In our Tuesday Challenge our members had to write a story in just 100 words that included the word 'kerfuffle' - according to the Oxford dictionary, a Celtic-derived word which means "a commotion or fuss, especially one caused by conflicting views."
Are you ready for some imaginative 100 word short stories?
Here we go!
"It was a bit of a kerfuffle you know? Fists flying everywhere and I'm sure I saw someone sling a shoe. Hit a guy in the head mid speech. Aye it was a grand laugh and no mistake."
Gerry was right, it'd been a real riot. He'd been attending riots as a public scribe for the past five years, but stopped participating as a fighting man since the broken jaw Weekender in Shire End.
This however was to be his last riot as the shoe matched his size and he was arrested fourteen hours after I had spoken to him.
by Tom Mullen
Vengar knew that something was going on, the guards were all rushing to the palace. "What the kerfuffle is going on? He asked a guard he was no running with. "Has the word not been passed to you Ven? The palace is under attack by an assassin, he's cornered and we are to reinforce where needed". Great, thought Vengar as they hurried to the scene, just what I need after a long shift.
"Verania's mercy!!!!" cried a voice, Vengar looked and there was the assassin, charging toward them murder in his eyes. Vengar drew his sword, and saluted this person.
by Peter Hutchinson
The last sample had been contaminated. Honestly, all the way out here and they’d managed to mass spec a human hair. She was going to kick Dave’s ass when he came back off rotation. The first tests had caused a kerfuffle with the profs back home: ‘utterly unprecedented.’ Of course it was – it was an alien fucking planet; the similarities, however, were far more interesting.
A tremor shook the bench, rattling samples and sending a Falcon tube rolling onto the floor. Jillian saved her work, shut off the centrifuge and held her breath until it passed. Now, THAT was new.
by Annabel Campbell
The last rays disappeared below the horizon as the fire burned low.
He stoked the embers with a wizened billet of driftwood, and tossed it on.
The sparks flew, blue and lavender.
Fitting he thought; the same colours, of the sun in its dying, once drenched the surface of the distant ocean of his youth.
He knew they all considered his fire-pit an eccentricity; the old man who tinkered with ancient artefacts.
He relished the kerfuffle it required; he had made it with these hands.
The flicking light danced across ink stains and old scars.
Wounds of learning and joy.
by Ruairi de Barra
Twitter: @r_debarra, @never_ink @series_storm
Look out for more of our Tuesday Challenges! We've got lots more ideas to challenge our members' creativity!! If you're a writer and want to join in the fun, contact us via our submission page or request to join our Facebook group.