He had been that told by everyone in his life. Every waking moment was spent in training. Preparing for his time to rise and be the hero.
Destiny.
He hated the word.
Why him? It seemed so unfair. He’d watch his peers through the window. Making their own choices. Living their lives while he was shackled to a prophecy.
No. Someone else could fill the hero’s shoes.
He threw down his pen. All belongings were left as he slipped out. The sunlight washed over him as he took his first step toward choosing his own path.
The music god stood at the microphone while his adoring crowd screamed and yelled and sang along with him. The breathless young beauties at the stage edge swayed and hung onto every minute of the performance. They all knew what was coming up and exploded into a frenzy when the song started. They had been to other concerts before and knew the exact moment when the idol would point to one of them and say, “You are the chosen one!” Apoplectic they would climb up and dance with their hero for the thirty seconds required before being hauled off stage.
We are all alike, despite the separateness of our beings.
The same single eye, the two antennae, and green skin. Shoulder to shoulder, we are haphazardly piled atop one another waiting until we hear that magical sound.
When the whirring gears and cogs begin to hum, we look upwards toward the great collector in the sky, our hearts aching with promise, hoping today is the day. That this will be our turn. That we will be the one to transcend and solve the mystery of what lies beyond this place.
Proud and yearning, our voices cry in unison, “The claw.”
The bundle of Pughasa puppies tumbled over and around each other in the large cardboard box as we cooed and sighed over them. A mix of browns and blonds and large sad eyes.
“Those two are males,” the owner said pointing to a small grey-brown one and a larger ligher more apricot coloured one.
At that point the apricot one did a flip, and I'm sure a wink, and tumbled over the side to land at my feet. We have been inseparable every since.
There were too many actresses for the tiny waiting room, so we spilled down the stairs and into the street. Everyone wanted this plum role. All of us thought we had a shot.
The line moved slowly. No one wanted to chat. Auditioners left quickly, poker-faced as they looked over the competition on the way out. The ladies' room was far off, so I fixed my hair and makeup in the stairwell with a powder compact and comb.
The wait was nerve-wracking, but thrilling. A rush of adrenaline. This time, would I be the chosen one?
The crowd roared as the NFL Commissioner stepped to the podium. "With the first pick in the 2025 NFL Draft, the Tennessee Titans select… Cam Ward, quarterback, Miami."
Cam’s heart pounded as he hugged his family. The Titans had bet their future on him—the Chosen One to lead them to glory.
As he donned the navy-blue hat and shook the Commissioner’s hand, the weight of expectation settled on his shoulders. "This is just the beginning," he whispered.
In Nashville, fans cheered. Their franchise savior had arrived. Now, it was time to prove he was worth the pick.
Johnny reached for the sword in the rock. The crowd roared with laughter. The guards waved the crowd to silence.
Johhny placed his hands on the hilt of the sword. It felt cold yet strangely familiar. And then he pulled. The sword slipped smoothly from the rock. The crowd gasped. Johnny held the sword above his head and surveyed the onlookers.
The people started, dumbstruck. And then they laughed.
Johnny, confused, looked at the sword in his hand. It was a banana.
“Johnny, Johnny.”
He opened his eyes and saw Mrs Robinson, his 6th-period teacher, looking down at him.
Thread chains, woven into her clothes, wrapped around her arms and the blue skirt of the robe. Her feet, uncovered by skirt or shoe, hung over an edge into a pit. Darkness, sprinkled with dim lanterns, clouded the depths and the waters below.
Osyu, her own, commandeered by the Master, ordered her off the edge.
Eventually, she fell into the waters within the pit’s darkness. Osyu, her own again, commanded against her will, but not by the Master, restrained her motion, and stopped her from swimming. Within the water, she drowned. Tendrils of flesh and water pulled the corpse deeper.
(Went over, but trying to get back to writing every day.)
A sliver of light cuts across the dark chamber and grows until all within is illuminated. Cooled by the frigidity of this forgotten realm, external moisture coats all the hallowed glass and sacred anodized aluminum.
A most noble companion arrives by the chosen one’s side. “Oh come on now. Just pick one, mate.”
Clearly drunk, the chosen one, first to the fridge, responds without allowing his gaze to stray from the divine array of beers and ales. “Uh oh, the Brit-Ish are coming. All hail Lord Impatientus of Cornwell.”
The companion tries to avoid the chosen one’s game, for the selection of brews must be made soon. “Haha, mate… You know we don’t have lords in South Africa.”
The chosen one purposely flaunts an awful mashup of words. “Oiy, y’all Soudt African, yeeay? Shrimp on me bagpipes, lad?”
The companion groans, and the pain is true, for the sound of this abominable speech is a cringeworthy assault like no other. “Blooooody Americans, hahahaha. Let’s go then. Darts. Time for your lesson, Yank.”
“He will fuck you with darts, Yank,” declares a third member of the raiding party, freshly arrived with a new and honest dialect. “Let’s drink these-a one.”
The first companion cackles. "Did you mean-"
“The voice of ESL has descended from on high!” proclaims the chosen one, as three ales of brown glass and blue banner are removed from the chamber. "And Canadian beer it is... Who bought this, anwyay?"
As the light shrinks to a mere sliver once more, the voice of the first companion becomes more and more distant. “I don’t think I’ll fuck him with the darts this time, mate.”
The three noble adventurers are heard laughing as darkness reconquers the refrigerator.
[25-04-24; 100mg of The Chosen One; ok, so I simply couldn’t help myself – this is 192 over par; but it’s worth it]
---
In the darkness of the Clubhouse, the primordial Mashie hangs reverently in a glass case next to the great five-foot carp hooked by J. R. Hartley from the reservoir besides the thirteenth hole. Legend has it – as legends do – that every once in a generation a Chosen One only can wield the damn thing in times of peril.
Kinda like that bloke who pulled the Great Niblick out the stone. One forgets his name. Arthur Penfold, that’s the chappie.
Anyway, seeing as I only have 100 words, let’s cut to the chase.
An elegant twist of fate, is the phrase we seek here.
For it wasn’t any of those old-timer golfers who could wield that ol’ mashie, though all of them had their customary induction attempt shortly after arrival in this Afterlife. Oh no, it was – irony (yes, that’s a pun – we’re talking golf clubs here remember) – the caddie, Felson, who found himself cowering back in that shadowed clubhouse whilst pandemonium raged outside and the demon’s talons dug deeper into Ruby’s delicate flesh, whilst brave Larry struggled valiantly to reach her.
Felson stared up at the glass case. Something tingled in his bones.
A few more hesitations later, just for dramatic effect, you know, that zyooming in his heart compelled him to smash that glass and grab the mystical mashie.
Zyeem! Zyoom!
It came alive, yes, in his youthful paws!
More hesitation, for more dramatic effect, as he turns, glowing, towards the clubhouse doors.
Switch camera angles to demons definitely winning this unholy battle outside the clubhouse. Our heroes on the verge of being overwhelmed.
Ruby howls with pain and despair. Larry likewise.
Well, come on then, Felson. Let’s not have any of this ‘to be continued…’ shit, eh?
This reminded me of my childhood 😂
"You’re the chosen one."
He had been that told by everyone in his life. Every waking moment was spent in training. Preparing for his time to rise and be the hero.
Destiny.
He hated the word.
Why him? It seemed so unfair. He’d watch his peers through the window. Making their own choices. Living their lives while he was shackled to a prophecy.
No. Someone else could fill the hero’s shoes.
He threw down his pen. All belongings were left as he slipped out. The sunlight washed over him as he took his first step toward choosing his own path.
PROMPT: CHOSEN ONE
THE REQUIREMENTS
She had a list of requirements she wasn’t willing to compromise on.
Must be tall.
Must be broad.
And of course, must be attractive to look at.
But she’d been in her new home over a month now, and still hadn’t found the perfect bookcase to put in it… 📚😎📚
The music god stood at the microphone while his adoring crowd screamed and yelled and sang along with him. The breathless young beauties at the stage edge swayed and hung onto every minute of the performance. They all knew what was coming up and exploded into a frenzy when the song started. They had been to other concerts before and knew the exact moment when the idol would point to one of them and say, “You are the chosen one!” Apoplectic they would climb up and dance with their hero for the thirty seconds required before being hauled off stage.
Microfiction - 100mg of the Chosen One
===
She couldn’t believe what she saw on the banner. What a scandalous news. She couldn’t help but tracing the lines of the intriguing words.
Oh, she shouldn’t! She turned her gaze away and carefully checked the chief officer sitting upfront.
They made eye contact. He smirked at her and gave out the command.
She had been singled out.
Her reading skill had betrayed her. Women with literacy were black magic.
They were in the witch hunt mode, and she should’ve known better.
As they prepared her execution, she made peace with herself, but secretly wished she were a real witch.
Mum?
Yes, my darling?
I've been doing some research. Do you think it's possible I'm the Second Coming, the new Messiah.
No darling.
Why not? It's possible, isn't it? You've always told me anything's possible. All I have to do is want it bad enough and work my socks off.
It won’t stretch to being the Messiah.
Why not? I’ve been a good boy.
Of that there’s no doubt.
Well then?
Alright darling, it’s not impossible. It’s unlikely, extremely unlikely given the circumstances.
Huh?
How your dad died and his last wish, which I honoured, to name you Oedipus…
100 words on the nail...
Poor kid.
Oedipus and his mom huh...
It's more common than you think...
We are all alike, despite the separateness of our beings.
The same single eye, the two antennae, and green skin. Shoulder to shoulder, we are haphazardly piled atop one another waiting until we hear that magical sound.
When the whirring gears and cogs begin to hum, we look upwards toward the great collector in the sky, our hearts aching with promise, hoping today is the day. That this will be our turn. That we will be the one to transcend and solve the mystery of what lies beyond this place.
Proud and yearning, our voices cry in unison, “The claw.”
The Chosen One – 100mg - [true story]
The bundle of Pughasa puppies tumbled over and around each other in the large cardboard box as we cooed and sighed over them. A mix of browns and blonds and large sad eyes.
“Those two are males,” the owner said pointing to a small grey-brown one and a larger ligher more apricot coloured one.
At that point the apricot one did a flip, and I'm sure a wink, and tumbled over the side to land at my feet. We have been inseparable every since.
Which one of us chose? Him or me?
That was a sweet one! Our dearly departed Pippin chose us, too.
THE CHOSEN ONE (100)
There were too many actresses for the tiny waiting room, so we spilled down the stairs and into the street. Everyone wanted this plum role. All of us thought we had a shot.
The line moved slowly. No one wanted to chat. Auditioners left quickly, poker-faced as they looked over the competition on the way out. The ladies' room was far off, so I fixed my hair and makeup in the stairwell with a powder compact and comb.
The wait was nerve-wracking, but thrilling. A rush of adrenaline. This time, would I be the chosen one?
100mg - Chosen One
This is dedicated to the NFL draft, which started today.
____________________________________________________________________
The crowd roared as the NFL Commissioner stepped to the podium. "With the first pick in the 2025 NFL Draft, the Tennessee Titans select… Cam Ward, quarterback, Miami."
Cam’s heart pounded as he hugged his family. The Titans had bet their future on him—the Chosen One to lead them to glory.
As he donned the navy-blue hat and shook the Commissioner’s hand, the weight of expectation settled on his shoulders. "This is just the beginning," he whispered.
In Nashville, fans cheered. Their franchise savior had arrived. Now, it was time to prove he was worth the pick.
Let's. Go. Titans.
Johnny reached for the sword in the rock. The crowd roared with laughter. The guards waved the crowd to silence.
Johhny placed his hands on the hilt of the sword. It felt cold yet strangely familiar. And then he pulled. The sword slipped smoothly from the rock. The crowd gasped. Johnny held the sword above his head and surveyed the onlookers.
The people started, dumbstruck. And then they laughed.
Johnny, confused, looked at the sword in his hand. It was a banana.
“Johnny, Johnny.”
He opened his eyes and saw Mrs Robinson, his 6th-period teacher, looking down at him.
Aw bless him.
Title: Broken Refrigerator Light
When the door shuts, the others vanish.
But I stay on.
Wired wrong, maybe. A factory flaw. A holy glitch.
They said I’d burn out first. I didn’t.
I’ve watched fruit surrender.
Seen milk turn its back.
Heard ice weep itself thin.
My siblings blink awake when touched—
cheerful, perfect, temporary.
But I stay.
Through storms. Through hunger.
Through quiet, shame-soaked midnights.
I light the grief no one speaks.
The cravings no one names.
They’ll never know.
But I do.
I was the chosen one.
Not because I worked right.
Because I didn’t.
And I stayed anyway.
I love that. Chosen because it stayed.
Love that line "I light the grief no one speaks of" Beautiful
The Chosen One
.
They said I was the Chosen One.
Chosen to carry the silence,
hold the family image steady,
bow to systems I never built.
.
Chosen to smile on cue,
to absorb the blow,
to function without flaw.
.
And I was never 'their' Chosen One.
I was my own.
.
Chosen not by blood, but by breath—
by the first inhale I took without bracing,
by the truth I stopped burying.
.
I chose me
when no one else did.
.
Not to rise.
To root.
To melt.
To speak freely.
.
And in that moment,
the canyon echoed back
a voice that finally
belonged to me.
Thread chains, woven into her clothes, wrapped around her arms and the blue skirt of the robe. Her feet, uncovered by skirt or shoe, hung over an edge into a pit. Darkness, sprinkled with dim lanterns, clouded the depths and the waters below.
Osyu, her own, commandeered by the Master, ordered her off the edge.
Eventually, she fell into the waters within the pit’s darkness. Osyu, her own again, commanded against her will, but not by the Master, restrained her motion, and stopped her from swimming. Within the water, she drowned. Tendrils of flesh and water pulled the corpse deeper.
(Went over, but trying to get back to writing every day.)
A sliver of light cuts across the dark chamber and grows until all within is illuminated. Cooled by the frigidity of this forgotten realm, external moisture coats all the hallowed glass and sacred anodized aluminum.
A most noble companion arrives by the chosen one’s side. “Oh come on now. Just pick one, mate.”
Clearly drunk, the chosen one, first to the fridge, responds without allowing his gaze to stray from the divine array of beers and ales. “Uh oh, the Brit-Ish are coming. All hail Lord Impatientus of Cornwell.”
The companion tries to avoid the chosen one’s game, for the selection of brews must be made soon. “Haha, mate… You know we don’t have lords in South Africa.”
The chosen one purposely flaunts an awful mashup of words. “Oiy, y’all Soudt African, yeeay? Shrimp on me bagpipes, lad?”
The companion groans, and the pain is true, for the sound of this abominable speech is a cringeworthy assault like no other. “Blooooody Americans, hahahaha. Let’s go then. Darts. Time for your lesson, Yank.”
“He will fuck you with darts, Yank,” declares a third member of the raiding party, freshly arrived with a new and honest dialect. “Let’s drink these-a one.”
The first companion cackles. "Did you mean-"
“The voice of ESL has descended from on high!” proclaims the chosen one, as three ales of brown glass and blue banner are removed from the chamber. "And Canadian beer it is... Who bought this, anwyay?"
As the light shrinks to a mere sliver once more, the voice of the first companion becomes more and more distant. “I don’t think I’ll fuck him with the darts this time, mate.”
The three noble adventurers are heard laughing as darkness reconquers the refrigerator.
The act of writig something is more important than the word count :)
I'm sure there was an Aussie in there somewhere...
[25-04-24; 100mg of The Chosen One; ok, so I simply couldn’t help myself – this is 192 over par; but it’s worth it]
---
In the darkness of the Clubhouse, the primordial Mashie hangs reverently in a glass case next to the great five-foot carp hooked by J. R. Hartley from the reservoir besides the thirteenth hole. Legend has it – as legends do – that every once in a generation a Chosen One only can wield the damn thing in times of peril.
Kinda like that bloke who pulled the Great Niblick out the stone. One forgets his name. Arthur Penfold, that’s the chappie.
Anyway, seeing as I only have 100 words, let’s cut to the chase.
An elegant twist of fate, is the phrase we seek here.
For it wasn’t any of those old-timer golfers who could wield that ol’ mashie, though all of them had their customary induction attempt shortly after arrival in this Afterlife. Oh no, it was – irony (yes, that’s a pun – we’re talking golf clubs here remember) – the caddie, Felson, who found himself cowering back in that shadowed clubhouse whilst pandemonium raged outside and the demon’s talons dug deeper into Ruby’s delicate flesh, whilst brave Larry struggled valiantly to reach her.
Felson stared up at the glass case. Something tingled in his bones.
A few more hesitations later, just for dramatic effect, you know, that zyooming in his heart compelled him to smash that glass and grab the mystical mashie.
Zyeem! Zyoom!
It came alive, yes, in his youthful paws!
More hesitation, for more dramatic effect, as he turns, glowing, towards the clubhouse doors.
Switch camera angles to demons definitely winning this unholy battle outside the clubhouse. Our heroes on the verge of being overwhelmed.
Ruby howls with pain and despair. Larry likewise.
Well, come on then, Felson. Let’s not have any of this ‘to be continued…’ shit, eh?
[to be continued…]
Argh!!!!! C'mon Felson, you're the Chosen One! Get a move on and rescue Ruby!