100 Word Stories: September 26, 2006 Archives

September 26, 2006

9.26.06

Tell us a story that went on in this place.

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David: Yawp

"Is this how it ends, blindfolded, hanging on a hook?" said the condemned man.

The jailor replied, "You're not the first."

"That's the thing. I'm just another victim of the regime. I lived, I’ll die, and no one will ever know I existed."

"You'll die anyway. Does someone remembering matter?"

"Yes!" the condemned man cried, and laughed. "No, I suppose not.”

The cell clanged open. Two troopers lifted him off the hook. "What is your name?" the jailor asked.

"Kevin," Kevin replied before they dragged him away.

The jailor took out a marker and wrote his memory on the wall.

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Jim: Taking the Blame

Every day is the same. Up at eight for a greasy breakfast, watch television, a bland lunch at noon, watch television, dinner slop at six, and then television until bedtime.

They give me my medications with each meal and I usually take them.

Yet the orderlies think I’m some sort of troublemaker.

I don’t know why they think it was me who dyed all of their precious white coats such a startling shade of pink or who put all of those pigeons in the staff lunchroom.

And I’m certainly not the one who left those magic markers in the coatroom.

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Michele: Extrication

He pushed her against the bathroom wall. The cold tile against her back startled her and she let out a gasp that he pretended was excitement. He leaned in harder and moved his hand under her shirt.

She was too drunk to fight him off. Nausea fought with fear in her stomach. Too drunk. Her body wanted to slide down the wall until she reached the floor. His weight held her up. Pinned.

He pushed his tongue past her lips. She tasted cigarettes and gin. The nausea/fear fight was over. He gagged, moved off her.

She walked.

Timing is everything.

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Stacy: The Bargain

Mia darted into the cloakroom and slammed the lock home. She stood, panting for breath, trying to comprehend why one of Anton's assassins was at the bar, looking for her. She hadn't done anything...lately. But he'd totally deserved it.

Her eyes roamed around the graffitti-scrawled room, looking for an escape, a shotgun, anything. Her eyes lit on words written in elegant copperplate, out of place as a fluffy bunny.

"Problems? Call 555-2365 to make them disappear. Terms reasonable."

The door shuddered behind her as a booted foot slammed against it. Shaking, she took out her cell phone and dialed.

Ted: This is the Place

"Children, this is where it all started."

The assembled eight year olds couldn't reconcile the scene before them: a scribbled wall in a squalid room, protected by the very latest in bombproof energy fields and temporal shields. How could the greatest spiritual leader of the ages have lived in this shithole?

"This is where Saint Ted recieved his Epiphany, face down, drunk, and puking blood. How could He have recieved insight in any place not this horrid?"

The kids decided that maybe St. Ted was just a drunken asshole, and joined the revolution. Many years later, they destroyed the shrine.

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