One Hundred Days: A Collection of Shorts

By Michael Woods

On 1st June 2020, partly because of a spate of terrible night’s sleep mixed with being mostly stuck at home due to the COVID-19 pandemic, Michael Woods challenged himself to produce a piece of writing each day, with short bits of fiction in mind. The challenge he set himself was to do this for one hundred days straight. On 8th September, he hit this target. This book is a collection of all of these pieces of writing, which cover the themes of technology, fantasy, friendship, family and much more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Woods
• Release date: Feb 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463028759

Michael Woods

Michael Woods is a science and medical writer whose nationally syndicated newspaper stories and columns have won numerous national awards. He directs a program at the American Chemical Society, the world’s largest scientific society, to inform the public about science. He and his wife, Mary B. Woods, have written almost forty books together. Michael is the writer, and Mary is the researcher.

Book preview

Tinnitus

Midnight Supper

The Lesson

End of the Line

Human Needed

The Rant

Blank

The Interview

Homework

Olaf

The Border

The Screw-Up

Scar

One Hundred and Twenty-Six

The File

Inauguration Day

A New Fan

Sliced

The Answers

Boxed Up

The Game

Damnatio memoriae

A Better You

Moment to Moment

The Terrible Event at 23 Acord Avenue

The Battle

Bitter Bud

The Cup

The Toy

Cracked Open

The Grand Scheme

The Information Centre

Tired Spare

Spare the Screen

Lost Friends

The Distraction

The Discovery and a Lifetime

The Price of Protection

Clever

Straight On

Emptied Out

Set Aside

The Trek

Message Delivered

Late to the Club

The Window Tax

Collection

Free

Bubble Wrapped

The Other Boys

Wall of Leaves

Still Time

Efficient

Michael Woods

The Right Line

Eagle of Paradise

The Slow Down

Same Old Story

Nothing Much

Departure

Night Bus

The Gain Game

A Little Knowledge

The Belief Beef

Click

Looping Chains

The Visit

Screened Off

Sweeter Times

The Turning Tide

Write Away

Questions and Answers

Mind Stunt

The Pherein Accord

Wheels within Wheels

Invincible

The Pilgrimage

Rite of Passage

Just a Minute

The Find

Fade

The Pixel

Logan’s Cat

Deferral

The Red Tree

Young Crow

A Place to Stay

Just Right

Flash

Power

About the Author

Preface

Dear Reader,

First of all, thank you so much for picking up this book in whatever form you have. I hope that if you turn through a few of the pages beyond, you’ll enjoy what you find.

As this long year of 2020 is drawing to a close, and it really has been very long, I’ve decided to finally collect together the pieces of writing I composed for a challenge I set myself earlier this year. All of these bits of writing are on my blog, but as a treat for myself, I decided to also release them in the form of this book.

The challenge was fairly simple: To post one piece of my own writing on my blog each day for one hundred days. I had a few rules, including allowing myself the chance not to have to post a new story each day; even with the idea that I could end up writing a novel. The novel didn’t come to pass, but two short stories did: Sliced, which remains unfinished, and Fade, which was unfinished when I completed the challenge, but which I’ve subsequently brought to an end. For the sake of completeness, I’ve added the extra parts of Fade here. All of the stories follow the chronological order in which I posted them, with the exception of the parts of these two shorts, which align with the dates of the first post.

I started my challenge on 1st June 2020, partly because of my terrible sleep and as I was mostly stuck at home due to the COVID-19 pandemic. I set my target at one hundred posts as it seemed to me like a big enough number, one that was clearly out of my reach. I’ve begun other blogs before and they usually petered out after the first few posts.

During the course of these 100 days, some moments and developments were good, others terrible. All of them shaped my writing in different ways. The coronavirus continued to spread around the globe; I left my job after planning to do so for some time, something delayed partly by the virus; Liverpool, the team I’ve supported for all my life, finally secured their first Premier League title; my young son seemed to absorb a surprising amount of words, leaving me more than a little pleased.

However, the moment that left the greatest impression on me during this time was that of the truly tragic death of an old friend, Seb Patrick. He died at the young age of 37 of a sudden heart attack. Seb left behind his wife and young daughter. His family and wider circle of friends were obviously shocked and devastated by the news, me included. He was a fellow Liverpool fan, web editor and social media manager for my childhood favourite Sci-Fi sitcom of Red Dwarf, podcaster, knowledgeable and engaging writer on everything from films to football, and much more. Despite going to college together and playing football with each other in the years that followed, I hadn’t seen him in quite a few years, partly as we’d come to live in two different countries. Nevertheless, I often looked up to him as someone who had already forged ahead in writing his own radio science-fiction piece, following his passions and much more.

While not being in touch with Seb as the years passed by, I occasionally checked in on his site or elsewhere to see what he was up to. As another friend of mine said, you just expect people to keep on being there. But this simply isn’t true as Seb’s death shows. If you’re reading this and you have someone you’d like to get in touch with, why not? If this year has given us the opportunity to do anything, perhaps it is a moment to do just this.

Finally, I also found significant support to continue writing by happening to find the writing community on Twitter. What a pleasant surprise, and I believe that if it wasn’t for the extra push from people such a SJ Covey, I wouldn’t have completed the challenge.

Let’s bring this preface to a close. I’d like to thank my partner Nora for being so patient with me, particularly as I struggled during the last few posts with a sleeping pattern spiralling out of control and the reward two writing sprained wrists. What was I thinking? Believing that I could post a new piece of writing each day for one hundred days straight? When I started, I didn’t think it’d last a week. The general goal of so many days was just a wish. However, this time I managed to stick to it and, on 8th September, I hit my target of one hundred. I’m still rather surprised about this, but here we are.

Michael

The Slip

Slowly, slowly, Johnny teased Adam’s wallet from its resting place in the boy’s pocket. Maybe calling the Velcro sealed pouch a wallet was a bit much and Johnny didn’t really care about what was inside. He knew that his classroom neighbour would possibly have a few pounds in change. Maybe even a fiver. More was surely out of the question. Dinner money must have been all he had. But it didn’t matter.

Johnny wasn’t about to steal this money. He had another plan to carry out.

As the wallet slipped from Adam’s pocket, the thing almost escaped from the tender grip of Johnny’s fingers. Surely Adam would notice now. But no, he kept on with the Maths test they’d all been assigned.

With the wallet firmly in his grasp, Johnny stopped leaning back on his chair. He glanced over the answers he’d filled in the spaces on the page before him. Not very difficult, he thought. Plenty of time for a few other things.

The wallet was now in Johnny’s hands under the table. He glanced around at the desks nearby. Had anyone seen him? The two boys were sitting on the back row. The threat only came from the front or to the side. As he fingered the fur of the Velcro, he noticed that Jenny O’Malley possibly had her head tilted in his direction. Had she seen something? She looked away.

With great care not to cause the Velcro to let out a tell-tale crack, Johnny moved forward to rest his head on his desk. He let his arm drop with the wallet in his grasp. He extended his little finger. There it was, Anthony’s bag. All in one smooth motion, or so it seemed to Johnny, his fingers slipped the wallet in the bag of Johnny’s other neighbour.

He leant back; his work done. Now he just had to wait.

Under

Luis faded back in.

He was still here under the dust and rubble and concrete. He knew his phone was already dead. He still had his firm grip on his backpack, with his trusty two litre bottle of Coke inside. He’d ripped the label off the bottle at the beginning of term and since refilled the thing countless times with water. He was glad he’d only had a few quick drinks from the thing that morning.

He didn’t have a full picture of what had happened. His only plan had been to return John Rawls’ A Theory of Justice to the university library. The book was for his introduction to political thought class, one he was probably going to fail. And now the essay he had almost finished for the course was possibly going to contribute to his early death. He hated that book. A friend had recommended it as an easy assignment target. Maybe he’d been pranked. For Luis, it twisted and turned. He could never find the end or beginning to start picking at the thing, like an annoying roll of tape, just when you need to keep something together.

Where was he?

It was pitch black. Luis faded back in.

There was enough space for Luis to bring the Coke bottle to his lips, though the darkness and closeness of the space contributed to his spilling some precious water.

Crap!

With care, Luis managed to get the lid back on the bottle to prevent another accidental spillage. As he’d done some time before, he tried to move his left leg. A jolt of pain told him he was an idiot. He felt around the contours of the space he was in. An arm’s length above, a little more on his right, much less on his left. Enough above his head to make him think his survival wasn’t a miracle.

The earthquake. There hadn’t been that many people around him when it happened, had there? He couldn’t even quite remember where in the library he’d been when it had happened. He’d called out at first, but nobody responded. No surprise. The sound was close. He doubted anything would escape.

Was there enough oxygen?

Luis gasped for air.

He couldn’t move or see. Then he remembered.

He reached around for his bottle and knocked the thing over. He lurched to save it, pulling on his trapped leg. As he muffled his pain, he heard the tell-tail sound of an empty plastic bottle.

What did it really matter anyway. Luis looked at his life, even if he didn’t really want to. What else was he going to do? He was twenty-one and not enjoying things too much, even before the quake. He had few friends, and they were mainly people he’d just been in the vicinity of over the course of things. He’d even been drifting away from most of the people he knew from back home. No real girlfriend. No clear idea of the future. Just plodding through, like most people, he guessed. He liked football, but even that might be out for him if his leg was too bad. Was it worth it? He thought of his mother. How typical. But what else? At least if he went here, then it wasn’t really his fault. He was doing what she’d wanted by going to university in the first place. Another point against her.

Luis was thirsty. He managed to find his bag, but all the food and water was gone.

Why was he bothering. He didn’t matter much to anyone. No, he wouldn’t struggle. What was that film? He didn’t have anything to cut himself free. Maybe there was a crawl space, who knew. He touched his leg again.

Agony.

Just let it sink in. He thought. Don’t fight it. What’s the point?

Black again. Hungry and thirsty.

Why’s he still here, Luis asked himself.

He managed a few thoughts. He wouldn’t fight. He recalled he’d decided he wouldn’t even call out if he heard anything. Just give in. Give in. Other people.

Luis came back. He felt a little more lucid than he had for some time. Something had disturbed him. He knew he’d been confused for a while, but now he knew there was no water or food. Also, that moving too much would be a bad idea.

Then there it was. The thing that had brought him to. Sounded like scratching.

Things moved very quickly. He screamed at the top of his lungs. With all his might. Then light. The first light.

Thank you, he somehow managed. Thank you.

His leg was freed without too much effort at all. It was just trapped, not even too badly injured. As he emerged from the rubble, Luis managed to make out the familiar surrounds around the remains of his student accommodation building. While being taken down in a stretcher to an ambulance, he remembered the Rawls book and told one of the emergency responders that he had to get it back to the library. They responded by telling him he would be fine. He’d been down there for almost ten hours.

Back of the Van

Jeb slung the amp in the van.

What you doing, you prick, squawked Alan.

Oh god! Alan, just give it a rest, will you. I’m working. What are you doing?

I’m trying to sort out tomorrow. We need to be in Hull and with working equipment.

With working equipment, mimicked Jeb in Alan’s RP.

Get a grip, you two. Martha, Alan’s girlfriend added with a smile while filching a cigarette from Jeb’s jeans.

Jeb mumbled that he wished she’d just buy her own, but he pushed it down. She acknowledged nothing. This had all been the same since they picked up Martha in Blackpool. Tony, their drummer, would always disappear after the gig, reappearing dead drunk in miraculous fashion just before they had to leave. Jeb would tidy everything away while Alan would fiddle with paper, planning their tour and album, before disappearing into the van with Martha for the rest of the night. Jeb would have to find his own way again, he guessed.

Just a month before Blackpool, they’d had the meeting with Jack Madson from a decent indie record company. He said they were worth the effort and would sign them up, without a doubt, after the tour. They had most of an album already, but just needed a couple more. Plus something, even if it’s terrible, that’ll get you in the charts, if possible, Jack had suggested.

Alan and Jeb had done what they always did since they’d clicked during the first year of uni. They threw things together until something they liked emerged. Neither of them knew what the process was except that they relaxed in each other’s company enough to produce stuff that they both sometimes still enjoyed the next day. In fact, they’d enjoyed quite a few of the songs, night after night, all around the country, which was something.

That was, until Blackpool.

Since then they’d had one moment at a dive in Lincoln, after a terrible gig. They’d produced something Tony thought was their best yet. It’d gone down at the next gigs like nothing before. But Jeb hated the song. He thought it was great, but every time they played it, all he could think of was how he hated Martha and Alan. Maybe that’s why it was working.

Since that song, everything had been an argument. Tony was fine. But everything Alan did was wrong. Alan complained about everything to Jeb.

Jeb heard the slam of the van’s doors. Martha’s muted giggles tore through Jeb’s nerves. Jeb looked around the car park. It was dark, but not too late.

What the hell you doing! screamed Martha as Jeb wrenched the front door handle.

I’m out, he shouted. I’m out. Go screw each other, as you like.

Without looking back, Jeb marched toward one of the little alleys off the car park.

Where you going? called Alan after him. His bandmate had managed to get out, but Jeb didn’t look back.

Thanks for the cigs, added Martha.

Jeb made it to the train station without really knowing how he’d arrived. He was still in a rage. He thought he’d managed to reach some sort of calm, then followed this up by kicking a bin, hurting his foot more than the bin in the process.

I’m out, he screamed.

Keep it yerself, ya fanny, replied someone.

I’m out, Jeb muttered.

A train arrived and Jeb got on. He had none of his things, but he was going to take himself home. I’ll be someone else, he thought, lighter now he realised he was free.

The Steal

Martha’s plate was empty again. She looked around her little cottage. There was nothing to eat. There was the forest just down below her village, but she knew nothing of what really grew there. And then there was the witch.

The witch was plump, though. Perhaps she could help Martha.

Martha journeyed deep into the forest, where she knew the witch lived. With almost no energy left in her, Martha reached the witch’s gate.

My dear! You’re skin and bone. Here, come in, come in!

Within the witch’s house, Martha sat down before a table swollen with foods, much of which she had not only never seen but also would struggle to describe. Here and there was an orange, and apple, but the majority was beyond her imagination.

Eat your fill, said the witch. Please. There’s always enough for me.

Martha gorged herself as the witch looked on with a smile, filled with genuine gratification. Eventually, Martha could eat no more. She’d eaten so quickly she couldn’t even say if the food had been delicious or disgusting. But she was full and, at that time, that was everything.

Thank you, exclaimed Martha, tired from her first full belly in weeks. What do I owe you? I’ve heard tales told of terrible things about you, though I don’t like to tell you this. I don’t care much for such things. I could do a little work. Please, be merciful. I’m in your debt.

Oh, pay those rumours no mind. You owe me nothing. I’m just grateful I could help you.

A little confused, Martha thanked the witch again.

Thank you. I suppose I better be on my way.

Please just drop by whenever you’re nearby.

Martha returned to the old woods that surrounded the Witch’s home. With the energy provided by what she’d eaten, Martha managed to reach her home much quicker than the journey away. But once she was again within her own walls, familiar pangs of hunger reappeared. Martha looked around her cottage again, but there was obviously still nothing to eat.

She could visit the witch again. But what would happen this time, she did not want to know. The journey to the witch’s house had been such a long way. Though she’d been full for a time, she felt as if she’d solved nothing.

Birthday Cake

The clock was ticking. His coffee was cooling down nicely. A neat slice of chocolate cake sat on Nancy’s favourite plate, upon which was printed a now slightly faded picture of people ice skating in a New York park.

Manfred was sixty-four. It was his birthday and the chocolate cake would be his gift to himself. Without a thought, he drummed his fingers on the little table he had put up in the kitchen to enjoy his meals. Before he did it again, he stopped himself, knowing that Nancy would have told him off for doing so. He smiled.

After his first sip of coffee, he looked down to the road outside, two floors below. It was a dreary day. Typical of November. But even if it rained, he would still go for his daily walk around to see the aviary in the nearby park. He enjoyed seeing the birds, hearing their chit chat.

In three days’ time, Manfred would mark another anniversary, that of Nancy’s passing. He would visit the spot he had picked for her ashes. It had been five years since she had gone. He would feel the ache until he went too. But at least the send-off had been one she would have enjoyed. He had paid a little for her ashes to be placed in a firework, which had been fired off over a spot they both enjoyed, a beach nearby. A few friends had joined him at the launch, as did Nancy’s cousin, Jennifer, the extent of Nancy’s known living family. Such an odd thing to do, he told himself. But everyone seemed to think it right for Nancy, going out with a bang. Manfred chuckled.

He dipped his fork into the chocolate icing. A thing to be savoured. He supposed he would call his younger brother Charlie later. Neither of them had children, so it didn’t seem to be worth a visit. Charlie hadn’t even settled down and their disagreement over Mum’s will was still ongoing. It wasn’t really that anyway. Just a thousand little things that had accumulated before, released after they needed to work together as adults to deal with Mum. Sixteen years had gone by. Birthday calls were pretty much all they had now.

Perhaps this year he would try and move things along a little. Manfred finished his cake.

Tinnitus

When I listen on a quiet day, I no longer have the pleasure of that empty aural space I used to know only a few years ago.

Now, particularly on my right, there is always a sound. A constant nuisance that follows me wherever I go. It’s not so terrible. Generally, there’s no real pain. Not what you’d consider physical pain.

But it’s always there. Like a pin being pressed into the skin on the back of your hand, twice a second, all day, every day, maybe until the end. You’d think you’d grow used to it, but even if it does die down, it’ll remind you on occasion that it’s still there and that it’s not going away.

Or, just as bad, you’ll notice one instant in a while that it’s no longer so bad. A temptation will then emerge to listen.

Don’t, you’ll tell yourself. But it’s near impossible to do anything to stop it. It’s too late. There it is. Still there. As present as it ever was before.

This makes me wonder what control I really have over my own body, my own self. The noise is just in my head anyway. Making things more miserable. Making me grumpier, more tired, less patient.

Part of me still hopes for the day when the sound will be gone. I won’t miss it. But deep down, I doubt I’ll ever again know the pleasure of a silent room when things are moving slow.

Midnight Supper

Archie ate his first chip of what he’d come to consider his ceremonial meal for such nights. But this night was different to the ones before. It had turned out slightly better. He hadn’t thought about it much, but he supposed he’d now been to this chip shop half a dozen times in the last two months. He didn’t expect that the people behind the counter would have come to recognise him, but it turned out they had.

Megan, the teenage girl who almost always seemed to be working these nights, had asked him his name the time before last. Like the little prince, she’d said. Archie wasn’t a big a fan of this connection of his, mainly as a number of boys teased him about it at school. Or they used to. But he could forgive Megan a lot. She not only remembered him, he liked her dyed red hair.

Archie knew he stood out. So he hadn’t been that surprised that Megan had recalled his name. He was the only boy of twelve that he had seen ordering a burger meal at one in the morning in the shop. Well, between twelve and two, the times he was usually there. But he didn’t realise he stood out so much that the staff would ask him to eat in the back of the shop.

Now he was happily munching away in the kitchenette that was just behind the shop. Paul, the middle-aged guy that Archie assumed owned the place, though in reality he didn’t, had setup his phone so that Archie could watch something. He picked what had been his brother’s favourite, as always, Star Wars Rebels. He liked the show enough.

Archie didn’t really care that Megan and Paul had taken pity on him. He’d received so much of it in recent times that it didn’t even really seem like something that out of the ordinary anymore. Also, winter