Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.
This is 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 Mustard.
And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:
- Mousy Walker
- Chris the Nuclear Kid
- Serendipidy Haven
- Mitchell Long
- Mitchell Long
- Secret Rage
- Steven Saus
- Cliff – Uncle Monster
- Bonchance and Sevi
- Norval Joe
- Planet Z
The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of Bird.
And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:
I have never understood why ketchup is so popular with fries. I use
mustard instead except when the ketchup is specially made or organic.
It’s funny that both ketchup and mustard are standard on burgers and
hot dogs, but not so much on fries. Ketchup usually has sugar in it,
by the way; whereas, most mustards don’t. For sweet mustard, the
sugar is usually something tasteful, like honey. So mustard rarely
has high fructose corn syrup unlike the typical brand of ketchup. Do
me a favor, would you? The next time you find yourself ready to grab
that bottle of red stuff, reach instead for the yellow and enjoy the
sour, the hot, the sweet, the dijon, whichever…taste your pick.
A Thing Or Two About Crabs
Blue Crab is the pride of Southern Maryland! There’s five parts to a crab … claw meat, leg meat, body meat, shell, and the mustard. The meat is all good! The shell don’t pose no real problems if you know what you’re doing, but, that mustard is some nasty stuff!
The mustard is the renderings of everything in a crab you’d never want to eat … heart, lungs, guts, and feces all cooked into a greasy yellow paste.
If you’re smart you clean out that mustard first thing!
If you’re lazy maybe a little mustard is acceptable.
If you’re mean you tell the yankees it’s where the flavor comes from.
Waking from my nap is glorious. The sunshine coming through the curtains feels like warm sparkles. My eyes open to see soft blues and happy yellows—hints of cottony pink on my blanky. Poby is right beside me, snuggling my face as I greet the afternoon. He’s my Poby ‘cause he’s white and soft. “Hey, Poby. What’s this?” Something squishy and warm. It’s pretty like Big Bird. “I know; let’s do like Mama showed us and make our hands, Poby. Swish yours up and down, like the sun.”
Daddy and Mama come in, “Is that mustard? It smells like…”
CHRIS THE NUCLEAR KID
Ingredients: hot dogs, buns, mustard, relish, ketchup, and cheese.
Step one: cook the hotdogs on a skillet at medium heat until slightly crisped and hot.
Step two: place the desired number of buns on a play and put a slice of cheese in each.
Step three: place hot dogs in buns, one per bun.
Step four: add desired amount of relish.
Step five: add desired amount of ketchup.
Step six: add desired amount of mustard.
Step seven: add a side of chips.
Step eight: add a desired drink.
Step nine: enjoy your fine hot dog creation and try new things.
by Jeffrey Fischer
Barbara heard the rattle of a knife at the bottom of an empty jar. She cringed as she waited for the angry voice. “Barbara, you worthless bitch, we’re out of mustard! How am I supposed to make a sandwich without mustard?”
Jim had always had a short fuse, but lately his tantrums had become more frequent. He exploded at the slightest frustration, often accompanying his torrent of verbal abuse with a good smack or two.
This time, instead of digging into the pantry to check for a new jar, Barbara pulled her .38 Special from her purse, checking the chamber to ensure that it was loaded. Maybe Jim needed to rethink how important mustard was to his well-being.
“What is this?”
“It is a container of Mustard Seed.”
“Father, Why Do we have Mustard Seed?”
“The same reason we have a bread box, son.”
“Dad, How can you put bread into a mustard seed?”
“Well son, No one really needs a box to put bread in anymore but so many people use that expression, “Is it bigger than a bread box?”, we needed one so you children would know how big one is and there is that Bible verse about “Faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains” therefore I bought a container of mustard seed.”
“How is the restaurant business going, Manager?”
“Great the black and white ad form in the Pennysaver is working well. We really have a lot more customers with that grey coupon.The thing is I promised the owner’s wife that I would help reduce the amount of salt he eats but he loves mustard so I would add some vinegar and water to his favorite condiment. I had an easy time when he had poor eyesight but his laser surgery worked really well. Now he sees everything and it really bothers me now that I can’t cut the mustard anymore.
Life is like a package of hot dogs.
You can choose what type of dog
to eat, but the number in your
pack may vary.
When you eat your hot dog
you can put a variety of mustard
on it, even wrap it in a bun,
or do something corny.
Your life can be regular, or spicy, honey,
just be aware that, sometimes,
when you least expect it, the
mustard comes off the hot dog.
Don’t just keep eating the same dog,
and moving on…expand your horizons,
exercise your balls…and give
Smack My Ass & Call Me Sally a try.
There are nine rooms… and the cellar, where no-one goes… except… I cannot remember.
I have taken to counting my steps. I can manage only six before resting. I enter a room full of potted plants, orchids, indoor palms. The Colonel is here, his back to me. “Good day, Colonel,” I venture, but he turns and bears a look of such savagery that my knees give way in terror. As the blow descends, I realise that it is I, Dr. Black, whose body will go down to the cellar, killed by Colonel Mustard, with the lead piping, in the conservatory.
My first paid employment was a weekend job at Balloni’s Ice-cream and Burgers – a family-run establishment on the sea front. It wasn’t particularly glamorous: I was expected to wipe down tables and generally keep the place looking clean and tidy.
Anxious to impress, I hit upon the idea of displaying everything behind the counter in neat, alphabetical order… that was to be my undoing.
First customer of the day – two cornets, with chocolate sauce and sprinkles – with a flourish, Mr Balloni produced the ices, then reached behind for the sauce.
French mustard with sprinkles was not a success!
How To Make a Sandwich
By Christopher Munroe
The perfect sandwich isn’t difficult to make.
Bread, cheeses, meat of your choice, the ingredients will vary.
The important bit is, while eating, understanding your tiny place in an enormous, uncaring universe and, instead of fearing that realization, embracing it as liberating.
After all, if your place in the cosmos is essentially meaningless, you needn’t worry about petty problems, and are free focus on life’s small pleasures.
Like a good sandwich, for example.
…and mustard. Mustard’s also important.
So there you have it, the perfect sandwich. Theoretically easy, practically nearly impossible. I hope you one day manage to eat one…
ARCHANGEL OF AWESONE MICHAEL MOORMAN
You’ve gotta believe me! I have found the prophecy of the Sandwich Apocalypse! It states that on March 10, 2029, God will make an Earth sandwich! The first sign of the Sandwich Apocaypse will be the raining of mustard from the heavens in a massive wave, much like the squirting of a mustard bottle! Then, pickles will fall upon the Earth, smashing every major city! Then a rain of ketchup will fall upon the earth, much like the aforementioned mustard wave! After that, the world will be eaten by God! Wait a sec, where’s that rain of mustard coming from?
Joe thought he was styling in his mustard t-shirt all summer. I thought he was dorky with his awkward gait and buck teeth. I mean, who wears mustard?
But that afternoon, his eyes caught mine and stirred the pit of my stomach. For years, he had been the goofy boy next door, and I had never shared this adult awareness with anyone before. I went inside to catch my breath and check my look in the mirror.
They left to get the pizza, and Joe did not survive the accident.
Everyone mourns the boy; I ache for the man.
In the Library with a Wrench
If you live long enough you will have at least three careers. Take the Mustard Man for instances, the actor famed for inquiring if your Rolls was stocked with a jar of Grey Poupon. Before his commercial career he had the dubious distinction for being the first actor on Broadway fully nude in Marat/Sade. Late in life he became the King of shattering the the 4th wall in the BBC production of House of Cards. A postcard child for power corrupts who chats with the audience drawing them into complicity.
You might very well think that; I couldn’t possibly comment
Tree House by DrFran Babcock
When I was young, in the Bronx, my mom set pineapples on the windowsill to ripen. I placed dollhouse furniture in their tops, creating magical tree houses. I could spend hours amusing myself in this way.
One day, my mom came into the kitchen while I was playing, pulling a jar of mustard out of the fridge. She looked at me saying: “I have to clean in here, find someplace else to play.” At that moment, the mustard jar crashed to the ground. She cried out, glaring: “Why does everything you touch turn to shit?”
Lunacy and a song
The song is playing in the background, the distorted sounds of a mean man. Just don’t look at the Queen, shout out something, something obscene. And everyone looked and yelled and built a boat to sail up the road. Madam, Madam, go get a man, but not one like Pam’s old dirty brother with a ten bob note up his nose. Hold that bottle and squeeze it out of your glaring eyes. The clothes have a tone, a stain or a medal. A cheap man from a song is playing the Beatles in the background, playing softly from a hole.
STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN
Jesus paused for a quick breath, the crowd hanging on his every word. “…for lo, though the mustard seed is the smallest of all seeds-”
“Actually,” the nasal voice ripped across the crowd. “It’s not. Obviously mold spores are smaller.” The speaker stood up, straightened his hair, and adjusted his inevitable bow tie. “Even among plants the mustard seed is far from the smallest.”
Jesus sighed. A brief waggle of fingers, then Matthew, Judas, and John leapt on the man and brought him to the ground, silencing him.
“And,” Jesus said, “God abhors time travelers. Got that? Totally hates them.”
Loving the Goddess of Mustard
She loved mustard – not that gloop grand-kids squirt up walls, courting summary execution. She pined for pungent stuff in sweet pots from ye olde oaken vat, whose floating crust the once-upon-a-time mustardeer’s apprentice probed with a paddle. If it broke and sank, he’d say. “This cuts the mustard not, Sirrah!”
At snack time, she’d sliver ham and tomato, then bite into her cracker lathered — not with any Betty-bought-bit-of-bitter-butter. No. Long ago, she had sold her soul to the Devil’s Kitchen for a wicked spoonful of hit-the-sour-spot, gold-standard mustard.
Born of ancient stone masons and kitchen goddesses, the Mustard Goddess lived on Mason’s Parade with the jolly good Colonel, her devoted protector-partner. Both practised The Precepts: thou shall not waste Time, Money, and certainly not Mustard. Arcane wisdom put sugar into vases and roses bloomed long; spinach and bananas wrapped in newsprint stopped sweating in the fridge; left-overs paid it forward to tomorrow’s remix lunch. The thrift goddess had maintained everything with deep regard for its intrinsic and sentimental value, while the good Colonel quietly acquired new items of innovation. She included all in her dragon treasure hoard.
Meanwhile, the OJ decanter and skim-milk jug clinked and chatted about budgetary constraints, while the TV watched its own portable news broadcast, and midday movie as she multi-tasked, polishing life’s Laminex bench tops. Around her, gadgets whirred and stirred. A timer sang, the dishwasher slurped as she programmed the time-travelling microwave to cook the future in 60 seconds. It all made sense in a squeaky-clean universe. Ironically, she was at home with kitchen technology, although the Colonel’s computer and gregarious on-line life she viewed with a wary eye. “You are wasting time.” she would say.
The fact is, she worked hard in her micro world, ready to plan for the proper entertainment of guests. This made sense. A friend was someone sitting before you, talking in the flesh, not somewhere down the internet superhighway.
As the Angel of Order, she welcomed visitors to stay in their granny flat. Out There, disorder could be accommodated safely with old plates, cups and used cutlery. She provided a tray of fine teas – Earl Grey Blue Flower, Oolong Lychee and her favourite – Prosperi-T. She thought she had everything covered. That was until the unexpected return of the Messy Son.
The prodigal had roughed it with holy-men in the land of tea plantations, seen big stinking urban slums and was on speaking terms with germs and chaos. He dumped his disheveled kit and road-bitten guitar. Instinctively, he ignored the satellite kitchenette and launched a midnight guerilla raid on the mothership pantry. Next morning, the Mustard Goddess found her kitchen in shambles. This opened a unique chapter in the Mason’s Parade annals, related occasionally at dinner with ready wit by the Colonel, or when dressed penguin-like in dinner-suit with cummerbund as Grand Pooh Bah at his Masonic meeting.
To express this devotion at the altar of the Mustard Goddess, the son in question had wolfed down left-over pizza, pulled off both the drum-sticks from tomorrow’s chicken salad, broke off some hunks of expensive cheese, added olives, pickles, thick hackings from the ham-bone and cracked the seal on three of her premium mustard jars for variety. It was a fulfilling feast, especially leaving the refrigerator items such as pickle and mustard jars out ringing his empty plate of scraps, rind and bones like sentinels of a mother’s love. This was the unconscious message he was sending her.
As psychologists tell mothers with challenging children, raiding the refrigerator is an archetypal act. Its rites-of-passage importance cannot be understated. It has to do with bonding. The mother is the refrigerator. The needy child must feel he has access to his parent at any moment. Thus midnight snacking, especially on expensive sacred hands-off taboo foods such as special cake, ice-cream, or if in savory need —sausage, or cheeses with pickles and of course – mustard, is the child crying to be fed at the breast. Leaving a visible mess behind is an act of highest love for her.
Unfortunately, the Mustard Goddess saw red. The open olive, pickle and mustard jars around his plate were not like broken columns of a temple surrounding a sacramental feast. It was mess and mayhem. After clearing up, she went to complain, but found him gone. She waited to pounce all day, but he didn’t return until midnight again that night, when he once more paid homage to the Mustard Goddess, raiding her fridge a second time, leaving evidence of his love as before. Sleeping late in the flat, it was convenient to slip away unseen by the side gate for the day.
She had had enough and waited up on the third night, but he didn’t come. She knocked on his door, and after there was no answer, she went in, only to find the bed unmade, cushions and dirty washing willy nilly. His note was on the table:
Happy birthday. Gone for a music festival. Back Monday. By the way, got you a present.”
Indeed, he had bought her a gift hamper of selected mustards and beside it, with the mustard dispenser from the cupboard he had squirted a yellow smiley across the bench-top and lovingly signed his name.
I used to live in an apartment building across town. The guy in 3B was an evil looking guy with jet black hair and crazy eyes. When someone suggested that we have a building-wide cookout on Independence Day, I hoped 3B wouldn’t show up, but he did. Most folks brought one food item and a drink. 3B brought devil’s food cake, deviled ham, deviled corn, and deviled eggs. “I just love to cook,” he said. “No one ever bothered to ask.” When I asked what was in the delicious eggs, he replied “Just mustard, salt, pepper, and an innocent soul.”
I was sitting at this food shop in lower Hengsha, putting mustard on a hot dog, when I thought I was going to die. I’d seen some scary gangers, loaded with augs, but then this guy stepped up and he was like, almost totally a robot. He threads were sweet, and if he met a group of those auged up gang guys in an alley, I’d bet on this dude. I wonder if he’s even human anymore, or if he’s just a machine? I mean, he ordered dim sum, so, that’s normal, human, right? Still, scared the hell outta me.
SEVI and BONCHANCE
He is the kindest man I know. He wouldn’t speak a word out of turn about anyone or anything. He has impeccable
posture. As ex military, he is a stickler for proper posture. “Sit up straight boy!” he would bellow.
Would you like to know what I think made him do it?
He couldn’t let go of how he was wrongfully accused of that murder by the other boarders. Those people didn’t
have a clue! Imagine, condemning poor Colonel Mustard of cold-blooded murder! With a pipe wrench of all things!
Now he has actually done it! Yes, I blame them!
The Smallest Seed
Pepe had a plan! He devised an innovation to make some extra scratch. That creative think tank with the Chairman
fueled his passion. He scored seeds from a guy named Matt and set out to cultivate his crop. “Pepe, Pepe quite contrary how does your
garden grow?” he woofed as he trekked to his harvest.
Pepe panicked, the spouts didn’t look “right”. He analyzed the pictures of baby crops of mary jane.
An epiphany merged. These are mustard seeds!
When confronted, the merchant just gave him a sermon about faith and mustard seeds. “So small yet, able to move
Lola loves buttery soul food. She will never understand how women subject themselves to diets. She sure as hell isn’t substituting mustard for mayo. She has enough dos and donts in life. She tries to keep her curves in place, but if there is some chocolate, she ain’t holding back. Her admirer has picked up on that and knows just the right food to cook for her. Even when he’s away, he spoils her with desserts and other delicacies that are irresistible. Yeah, rich buttery food, mayo over mustard and with every bite she likes him more for loving her as she is…
famous mustard line. What a cocky statement, considering the Stomach suffered a humiliating loss to character of Fink, played simplistically by Keith Knight. Keith was working in summer stock when he was signed for his first movie role in “Meatballs”. During the filming of the hot-dog-eating contest in that movie, Keith ate more than 100 hot dogs, without mustard. Fink beat “the Stomach,” whose performance at hot dog eating simply did not cut the mustard.
The company crouched close to the opening in the passageway floor. Cindy, the princess, sat in the dwarven throne, her hands and feet tied.
Owen thought it would be best to have Shareeka drop them through the floor as they had passed through the earth back at the farmer’s cottage. Shareeka explained they would be left vulnerable for a potentially fatal few seconds.
On a silent count of three all except for Shareeka dropped through the hole to confront the goblin guards.
With a puff of smoke and the scent of sulfur and mustard, the room filled with goblin warriors.
My brother-in-law was over the other day for a family barbecue. I don’t know where my sister found the guy, or what she sees in him. He’ll argue about the time of day or if the grass is really green.
He said he wanted a mustard dog, so I put some mustard on a hot dog and gave it to him. He said, “No. You need a sausage for a good mustard dog. I know you got them. I can smell sausage and mustard.”
I told him that wasn’t a mustard dog he was smelling. That was my wiener dog.
Fred’s been going around at night, squirting mustard in people’s faces.
He’d been doing this for weeks until the cops set a trap and finally caught him.
He called me for bail money.
“You know how vampires hate garlic and Frankenstein hates fire?” said Fred.
It’s actually Frankenstein’s Monst-
“Well, it turns out that Zombies hate mustard,” said Fred. “I need to get out of here before the zombies take over.”
I drove Downtown to bail him out, but he’d already hung himself in his cell.
MONSTER! was written on the wall in ketchup.
He knew about me!