Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.
This is the Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
We’ve got stories by:
by Jeffrey Fischer
My mother always said I was an alien, born in some distant solar system and adopted as an infant. She begged me not to get hurt, as Earth medicine couldn’t help me. Each of my transgressions would merit a heavy sigh and a “I should never have rescued you from that orphanage.” Low grades, fighting at school, sassing back to her – I got the alien speech. Gives a kid a complex, I tell you.
Of course, I’m no alien. I got cut badly when I was 12 and I bled as red as you. My sister, on the other hand… Yep. Total extraterrestrial.
If I was from another country and took it upon myself to help the United States with their frazzled communications – orchestrated liaisons with heads of state, press conferences, officially formulated communiques and speeches – I would be considered an economic alien and would have to file taxes accordingly – except that no one from that office ever would offer to pay an avatar and it conceivably pleasures me to be a slave. From my vestibule, I could insert promotional tweets for family-friendly brands such as Johnson & Johnson* and Colgate* so that people would remember personal hygiene is very important over the next 3 and ½ years of their subjugation and depression. I could remind coffee drinkers not to believe everything they see on television – since the world has been taken over by the feted wiles of red-eyed businessmen hoping to formulate strategy for the next 40 years or so – and there is no level playing field. I would remind young mothers that their health matters. I would mount topics of such ground-breaking import that the populace might rise to ask questions openly…and ponder their true aim, be it scientific achievement, the laying of pavement, or the coordination of humanitarian efforts. Much as Trump would like to mount Olympus. It’s not illegal to be an alien, just frowned upon.
#1 – Apollo 11
Nobody realises our first – and last – encounter with alien life happened during the first moon landing: The historic moment humankind committed genocide on a scale never before, or since, witnessed by the universe.
We’re all completely ignorant that with a single action, we wiped out the entire population of the only other intelligent life in the universe. Billions, destroyed in an instant.
Had Neil Armstrong’s one small step been a little to the right or left, it would be a different story, instead, he stood squarely on the alien city, eradicating all life within it.
Nice one, Neil!
#2 – Not as we know it
We all have our ideas about what alien life might be like, but if movies are to be believed, they’ll either be colourful variations of the human form speaking American English, or evil, slimy creatures, hell bent on our destruction.
Most scientists take a more sober view, preferring the bacterial or amoeba-like form of alien – practical, but boring.
Personally, I’ve always imagined first contact would find aliens in plant form – silent, immovable, harmless, but lovely planted in the garden.
Either that, or vegetables – maybe an exotic potato that humans could bake and stuff with macaroni cheese!
#3 – Alien
I had a pet alien. Found it wandering around Roswell back in ’47. It told me it was seeking world domination – like that was going to happen!
Years later, I realised there was money to be made and, through the Dark Web, I sold it for a handsome sum to the Russians. They passed it on to China, then I lost track of my old roommate.
Recently though, he’s resurfaced and I’m starting to think that it was a bad idea to let him go.
How was I to know the damn thing would end up running North Korea?
They didn’t like us. The strings hurt on the wrists. The redness would never go away. They played us like puppets. They manipulated us with a smile. Then, they forced us. “You’ll see it,” they said. We didn’t know what they meant. Then we saw it, the grand scheme of things, and we were just a tiny fleck of nothingness. They took the children. The candles burned till the end, but they didn’t know. We had our own strings. The day we pulled them, they fell. And we took off to get our children back. Arrogance can make empires fall.
The two missionaries that contacted me several weeks ago invited me for a tour of the church this coming Saturday. I had to refuse, as I have not changed my mind about joining the Church of The Gooey Death and Discount House of Worship.
The missionaries, both of alien origin, are beautiful and they tantalize me with their soft talk and dimpled cheeks. They have invested a lot of their time with me, but I refused the special baptism and services because I fear that I might be taken away with them in their little, red, Japanese made land ship.
Warm San Franciscan Nights.
The landscape was totally alien to Rudy. He was a Midwest boy who had little experience with elevations greater that a three foot rise. Closed his eye when his wife Irma, a full-blooded San Franciscan, took to the hills above the bay. “Why on earth would anyone build a house on a 45 degree angle?” he’d rattled. Irma would just double glitch the jeep, and spin the four wheeler onto a side street, completely filling the windscreen with sky, to which Rudy loudly cursed himself for taking a momentary peek. Then came the plummet straight at the bay. Not Good.
Fix the Damned Fountain
There is something alien about drinking out of plastic bottles. Water is part of our original world. Plastic is not. Its artificial, the antithesis of natural and wholesome. Bad and alien things leach out into water confined to plastic, and every indication is that they are bad for us.
People used to bestow fountains in public places, where you could drink water for free: for thousands and thousands of years we drank from fountains. Then, slowly, the aliens persuaded us it was unhealthy and that we should drink from plastic.
I think that most of the aliens come from Switzerland.
I tried putting the alien thought out of my mind, but it kept intrusively pushing its way back, interrupting my enjoyment of the moment.
Pausing to let the screaming subside, I pondered the thought… What if you let them go? It suggested; untie them, put away the knives, and just walk away.
Think of the possibilities: You could have a new life, without pain and bloodlust, murder and mayhem… A life filled with compassion and kindness, laughter and joy, rainbows and unicorns!
I shut the thought down and picked up my knife.
Why stop now when I’m having fun?
They walk among us, taking our places. You know what they do with the bodies? Liquidize them and flush them down the drains. Did you hear about that fatberg in the London sewers? Twenty double-decker buses’ weight of fat, blocking an eight-foot tunnel. That’s what decided me to take action.
They’re convincing, but I spotted you, didn’t I? You’re not conscious, you’re just a meat puppet. No-one at home. The saws? The scalpels? I want to see what you’re made of, don’t I? But I’m just talking to myself, there’s no-one here but me. Let’s start by opening your chest…
Less than a foot tall, those little bastards with their indestructible
shells made our lives a living hell in just six weeks. First it was
two, pioneers of their race, landing on Earth with good will.
Something new and exciting got our attention and we welcomed them with
open arms, but they failed to mention their birthing rate and massive
sex drive. Two multiplied to ten in three days and from there it went
on. Now we have little ankle biters everywhere. You can’t take three
steps without kicking one out of the way. Is this really our life now?
Axel entered Recycling Center RC166-15125 in an out of the way sector of level 48.
Astrah sat at a desk amid stacks of crates and cartons and the odor fresh shrink wrap. Her bright yellow hair and golden irises identified her origins from the Coacheenohdorah system.
Axel had never seen a true alien on the Galactic Battle Base, only human mutations developed since earth’s diaspora 800 years before, as this woman seemed to be.
“May I help you?” she asked in a melodic whisper.
“I’m looking for a job. In sales,” Axel said.
Her golden eyes flashed as she laughed.
You sit across from me on the train every day, but you don’t know anything about me. You just think I’m weird. For your information, I’m from another galaxy. When I was young my mom said I was special. Later I figured it out on my own. I’m not from around here.
I never understood your silly social interactions. I started thinking I was crazy. Then I remembered what my mother said. It all began to make sense.
So the next time you look at someone and think they are weird, remember, they are probably from another galaxy. Like me.
Bzerp said that his name was unpronounceable by human tongues.
Which was total bullshit. I mean, I just pronounced it, right?
He said that because Bzerp was once common in his culture, but had become an unpleasant slang word.
Kind of like how the names Dick and Gaylord have other meanings.
So, Bzerp lied, and he’d just scribble something squiggly on paper.
“It looks different because I’m drawing in four dimensions,” he claimed.
“BZERP!” shouted the newly-arrived delegation. “So this is where you’ve been hiding?”
Bzerp booked a flight to another planet.
Any planet, away from his people.