Welcome to the Ninety-Fourth Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was selected by Tom of Footnote.

It's Pen and Ink

The excellent theme music is by Guy David

VOTING

Which stories were the best from Weekly Challenge #94Laieanna from Hodgepodge PointTom from Footnote PodcastStorm Thunders from The Eye of the StormGuy David from Guy David dot comTerry the Old CootHouston Keys from Tater Tots For The MassesElisson from blog d'ElissonCaleb from Black Tie Martini Club OddcastPlanet Z  Free polls from Pollhost.com

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

LAIEANNA

The shopkeeper pulled a pen and inkwell from under the glass counter. "Take this and use your favorite pad of paper to draw your dreams." The shopkeeper packed up the merchandise and handed it over to Fiona. "Just remember the potency wears off within hours. Go home and imagine."

Fiona did just that, only to return to the shop minutes before
closing. The shopkeeper looked up at her strange new companion and
smiled. "How did it go?"

"Huge problem!" Fiona huffed, "He's perfect except he's purple! It
won't wash off."

"That's what you get for drawing on frilly colored paper."

TOM

The nuns said the uses of a ball point would ruin my penmanship that vessel sailed long before the world was burred in BICS. The ball of ADD Dyslexic contrails which is my brain never got the hang of laying pen to paper. I was never patient enough to master the Zen of pen and ink. It was always about whole body mechanics from the finger to shoulder. It was about a floating perpendicularity as precise as Marine Drill Sargent. But most important is was the feel for metal gently biting the surface of pulp a conscience contact with externality

STORM

I dream in colors to the rhythm of the needle against their skin Tapping Trapping ink beneath the layers Freeing secrets

The bells jingle. Usually they come asking for butterflies or skulls or lovers' names. I look over to see another who's heard the whispered rumors and come seeking. My inks mix with their blood, creating colors and lines showing the indelible marks within... Inner beauty, hidden scars, buried secrets... My pen flows, illuminating their truths.

This one I refuse. I speak her name aloud, shocking tears from him.

"I will not damn. Make amends before you face my needles."

GUY DAVID

My pen is bleeding blue Blue ink of pain pouring rain Where does all this sadness come from Time have sharpened the pencil Wrote my life and laughed And now my pen is bleeding red A scream of anguish The rage of time passing And the stone wall Unbreakable wall

My pen is bleeding blue
Blue ink of pain pouring rain
On wet paper
The wetness of tears
Maybe I could drown like Alice
Maybe disappear
But where would I go
Can't run away from my past
So I stay in the present
Bleeding the blue blood of a pen

TERRY

Day 1 �?? May 13, 2012

I have found myself alive and still breathing after crash landing on the planet Mars. I think the cause was a malfunction of the guidance system in the ship's main computer.

The craft is a total wreck; it has spilt up into several sections with parts of it burning after spotting signs of smoke on the horizon.

My command module has sustained damage, but seems to be still pressurized and I have enough water and air for several days.

With the other wreckage burning, I have to assume that there is oxygen in the atmosphere, Now all I need to know is how much and how to extract it. I have tuned my radio, which looks as if it is still functioning; to S.O.S. But, only god knows if anyone will hear it.

My next chore is to suit up and explore the wreckage for usable equipment; I wish I only had pen and ink to set this record down on paper.

This is Captain Josh Jones, Earth Space Command, signing off.

HOUSTON

Hello my name is Stephen Hawking and Houston has asked me to resort to pen and ink and recite some of my original poetry.

Her skin glistened in the moonlight,
My heartbeat quickened as I soaked in her beauty.
My wandering gaze moved from her lips,
To her plunging neckline,
To her�?�

Steve, Man, sorry, this just isn't working.

What do you mean?

It just sounds, I don't know�?� Creepy

FINE! JERK! The next time you need assistance with astrophysical
theory you may go elsewhere you small minded, cube dwelling, thick
browed technical support drone!

Uh. OK. Thanks anyway Steve.

ELISSON

A few cycles ago, I was glimming the morning Speedtext, where I saw the most intriguing ad:

PORTABLE INFORMATION STORAGE SYSTEM

requires no batteries, stores images or alphanumeric characters with
equal ease. Data retrieval uses principle of SELECTIVE REFLECTION�?� in
conjunction with electromagnetic radiation source (not included). Access
any part of your database with simple manual operation! Available
preprogrammed with large variety of software.

Store below 451°F.

I had to have one! I scanned my credichip and waited for the transmuter
to zoop it.

It was a �??book.�?� I was mesmerized. What primitive beauty!

The �??pen�?� and �??ink�?� come tomorrow.

CALEB

Hey Merle, come here! What�??s all that ink doing in the pig pen?

That aint Ink, Jocephus, that�??s oil!

Oil?

Black Gold, Texas Tea, Well the first thing you know ole Jed�??s a Millionaire, OIL man!

Okay�?� So uh Merle, What�??s all that oil doing in the pig pen?

Well either we struck oil and we�??re going to be filthy rich and never have to work another day in our lives or one of the robotic pigs has blown a gasket. Now which do you think it is?

Aw Merle, those goddamn robotic pigs are more trouble than they�??re worth.

PLANET Z

Back in the wild days of the Wordslingers, pens for hire would ride the range, silver pocket protectors in their button-down shirt pockets.

They'd square off on Main Street at high noon, standing there tall, staring each other down.

Their fingers twitching at their sides, ready to reach for their magnificent pens...

All around, the townspeople watched, the local newspaper's literary critic measuring out column space for the loser.

They draw! Ink flies! Harsh words are exchanged!

One man goes down! Get this man an editor!

He arrives too late.

The victor bows his head, and writes the epitaph.