, he did, and walked away smiling.

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. He'd been all over the world, and he'd seen some marvelous places. He'd also seen some horrible and awful places. Total shitholes. George preferred the marvelous and amazing places. Because those places had a lot of stuff he could plunder loot. There's not much you can plunder from a shithole. George felt guilty about it, and what he plundered from the marvelous places, he would give to the people in the shithole places. They'd thank him, but ask if they could please get a ride away from that shithole.

Richard Lizzie Tom Serendipidy Norval Joe Planet Z The next topic is Random words RICHARD Pizza There's something deeply annoying about settling down on the sofa in front of the TV and reaching across to open the pizza box, only to find - horror of horrors - your pizza has half missing. Your eyes scan the room, searching for the culprit. It's not the kids. There's no tell-tale smudges of tomato on their cheeks; their hands are clean, and there's no crumbs on their clothes. It can't be the wife: she hates olives - even the thought of picking them off makes her shudder. (That's why you always order them!) The cat? No. Must have been me then. SERENDIPIDY I'm half-missing him. I don't miss his temper tantrums, his unfaithfulness and the late nights when he'd roll unsteadily in, smelling of booze and slurring his words. I don't miss any of that. I don't miss the pitying looks given by my friends, and I certainly don't miss his obnoxious buddies, with their wandering hands and bad attitudes. And, I really don't miss having to constantly apologise to others on his behalf. You'd think I wouldn't miss him at all. But I can only half miss him. Because I still keep the other half of him in my freezer. LIZZIE They roamed the garden, looking for the key. Is it big, is it small? What exactly are we looking for? Questions, questions, and more questions... A key, of course, everyone replied in unison, exasperation showing on their faces. Suddenly, someone gasped. Found it! OK, so, where's the door? Door? Yes, the door. No one knew. So, why exactly were we looking for a key?! I thought we were looking for a key to the shed, that one. Well, now we'll be looking for a door. Which door?? Why are some people so negative? You already have the key! Be happy! NORVAL JOE Mandi jumped up and headed toward the door. “We have to help those people. Especially Billbert.” Bobbi didn’t move. “How do you think you’re going to do that?” “Mrs. Weinerheimer has a coworker you who can find people…” Mandi’s phone interrupted her. She answered it and listened. She turned back to Bobbi. “Hurry. We have to go. Billbert’s mom says they’re halfway to finding them. We need to get closer before they’re completely gone.” Bobby laughed, getting to her feet. “Does that mean they’re only half-missing right now?” Mandi frowned in confusion before going outside to wait for Mrs. Weinerheimer. TOM All that remains is less then enough If you are very fortunate you will have known someone for the major portion of your life. As that person would be whispering to me now the highest form of relationship is Friendship. Loves will come and go, but your best friend will be there when your heart is breaking. Jim died four years ago and I am half-missing the world about me. Many moments feel thin as if missing the joy that can only be found in a passing fleeting second shared. I come too quickly to the end of a sentence that falls to silence. I am half-missing. PLANET Z

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. He caused a lot of accidents, and the entire crew hated him. So, why didn't they get rid of him? Because they weren't much better than George. They just did a better job of hiding incompetence and blunders than George did. "It was George's fault!" they'd say. "George did it." Everyone agreed to blame George for everything. Cannon misfires, torn maps, bent swords, and lousy food. It was always George's fault. And when George would make a mistake, he'd say "It's George's fault!" too. Even though that was him.

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. While he plundered towns, he always said "sir" or "madam." But when he said "sir" to a transgender woman while looting her store, he caught hell for it. The local paper was filled with angry letters to the editor. Picket lines surrounded the ship. The captain sent George off to sensitivity training. Several weeks later, George returned and issued a public apology. The next time George pillaged that town, he called the transgender woman "madam." She smiled and nodded. Then George bought a purse and looted her store again.

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. There's only one way that a pirate can become a captain of a ship: The crew needs to elect him as the next captain. The problem is, you need to get rid of the current captain first. Oh, you could push him overboard... call for a mutiny... poison his food... George was treated well by his captain. Who else would put up with George? Which is why George was very careful to put up guard rails, quell any dissent, and taste-test the captain's food. He threw up a lot.

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. For some reason, he couldn't get the idea of "plug-in nuns" out of his head. Why would he think of such a thing? And were there nuns that ran on batteries, or nuns that you had to wind up or get started with a hand crank? As George's higher conscious functions obsessed on nuns, George's subconscious and motor skills were left unimpeded, and he managed to get through the day without causing an accident, grievous injury, or some other calamity. He never did sort out the whole nun thing.

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. As he sat in his prison cell, awaiting execution, he looked into the cell next to his. Calico Jack's wife Anne Bonny and her friend, Mary Read. Also slated for execution. Well, that is, until Anne and Mary both claimed to be pregnant. The court took mercy on them both, and ordered their release. So, George tried the same tactic. "How can you possibly be pregnant?" shouted the judge, throwing him back in his cell. Before Mary's release, George strangled her, took her clothes, and escaped under her pardon.

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. One day, standing on the main deck, a bat flew up to George. In a puff of smoke, a vampire appeared. "Hi there," said Count Dracula. "Mind if I borrow blood?" George said no. "I kinda need it. Sorry." The vampire nodded. "But we have probably will run across a ship and have a battle," said George. "Lots of blood in those things, flying around." Dracula smiled. "That's good news. Mind if I wait around?" "No problem at all," said George. Dracula sat down in a chair and waited.

Richard Lizzie Tom Lisa Serendipidy Norval Joe Planet Z The next topic is Half-missing RICHARD --- Final thoughts --- I've always fancied doing that thing where you write a half-finished piece of prose foretelling your own impending demise, solely with the intention of leaving it on your bedside cabinet, for discovery on the eventual event of your death. "How did he know?" They'd exclaim. "Was it a premonition? Was it fate?" No, not at all, just a little bit of fun on my part and a cunning ruse to make my death somewhat more interesting that it might otherwise be. I might even use this piece as my 'final' thoughts. I think it could make a fitting ending. LIZZIE No ending, no story, delete it all, he said. She frowned. Why not keep what has been written so far and put it on the back burner for a while, perhaps they'd come up with a good ending later. No, no, no, delete it all, he said. She then snatched the laptop away from him. He elbowed her aside. She fell but stuck her leg out and he tripped. He grabbed the laptop cord and wrapped it around her neck. She punched him right in the face. Oddly enough, this was part of their creative process. One ending coming up. SERENDIPIDY Don't think of this as an ending; consider it a beginning. Certainly, there's a finality to it… How could there not be? Your breath will falter and fade, the colour will leave your face as your lifeblood drains away, your body will slump to the floor and your heart will cease beating. You'll die. It's that simple. It's just a new beginning. Soon, you'll join me and commence a whole new chapter. So, don't be afraid. Come to me and give me your neck to drink from. And soon, you'll join me in drinking the blood of our next victim. LISA Harvest Orion was still watching over us; crisp leaves rustled above ready to fall. The menfolk had just cut the last sheaf standing in the harvested field. They’d called it the Maiden and thought the spirit of the harvest was inside it. So, before the sun came up, they’d thrown their scythes at it from a distance hoping to not upset their chances for next year’s harvest; it’d be made into corn dollies later. I joined the families on the field until the gleaning bell rang again at seven to tell us our time to gather any leftover grain was ending. TOM When it rain it rains …. As a rule, I like my movies to have a happy ending. Boy gets girl. Bad guy gets whacked. Dance party as the credits roll. Sure, ¾ of the cast can die in the 2nd reel, but someone perky makes it through. Then there’s Pennies From Heaven. Both the British with Bob Hopkins and the American with Steve Martin a happy ending in spite of the fact it defies credibility. The only thing that could save our hero is an alibi from a once up-stand woman brought low by the hero himself. But Tom, is it a Musical after all. NORVAL JOE “What do you mean by people of power,” Mandi asked Bobbi. Bobbi leaned back on the couch and stretched out her legs. “You know. Spiritual groups, like the one Sabrina was in, until her grandmother got killed. She and the old lady were the only ones with real magic. With her dead, that bunch fell apart.” “The Black Knights were behind the shooting in the meadow?” Mandi asked. “That’s right,” Bobby nodded. “Now, the knights are after a group in Arcadia and I think Patrick is using your friends to eliminate them. I can see them all ending up dead.” PLANET Z Harvest Orion was still watching over us; crisp leaves rustled above ready to fall. The menfolk had just cut the last sheaf standing in the harvested field. They’d called it the Maiden and thought the spirit of the harvest was inside it. So, before the sun came up, they’d thrown their scythes at it from a distance hoping to not upset their chances for next year’s harvest; it’d be made into corn dollies later. I joined the families on the field until the gleaning bell rang again at seven t...

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. The other pirates san sea shanties. George rapped. Badly. And not just White Guy Badly. Imagine Pat Boone rapping. No, imagine Bob Hope rapping. Cue cards and Alzheimers and that glassy, lost thousand-yard-stare. Well, George was worse. Much worse. "Yo, Scurvy Dog" was his first attempt at a song. They smashed his boombox. They threw his scratch turntables overboard. They tried to string George up by his microphone cord so many times, he switched to a wireless one. West Coast, East Coast, Barbary Coast. No crew would have him.

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. Every time his crew raided a town, he'd draw his cutlass and roar "The synagogue's mine!" His crewmates thought he was some kind of bloodthirsty anti-Semite, and they'd go "Sure, George, whatever you say." George would run to the synagogue, bolt the doors shut, and heave a sigh of relief. Sometimes, there'd be locals praying for protection from God, and George would try to reassure them that it would be okay. "Just help your neighbors rebuild," he say. And when the raid was over, he'd return to the ship.

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. "It's because you're a white, straight, cisgendered male," said the ship's Chief Diversity Officer. "You're a privileged member of The Patriocracy." "When the shit did we get a Chief Diversity Officer?" muttered George. "Diversity is our strength!" shouted the officer, who shoved George overboard. "Go hate elsewhere!" While George swam for shore, the crew demanded living wages, unlimited vacation days, remote work, and a foosball table. Anyone given an assignment would accuse their superior of racism, sexism, and homophobia. As the ship headed for the rocks surrounding the harbor.

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. After watching The Muppet Movie, he tried to think about songs about rainbows. But the only one he could think of was the one that Kermit the Frog sang. So, he tried to write a sea shanty about rainbows. It didn't come out so well. It sounded like three cats fighting in an oil drum. George tried different musicians, but it always came out badly. He leaned on the ship's railing, watched a rainbow over the ocean, and hummed a happy tune. If only he'd written that song down.

George was a pirate, but he wasn't a very good pirate. Still, he tried his best, such as the time when he wanted to decorate the ship for Halloween. "We'll carve creepy pumpkins!" he said. The problem was, they didn't have any pumpkins. So, George painted the cannonballs orange and drew scary faces on them. And he cut up the sails into ghost costumes. "See?" George said. "We're ghosts! Ghostly pirates! Scary!" "Without our sails, we're dead in the water," growled the captain. "That's the spirit!" said a ghostly George. "Booooooo! Boooooo!" The captain brained George with an orange cannonball.