Microdosing Fiction - 100mg of the Chosen One
Write 100 words based on the words: Chosen One
Our prompt for today is Chosen One
Write a story in 100 words!
To join in on the challenge, leave a comment or restack the story with your own!
The doorbell rang. We huddled in front of the towering door—me in the lead, Bob and Lewis behind. Our breaths held, we waited.
Cold sweat trickled down my back, as Bob’s words echoed in my mind.
I ring, you talk.
I was chosen, so I had to do it.
The door swung open revealing a giant, cigarette smoke curled from under a thick mustache.
“What?” the man’s booming voice hit like a tremor.
“Exc-excuse us, sir,” I stummbled over my words, “our ball fell into your garden, could we please get it back?”
“Damn kids,” the man muttered and stomped toward the garden.
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He blew in like a sulfurous tornado. Turned everything on its head. Preaching hate and fear. The anti-gospel. Bad news. Then he finally did it. Crossed the Delaware. Tap danced on the third rail. You know he was thinking it on the inside all along. But then he said it. Out loud.
“I am the chosen one.”
He had been duly elected. But that is not what he meant. His right-minded opposition lost their minds. “Blasphemy,” they cried. But you know something? He was absolutely right. Honest to God. Who says the guy downstairs doesn’t get to pick one too?
Kev had the hair for it—windswept, heroic.
He’d practiced sword poses in the mirror and once narrated his own montage while jogging (badly).
When villagers cried, “We need a hero!” Kev arrived dramatically late, usually tripping.
Prophecies ignored him.
Magic swords stayed stuck.
Even the wise old wizard called him “Kev the Mildly Helpful.”
He saved a cat once. It bit him.
Still, he wore a cape.
Because someday—maybe—a very low-stakes apocalypse might need him.
Until then, Kev trained.
Mostly in dramatic entrances.
Just in case.
Hope, after all, was his real superpower.
That and hair gel.