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July 11, 2005

Volume 3, Issue 11

So, there you are, soaked to the bone, hot, and at least partially nude.

How did you get that way?

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Comments

There's no sex education in the second kick of a mule so I am, you are, we are all partial pajamahadeens ;-)

Posted by: Jozef Imrich at July 11, 2005 4:24 AM · Permalink

I'm dragged out of the hole, stripped down to my cod piece and wrapped in a net. The crazy little monkey-boys lower me slowly into the cauldron, and pile more logs on the fire. Little bubbles begin to form along the sides of the iron pot. The heat is becoming unbearable. I see the fleas leaping off my skin, trying to escape their imminent deaths, only to land in the scalding water. A large bubble rises slowly to the surface, and then another and another. Why did I come to Japan? As I swoon, I yell, “God damn you, Blackthorne!”

Posted by: Ardsgaine at July 11, 2005 4:24 AM · Permalink

The trip to a nudist resort had been a relaxing way to spend an August weekend in Texas. As I loaded the van to head back home, I noticed the back tire was flat. As I pulled out the jack, it started raining. And I mean a real downpour.

Posted by: Scott at July 11, 2005 5:25 AM · Permalink

Made the mistake of stepping outside my motel room in Pensacola to see what was knocking at the door during the windstorm.

Posted by: pb at July 11, 2005 5:39 AM · Permalink

With all the high-tech gear they give us, our water is still delivered the low-tech way, by truck. Over roads we can't keep secure, so showers are severely rationed.

After weeks of baby-wipe baths in the field, we're lathering up when an infiltrator tosses a bomb into the shower tent. Someone yells, "Bomb!", and we're beating feet outta there but there's no flap at the back of the tent to get out. While Smitty is fumbling with his multi-tool, trying to find a knife blade, I slash it with my old K-Bar and make a back door.

I love low-tech.

Posted by: hnumpah at July 11, 2005 5:43 AM · Permalink

Just a little hint: There's a reason the site is called 100 WORDS.

Any reader contribution that is not exactly 100 words will be disqualified when it comes to choosing the reader story of the day.

Also, we may point our fingers at you and laugh.

Posted by: michele at July 11, 2005 6:11 AM · Permalink

The flight was cold and dark. I was pantsless.

My jug of water had blown open in the thin atmosphere, soaking me with what became a patina of ice. But now it had warmed up: we were descending. The pilot lowered the wheels. I rolled aside to dodge the mechanism that had caught my pants on takeoff.

As the doors opened I looked down to see the ground. We were flying over a neighborhood. I clung fiercely to the strap wrapped around a strut inside the wheel well.

I was now an American. And they said it couldn’t be done!

Posted by: Kevin at July 11, 2005 6:47 AM · Permalink

“I got a degree in Meteorology for THIS!?”
“You’re doing great,” says Barry in my earpiece.
“I am standing out in the open in gale force winds, in driving rain, holding a microphone…”
“Looking good. 10 seconds to your hit.”
“I look like a freaking metal patient.”
“Where’s your raincoat?”
“IT BLEW OFF, BARRY! OWW! Sunnuva-”
“What?”
“My pants. Flying branch snagged my pants and ripped them off.”
“No problem. We’ll take a medium shot. 5 seconds!”
“I’m not wearing underwear, Barry.”
“Ewww. Okay, tight shot. You’re live!”
“I’m Chase Wethers, reporting idiot for the Moron Channel!”
“KILL HIS FEED!”

Posted by: Captain Wrath at July 11, 2005 7:13 AM · Permalink

My hair is soaked with sweat and I can feel it roll down my back and between my breasts. I’m nearly naked but, shit, I lost all sense of modesty months ago. I hit The Wall about 30 minutes ago, my lungs heave, my thighs quiver with exhaustion and my focus has become so narrow …

The finish is closer, I know it and …

Did I scream? I think I screamed.

“Honey! You did it!”

I look up at my husband’s smiling face, tears streaming down his cheeks. Then I look down at my tiny new daughter resting on my chest.

Posted by: Darleen at July 11, 2005 7:30 AM · Permalink

I’m, like, standing there holding a No War For Oil sign and minding my own business. Well, maybe I threw a couple of rocks. Everybody was doing it, man.

Anyway. You remember Mandy? Dude! She’s cute. I really dig that pit hair, man. Man, I should have been born a Frenchman. So Mandy’s like, “I could really use some water.” Cause its like 100 degrees standing on that sidewalk, man.

Then out of nowhere, they turn the fire hoses on us. The water rips the poncho right off of me! Rips off Mandy’s shirt, too! Dude! She has great tits!

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 11, 2005 9:40 AM · Permalink

Being caught in flagrante delecto with the Kaiser's wife by the Kaiser himself would have certainly put a sharp end to my career, both as an officer and (modesty having failed to stop my tongue on any occasion) as one of the great lovers of the civilized world. As a gentleman there was no question of withdrawing with the job half-done, so I brought things to a quick but mutually satisfying conclusion, after which had just enough time to collect my clothes but not to don even the undergarments before catapaulting myself through the window and into the lake below.

Posted by: Jeff R. at July 11, 2005 9:44 AM · Permalink

Stationed in Germany for two years, I had heard of the saunas where the natives commiserate au natural and co-ed. Still, I never “sacked up” as it were to check it out. I didn’t know all the details. Do you just parade around, or do you wrap a towel around you? I didn’t want to risk embarrassing myself— walk in buck while everyone else has a robe on. Then, there was always the “doomsday” scenario: the little Tanker might decide to stand at attention on his own. Until I met Julia— blond-haired, milky-skinned, and pink-nippled— who was my tour guide.

Posted by: Tanker J.D. at July 11, 2005 10:15 AM · Permalink

John laid down punishments that would be criminal on the street. In here, they earn him 200 bucks, for a win, 100 bucks and free stitches for a defeat. Win or lose, at least he knows he’s alive. He’s an artist, painting the canvas with another man's blood. Sometimes he’s art, painted to the canvas in his own. Tonight he’s art. The opponent didn't look that big. Mean, yes. Ornery, sure. But John had four inches and 30 pounds on him. 23 and a half minutes later, sonofabitch got taller and taller as the canvas got bigger and bigger. Splat.

Posted by: Tom at July 11, 2005 10:31 AM · Permalink

We caught the wild bus ride into Pohang, hopped off at the Marine House, dropped off our filthy boots to be shined up, changed into civvies in the locker room, chowed down on a hot plate of Bulgogi while slugging down a few cold Orions. Afterwards, we strolled down the street to the bathhouse, paid the lady, took off our shoes and slipped on some flip flops. Naked, we soaped and scrubbed down, plunged into the icy pool first, then immersed into the fiery hot pool, and finally laid our worries to rest for several hours in the lukewarm pool.

Posted by: K. Brown at July 11, 2005 11:54 AM · Permalink

Nightmare.

Gotta be. This darkness is my room. That's my clock glowing green.

But I feel no comfort. My heart is too loud in my ears, I'm slick with sweat that plasters my hair to my skull, my nightgown twisted and bunched up under my arms.

A scream tries to escape from my throat...

Stop it!

If I can just untangle my legs from the sheets ...

Whathefu ....?!

The closet door is open?

I'm yanked off the bed and realize it's not sheets paralyzing my legs and I claw at the carpet as I'm dragged into the black under the bed.

Posted by: Darleen at July 11, 2005 12:21 PM · Permalink

He sits on the bed and pushes the sweat-soaked hair off her forehead.

"Don't I take care of you, chica?"

She rolls away. He ignores the bruises on her back, "Don't be like that! It makes me sad."

She turns back, eyes dark with despair. "How can you ... I mean after ..."

"Oh, chica! That puta - he mean nothing to you and me!"

He pockets the crumpled twenties left on the motel nightstand, then watches with satisfaction as her eyes grow hungry at the sight of the glass pipe he holds out to her.

"See? Don't I take care of you?"

Posted by: Darleen at July 11, 2005 12:23 PM · Permalink

July 18, 1969.

The guys had rented the Lawrence Cottage for the evening. Said it was the least they could do for me and the other five “Boiler Room Girls” for cleaning up so quickly after the assassination.

In retrospect, maybe accepting a ride home from a man I barely knew hadn’t been such a good idea. It certainly made sense at the time, though. After all, I was drunk. And he was sooo cute. Not to mention a fabulous kisser.

I hope Teddy comes back with some help soon. I don’t how much longer I can hold my breath…

Posted by: copygodd at July 11, 2005 12:37 PM · Permalink

Oh no, not again...

The rabbit had just been born. It wasn't sure, but it had the vague feeling its name was Agrajag. He had not yet been cleaned off from birth when he stuck his head out of the hole above. The sun warmed his wet body, which was still sticky and only partially covered in fur. The tired bunny did not notice the man approach, silently creeping and wielding a crude tool made of flint. Agrajag noticed a shadow cast over him, and glanced up just in time to shout, "Arthur!..." before the flint stone split him open.

Posted by: shannon at July 11, 2005 12:49 PM · Permalink

The brutal, unforgiving Philippine sun beats down on our bare backs and shoulders, burning anew the lash marks we received during the last few weeks. But we dare not put our shirts back on for fear of getting heat exhaustion in the damp, heavy air. And still we march.

Johnson and one of the other boys asked for water. Some other guys just fell down. They were all shot in the face and left where they died. And still we march.

They say we’re going to a place called Bataan. I hope we get there soon. And still we march.

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at July 11, 2005 1:16 PM · Permalink

yeah - I told them to call me 'Ishmael', but that wasn't my given name. My real name is "Baxter" but there was no way, I thought, that a whaling ship captain would hire on a guy named 'Baxter'.

So, I lied about my name and here I am, sun-drenched, soaked in sea water, and screwed. Royally, exquisitely, cetaceanly screwed.

I took one right up the old blowhole. With pants on. But my clothes are mostly gone by now.

The rest of the crew, well, they're the lucky ones. Resting in peace, they are.

Note to self: Next time it's 'Baxter'.

Posted by: BumperStickerist at July 11, 2005 1:53 PM · Permalink

Today is my one bright, shining moment. The day I wait for year round. The day that makes all the abuse and scorn worth it.

My time approaches. I take off my shirt, and drag myself up onto the diving board. I look at the crowd gathered around the pool, waiting to see me perform. The sun beats down on my back as I lumber forward and bounce on the end of the board.

"Belly flop!" they shout as I spread my arms and legs. I hit the pool with an audible slam as the water geysers into the air.

Posted by: Gahrie at July 11, 2005 2:19 PM · Permalink

The vacation wasn’t my idea. I put my foot down and told her we weren’t leaving the city. Life was different in out the country; the folks there just didn’t accept people like her and me. But she pouted with those cute lips of hers and got her way as usual. Said it would be fun, times had changed.

One misread stare across a greasy spoon diner later and I’m straining against the ropes waiting for her to float back up from the water. The fire at my feet’s evaporating the water on my skin.

Not everyone’s accepting of witches.

Posted by: TheMightyEmu at July 11, 2005 3:01 PM · Permalink

What the heck were they thinking? “Worlds most amazing coaster” they said. “Nobody's ever ridden twice!”, they said.

No freakin' wonder.

I guess we should have been suspicious when there was always a big line to get in, but no corresponding line to exit. But, we were excited. There's just something about that sign:

“Nobody's ever ridden twice!”

We'd show them. We'd ride it three times, dammit! There's not a coaster made we can't handle, and this one won't be an exception.

It all started out rather blandly. Yeah, go high; steep, fast drop, then the splash...

Boiling oil.

Shit.

Posted by: JamesF at July 11, 2005 3:32 PM · Permalink

My foot slipped on the gravel.

“Ow! Dammit! Fucking piece of crap!”

I caught the bike before it fell over, and resumed pushing it. My legs hurt from the exertion and from the road rash. Most of the legs of my jeans had been torn away when I had hit the asphalt. Denim protects you for maybe a second or two, no longer. I knew that, and ignored it anyway. My shirt was soaked with sweat, but was not torn. It had been protected by my leather jacket.

As I pushed my bent bike along, I mentally purchased new leathers.

Posted by: david at July 11, 2005 7:27 PM · Permalink

I've been standing on this platform for 5 hours.
Three o'clock sun is beating down damned hard.
Tide's coming in, water's rising fast.
Last wave almost knocked me off.
Took out Stacey though. Game of chicken 'tween me and Ned now.

I'm going to WIN this challenge.
Nothing but rice for six days, and the winner gets a seafood feast!

Got a cantaloupe when I lost the buff an hour ago.
Melon for melons, Jeff said.

Party in Moncton. Fish. Beer.
It's not Tahiti, but it could be worse.

At least they're filming "Survivor: Bay of Fundy" in the summer.

Posted by: Randy Shane at July 11, 2005 9:29 PM · Permalink

“God, what happened to you?” Gonzolo said as he opened the screen door. “Get in here quick, you look like a nekkid jaybird,for Christ’s sakes. Is that sunburn, lordy, you are a mess!”

The door squeaked on it’s rusty hinges as he let me in. “I decided to take the tube down the creek,” I said.

“You what? He put his hands on his hips, “didn’t I say to stay away from there?”

“Yeah…”

“When are you going to listen to me, you’re damned lucky you didn’t get killed! Come here…”

I smelled his sundried t-shirt as he kissed me.

Posted by: Amalie at July 12, 2005 2:59 PM · Permalink