100 Word Stories: September 14, 2005 Archives

September 14, 2005

Volume 6, Issue 14

Today's theme is a photo.

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Photo from here.

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D: Sins of the Flesh

Every picture tells a story and Dunstan's body was an opus in the making. Born on the fourth of July to a widowed southern belle he had been sent with the final vestiges of the family fortune to study in Paris, France. Falling in with the Romany crowd he quickly garnered a wealth of experience; wooing both the genteel womenfolk and the sordid whores of society's underbelly. Political intrigue and criminal machinations were never far from his daily dealings. Some life stories are written, but beneath the chic double-breasted tailored suits he wore, Dunstan's was carved into his very flesh.

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Michele: ....But Someone's Gotta Do It

I am a Mischief Maker. Each night I meet the others at the gate. At 8:00 the gate opens and we take wing.

The others are bold with their mischief and while murder and mayhem delight the gods, it does not give them the ongoing drama that my deeds provide. I start rumors, whisper conspiracies, lay the groundwork for political upheaval and the toppling of governments. It’s a specialty.

I celebrate each success with a tattoo. When my body is fully inked, I will retire from this and take a job cooking for the gods. Just as rewarding, less competition.

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Ted: Memento

This one? That is the profile from the columbia dollar. The one above is, of course, the seal. The two little ones beside it? My mom and my sister. My left arm? Ah. Well. They don't matter much. No. They. Don't. Matter. Don't push dammit!

You just won't stop, eh. Nosey bastard. Go away. Now.

Now you wanna take a picture. You willing to pay? Really willing to pay? Ok, it's your job after all. Give me a minute. Can you hold that cat for me? Don't want her getting in the picture.

Hmmm. Not bad. Right arm needed something.

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Stacy: Weary Unto Death

The pain in my head grows with each passing day. The physickers say it will eventually have my life. Nothing assuages the ache now...neither the white crystals nor the black tar. Rum still helps me to the sleeplands, but never for very long.

The only thing that makes the pain at all bearable is the needle of the Chinaman. I rather fancy I look like a disreputable sailing man with all this ink on my body, but the respite from pain is more than worth the disfigurement, and a gentlemen never is without shirtsleeves.

It will be over soon enough.