This is a page for some of my Friday Fictioneers offerings – 100 word stories based on a photo prompt. Click on the picture to go to the original post. For more info on Friday Fictioneers click here.
The Little Black Dress
Matilda unwrapped the wax doll carefully. She was impressed, it looked just like her. She tested it with a pin, digging the spike into its side. The searing pain that pierced her kidneys was proof enough. It worked.
Matilda warmed the doll on the radiator then set to work. First she smoothed the stomach to washboard flat, then she cinched the waist. Finally, using the wax she’d taken from the waist, she added a little definition to the bust.
Then she slithered into the tiny black dress she’d chosen for the party. A perfect fit – thanks to the Voodoo Diet.
The Wind In The Woods
‘Freeze everybody! Someone’s coming!’ They all held their positions as a lone rambler approached.
Willow’s weekly Yoga For Trees classes were a huge success (she was even thinking about branching out), but they were going to have to find a more secluded spot. The constant human interruptions were an irritation.
A long, low, mournful creak broke the silence, followed by the pungent smell of rotting leaves and bark mulch. The rambler held her nose and hurried on her way.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Cherry said, her pink blossom darkening a couple of shades, ‘I just couldn’t hold it in any longer.’
Spring Cleaning in Santa Zita
The townsfolk of Santa Zita were a bunch of lazy bastards who couldn’t be arsed to maintain the exteriors of their homes. Instead, once a year, the mayor selected a handful of men to accompany him on a pilgrimage to the highest mountain in the land, to pray to the Great Cleaning Lady In The Sky.
‘Oh Majestic Domestic,’ they implored, poetically. ‘Grace us with the lustre of your giant feather duster!’
‘And wear that French Maid outfit again!’ the mayor squeaked, barely containing his excitement.
And the men sat on the mountain, eyes to the skies, and waited.
The Dog and The Tree (Translated from the original by EL Appleby)
Tree was mostly happy with his lot, he had plenty of sun and his dear friend, Stream, flowed beneath his roots. If it wasn’t for that damned dog, everything would be perfect.
‘Woof!’  said Dog, as he cocked his leg and pissed all over Tree’s knobbly trunk, ‘Woof-woofy-woof-woof!’ 
Tree had an idea, he whispered it to Stream, ‘Rustley-rustle-rustle?’ 
And Stream replied ‘Whoosh-trickly-whoosh-whoosh-wooshy-wooshy-woo.’ 
The next day, Dog came bounding along and lifted his leg, ‘Woof! Woof-woofy-woof-woof!’
Stream, who’d been holding his breath for a good hour, aimed a burst of icy water at Dog’s privates.
‘Yelp!’  said Dog.
‘Rustle-rrrustle-rustle!’  giggled Tree.
(100 words – translations below for those who don’t speak Doggish, Treese or Streamese)
 Love ya, Tree, I really really love ya!
 Hey, Stream, I’ve got a plan to sort that damned dog out once and for all, you in?
 Fuck me, that’s cold!
 Best. Fun. Ever.
If you liked this, you’ll love the video one of my fellow Friday Fictioneers created for it!
I Love It When You Do That Thing
Bernie was strumming away on his mandolin-lute thingy.
‘When I play my mandolin-lute thingy,’ he said. ‘It’s like all my troubles just melt away, know what I mean?’
Luke nodded, plucking at the strings of his guitar. ‘Totally. When I play, it’s like I’m transported to foreign lands, with sandy beaches and a warm Mediterranean breeze.’
The barmaid leant over the table. ‘Boys,’ she said, in a sultry voice. ‘When you play, it’s like all my dreams come true.’
‘Sure, because everyone else leaves double-quick and I get to go home early. Now drink up and bugger off.’
As ditsy Penelope La Croix tumbled through the sky, her mind was all a-dither. Despite the exhilarating speed of her descent, she couldn’t help thinking she’d forgotten something very important.
‘Did I leave the iron on?’ she pondered, as she sped through the blanket of cloud. ‘Or did I forget to pay this month’s rent?’
‘Did I feed the cat?’ she worried as she hit three thousand feet. But it wasn’t that.
‘Wait, I remember! It was something the sky-diving instructor said…’
Penelope put her hands to her waist. The ground was approaching fast.
‘I’m supposed to pull the –
“Good Morning. Have You Used Pear’s Soap?”
Arnold had seen The Fly enough times to recognise the teleportation portals when he saw them. He’d never understood, watching the film, why nobody had tried experimenting with the molecule-melding properties of the technology…
Grandpa’s aversion to baths was legendary. Arnold ushered him into Portal One and handed him a bar of Pear’s. When Grandpa emerged from Portal Two, he certainly smelled better, having merged seamlessly with the soap.
If only Arnold had spotted the sneaky frog that had hopped inside Portal One as the door closed.
Grandpa’s tongue whipped out, snapping up a passing grasshopper.
‘Ribbett,’ he said, fragrantly.
The Importance Of Being Bob
We all wondered how Bob could be so happy so much of the time. We discussed it in groups, in pairs, and even with our wives.
‘It’s no mystery,’ Bob said, beaming. ‘I’m happy because I take pleasure in the simple things. Like this library chair, for instance. Flip the back down and it turns… into steps!’
Bob laughed and clapped his hands.
‘Chair… Steps!’ Bob laughed and clapped again. ‘Chair… Steps!’ Laugh. Clap.
We backed away, slowly, exchanging looks, ridiculing him. But secretly, deep down, each and every one of us wished we were a little more like Bob.
It’s Pretty – But Is It Art?
As is often the case with Art, opinions were divided at the unveiling of Bob Tambourine’s latest creation.
Bob’s wife, Windsock, said it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and thought he should name it ‘Your Chariot Awaits.’
Aunt Agatha declared it an eyesore, and suggested the title ‘Con-junk-tivitis’, chortling at her own wit.
Aloysius Danbury-Smythe, who had more money than sense and had downed several glasses of Bob’s infamous dandelion wine, slurred something incomprehensible and offered him five hundred quid for ‘the funny metal contraption’.
Bob pocketed the cash without hesitation and named the piece ‘Kerching’.
Maud and the Beer Historian
This is the tale of Maud who adored Dorian, the beer historian. Dor was in awe. They bought a barn full of charm, but the cash Maud had stashed wasn’t enough for all the stuff she desired.
Maud saved for an Aga, while Dorian drank lager. She painted fences, while Dor lost his senses in a barrel of hops.
Maud bored with the barn’s charm over the years, and sampled Dor’s beers, discovering a taste for a barley-based ale. There ends this tale, with Dor and his amour drinking, and the late summer sun sinking behind the white picket fence.
You Can Lead An Author To A Story…
The Author leaned on the fence, watching the Horse. Neither made a noise and the silence was pleasing.
Eventually, the Author spoke.
“Whatcha doin’, horsey?”
The Horse, of course, didn’t reply.
The Author, who was used to writing both sides of a dialogue, carried on without him.
“Jus’ watering my garden.”
“Whatcha doin’ that for, horsey?”
The Author continued in this vein for a while, but soon realised her story was going nowhere, so gave up and went on her way.
The Horse put down his hose and watched her go.
“Silly cow,” he said, and returned to his watering.
A Pint Of The White Stuff
Poor little Solomon Riggs was born with two heads, but his mother loved him just the same.
Mr Riggs was shocked and instantly blamed the radiographer who had failed to spot his son’s additional appendage during his wife’s scans. The radiographer blamed the doctor who was often late to work and always bleary-eyed. The doctor blamed the milkman who never delivered the milk on time, which stopped him from getting his Weetabix.
And the milkman?
He was long gone. As soon as he heard about Solomon’s condition, he skipped town, pulling his cap down tight to hide his second head.
Sex On The Beach
The hypnotherapist asked Martha to think of somewhere she felt comfortable and relaxed. She lay back on the couch, closed her eyes and pictured a tropical paradise, gentle waves lapping at her feet as she breathed in and out. Under the palm trees, semi-naked waiters were serving exotic umbrella-laden cocktails…
‘On the count of three you’ll be wide awake and fully refreshed,’ said the hypnotherapist, invading Martha’s dream. ‘One … two …’
Martha pressed her fingers into her ears and held them there.
‘Waiter, be a darling and bring me a cocktail,’ she said. ‘And make it a large one.’
I smacked the cat once, not hard, just a light tap to remind it not to jump on the table. It was years ago, but the cat hasn’t forgotten.
It’s Mum’s cat. I don’t visit often, birthdays and Christmas mostly, and that’s down to the cat. It’s the way it stares at me, like it’s never going to forget what I did.
This year I found a white hair in my Christmas pud. The cat was watching as I pulled it out from between my teeth. I hope it was Mum’s. The cat’s mostly grey black…
Except around its bum.
5 thoughts on “Tiny Tales (100 words)”
Love these. Put a smile on my face on a hard and heavy day! Thank you.
Thanks – what a lovely comment and so glad to have made you smile. I’ll post more as I write them. 😀
I’m thinking you have a cushty little genre going here…..got enuf for a book? Puts me in mind of the 420 characters of Lou Beach.
Toni (I’m not a Brit but I hope cushty means excellent, I’m sure I read it somewhere… Here maybe?)
Hi Toni. Glad you enjoyed my tiny tales. This is all there is so far, but I’m building them up slowly – there’s another one coming out on Friday. I hadn’t heard of Lou Beach before but just googled 420 characters and it looks right up my street, so thanks!
Cushty means nice and comfortable – you were almost there, though 🙂 Stick around and we’ll make a Brit out of you yet! Thanks for commenting.
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