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 ACCOUNT.
We’ve got stories by:
- Tura Brezoianu
- Mystery Robot Joe
- Cliff – Uncle Monster
- Norval Joe
- Planet Z
The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of CHURCH.
Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:
Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.
“How can I be overdrawn?” I said.
“Your subscription covers ordinary exertion,” explained the smooth young man. “Above 100bpm, there’s a surcharge. Without payment, we must consider closing your account.”
“You can’t stop my heart!” I protested.
“Actually, we can. But perhaps there’s another way,” he oiled. “Considered a brain enhancement?”
“Those cost a fortune!”
“According to the device logs, you spend a lot of time in… stressful situations in bad neighbourhoods. The authorities might like to see those logs. Alternatively, with an extra mental edge, you could be making a lot of money. We’ll do the implant on account.”
The Time Machine, by John Musico
In a time, many years from now, scientists had finally invented a time machine.
The researchers met to discuss where, and when, their first trip would be to.
It was fitting that their inquisitive scientific minds should choose a time in history which begged further research; a famous UFO crash. Until then, any UFO sightings were mere sightings. Unfortunately, the crash left useless clues in the debris.
The crew of the time machine set the coordinates.
As they approached the precise location, and time; a malfunction occurred.
The time machine plummeted to earth and exploded leaving behind only unidentifiable debrisÉ.
by Jeffrey Fischer
George stood on the precipice, looking 27 floors down to the asphalt. His trading account had gone bad, costing the investment bank close to a billion dollars, and George was the one responsible. His life was over. Carefully, he placed his alligator-skin briefcase, Armani suit jacket, Hermes tie, and Ferragamo shoes on the ledge and prepared to jump.
Suddenly, a form loomed over him. “Are… are you an angel?” George asked.
“I am,” the creature replied.”
“Are you going to show me how those around me would have been worse off had I never been born?”
“I could, but I don’t lie that easily. Let’s just forget the trip down memory lane and get this over with.” The angel created a gust of wind at George’s back, and he fell to his death.
Big Red Button
by Jeffrey Fischer
When courts outlawed lethal injection because some degenerate mass-murderer complained that it hurt, the justice system was at a loss as to how to execute Hank, who was on Death Row for the kidnap and murder of a child. Hanging, firing squad, gas, and the electric chair had already gone by the wayside, so creativity was required.
One evening, around his usual exercise time, Hank was left in what looked like a control room and told to wait for another guard who would take Hank to the yard. One panel had a big red button and a sticky note that said, “Master lock release – do not push.” Naturally, Hank pushed the button, releasing cyanide gas into the sealed room.
Dead by his own hand. Mission accomplished.
MYSTERY ROBOT JOE
?Found it!? Mara held up an old envelope from the filing cabinets. ?This guy is a banker, but his student loans were in default before we stored everything to the cloud.? Peton, gave her a smirk. Although he was the office clown, he did a very poor job of it. Peton leaned down and quietly said, ?I used to be a banker, but I lost interest.? Mara rolled her eyes at the obvious pun. In a sigh, she stated, ?You would be so much more attractive if you never opened your mouth. Can you just send this off to accounts??
#1 – (George’s Story, part 42) Armed… possibly dangerous
George realised being prepared was little use if he’d no idea what to prepare for. However he was determined to give a good account of himself if Emily’s abductor returned, and to that end, he spent most of the morning arming himself with whatever makeshift weapons he could find.
He even smeared mud across his cheeks – a tip he’d picked up from war movies – and midday found him admiring himself in a hand mirror, (which he intended using to blind his adversary with the sun’s rays).
He curled his lip, Rambo style, and slowly nodded – he was ready.
Fate thought otherwise!
#2 – Spam
There are few things more irritating than a website that forces you to open an account simply to gain access to its content.
That’s why my inbox is always full of spam and masses of unwanted ‘special offers’ and updates. All because I’m given no choice other than to register an account using my email address, just to get past the homepage of literally any site.
I have my revenge though.
The slightest hint of spam and I grab their IP address, set up a massive distributed denial of service attack, sit back and watch the drama unfold.
#3 – Lovely teeth
“Who is this guy, anyway?”, my friend insisted.
“Just someone I met on a dating site. His profile says he’s rich, has exclusive tastes and is a sucker for good looking women. Even if he’s awful, he’s promised me a meal that I’ll never forget!”
“I’m not sure”, she said, “how do you know he’s rich?”
“Oh, he’s loaded – he actually lives in a castle! I’ve seen the pictures, and he even has a title… now what was it? Is he an earl, or a lord? No, I remember – count!
I bet you’ve never had a meal on a count!”
“Terminate Account” blinked on the screen. The technician desperately tried to mend the utter mess created by someone, somewhere, somehow. No one wanted to be blamed for the end of the world, not that it would matter afterwards, so no one said a word. The technician fiddle with the system until the words stopped blinking. Everyone took a deep breath and the room filled with sighs of relief. When the word “terminate” blinked again, it was too late. At the Cosmos Central Agency the blue dot vanished and someone was heard saying “These humans, they’re hopeless. Were…”
School children joined in her python column
though she said little, leading chirpy kids
across ploughed land, the kingdom of the clods,
via its grid of lilliputian levees.
Each was closed and opened day or night
by hoes of farmers when electric pumps sucked up
groundwater. These modern Persian Wheels
drew from a deep source when the ‘bijli’ came,
switched on power according to their quota.
Water was not far down – the artesian Ganges
ran under marshland. She plodded on, then saw
her school with its pipal tree and felt relief.
Here she could push the Yogi from her mind.
Or so she thought. After morning assembly
and first lessons sitting on strips of matting
teachers with their incorrigible canes
drilled mindlessness into mindlessness.
So she hid in the back-room of her own
entering the dusty office before the heat
turned the bricks into a potter’s oven.
She opened accounts, long hand folios
of running blue and blood-red ledger lines
where Margot totalled up her ins and outs:
the cost of textbooks, copies, rulers, pens,
the lack of school fees late as the monsoons.
Almost prescient, mind-reader, Mr Kumara
came in to chat about the school inspector.
Krishanand would be coming soon,
Krishanand would be demanding.
“No accreditation Madam without bribe.”
Krishanand would not be put off!
Krishanand would be harassing us.
“System is bad, who can change it, Madam?”
The school inspector would coerce,
The school inspector would be closing them.
“No choice Madam. Someone has to pay.”
Krishanand will pull strings, Krishanand will poison ears.
Krishanand will not spare a decent soul.
“You must be calling people in Delhi, Madam.
N.G.O. must help or we are finished.”
She listened, turning his tirade down to zero.
It was less pressing than her silent pain.
Yogi might have left, but he didn’t leave her.
He was far off now, but still inside her head.
Accounts had not been settled. Losses incur;
personal debts go deeper into the red.
She’d spoken truth and now regretted it,
and feared he would lose his way with Barhai,
fearing too that she would have to sit
alone in the heat of her hut. Though wouldn’t cry:
she had lived in Paris, learned survival praxis,
she had got through Slaterman, her rotten beau,
endured Pierre her second evil axis,
but the fangs of love grab on and don’t let go.
The thing was to stay at ease
she told herself: go out, observe the school day,
feel the gusts of breeze
testing how papaya trees must sway.
See how Prakriti’s knees
open toward Rajinder — saying “you may”;
and how the marshland bees
go flower to flower, while never going astray.
And high reprise
of a river osprey circling on time delay,
the twitch, unease
of the grey field vole scarpering out of the way.
of calm do not work or help. She thought: Just pray:
“Come back Yogi, please.
This morning was my moment of foul play.”
Almost February again when I make my New Years resolution to keep better tax records. Of course to the dismay of my tax guy. I make that resolution every year after seeing his frustration.
I try to look through a years worth of business expenses and gather end of the year mortgage statements but all I can think of is how much more fun it would be to be a Corporate Knight for Metadyne fighting evil angels and magic files trying to take over the Waking World. The Waking World would be exciting but I’m a Mundane with mundane tasks.
Cabin Fever in New Hampshire
Ayuh, we get our fair share of snow up here.
You can tell a lot about a person by how they handle it.
My neighbor down the road, I swear he tries to catch snowflakes before they hit the ground.
Saw him out shoveling his whole yard one spring just so he could get to work on the lawn.
Me? I do nothing on account it’s gonna melt anyway.
Wife and I just don’t go anywhere in the wintertime. We stock up on food and keep the woodstove going full blast… ninety degrees in here.
We hibernate bare.
Up the Rabbit Hole Part 2
He moved to the back of the room, passed aisles, racks, shelves, and walls
of white banker boxes. A rather small window with a rather small sign
announced the following: Your Account. An indifferent attendant when about
his work. He stepped up and started to introduce himself. “Hello, sir my
name is …” Then it struck him, he had no idea who he was. “Happens all
the time Master He, seems the only thing that can’t get lost in this
universe is a proper name. Oh we got the word, just not the use of it.”
“Are you mad?”
A Well Defined Relationship Part 33
When the Voyage finally came to a rest only Dino Mod was still upright.
“Well that could have been worst,” said Mother. “Will be,” said Sparky.
“We have two forces working against us: Homeostasis and Physics. Doctor
if I cut myself in time what would the outcome be?” “Your skin would …
oh hell.” “Yup in about 20 minutes.” “Mr Banister every action has …”
“An opposite equal reaction.” “Correct we are spin downward, while sit in
a soon to be crushed hull.” “OK, that would constitute worst. How shall I
enter that in the accounts record?” calmly inquired Mother.
Steven knew something was wrong when his debit card was rejected. He tapped his mobile banking app and found that the bank account that he shared with Cheryl had been drained. He quickly called his investment broker and found that his entire portfolio had been liquidated. Obviously, Cheryl had finally decided to leave him and, in the process, take every dime he had. At least, every dime she knew about. He’d never told her about the offshore account that held the money he’d skimmed from his employer. Cheryl had taken nearly a hundred grand but missed over twelve million dollars.
Sometimes, being a mob boss is kinda tedious. I mean, you don’t get the brightest employees. For instance, when Vinnie brought a guy into my office, I asked who he was.
“He’s the guy you asked for, boss.”
“Whaddya talking about?” I says. “I told you to bring me the books. You know, the ones we hide from the feds? I said to bring me the accounts. Not some guy in a tux!”
“Oh, sorry. I thought you said to bring you a count.”
That’s when the old man stood up and smiled. I saw his fangs.
“Good evening. “
You were the new girl in town
Your big, noisy Irish family,
That bucketfull of kids–
In the summer of 1976,
You moved to my neighborhood.
We danced on my lawn.
You wanted to be a cheerleader,
Like your big sister.
And I practiced with you–
When we were done,
We closed our eyes
Up at the hazy August sky,
Our lips bright pink,
Stained from popsicles,
Lying in the moist grass,
Planning our conquests.
You made it,
And left me behind.
I was not angry.
I was the old girl, the good friend
The one who stayed in back,
“You’ve known me fourteen years, Mr. Carrompocket,” Dirgle told the bank account manager across his expensive mahogany desk. “You processed my deposit just last week.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dunderspawn, if that is your real name. I can’t find any record of your accounts, the DMV says you don’t exist, and your social security number belongs to a four month old baby in Winnemucca, Nevada. I’m afraid I’ll have to turn your information over to the police and the FBI.”
Mr. Carrompocket stood and said, “Look at the bright side, Dirgle. If you don’t exist, you don’t have to pay taxes.”
The human being that you are will be judged. Justifiably so, by a society that has set the rules by which we are all to be judged, which we are all to held account to. The true Glenn A. Larson way of thinking. Family values set in a fictional future, without any substance. In essence, you are free to copulate without birth control, you have been rendered incapable of any reproduction. Oh, fine, how exactly am I supposed to take account of my life in this Larsonian world, just take a knife an slice my penis off? Damn you, N.B.C, 1979!.
He wants to suck your blood! His lair tunnels through the ground, in the center is the queen.
He sleep in a shell below the earth, one he carried that is many times heavier than his own weight.
During the night if you picnic he may steal your food before he steals your blood.
You can step on him and he will not die, but if you have wooden cleats on, or poke him with a twig, he will perish.
If your numbers are off, he can figure them out for you.
Who is he? He’s an a Count Ant.
Another Pep Talk
By Christopher Munroe
There will come a day, I know, when I will be held to account for my actions.
A day where every wrong I’ve ever done, every hurt I’ve visited upon those who least deserve it, every moment of weakness or childishness, of short-sighted, arrogant selfishness, will be thrown back in my face, that I might look upon the depth and breadth of every sin I’ve ever committed upon another, and the hurt my sin has caused them.
And when that day comes, truly will I know despair.
However, this is not that day.
Now: Lets get out to the pub.
It’s all about choice, right?
First, we had all those radio and TV stations.
Then came cable.
Blockbuster came and went.
We bought a bunch of DVDs at Best Buy.
Now, I’ve got Netflix and Amazon Prime.
I don’t even need the video on Amazon Prime.
I just want my shit to arrive faster.
Then there’s music on Youtube, but I hatemaking playlists .
That’s what Pandora is for, right?
The thing even knows what stuff I like, too.
Just like Netflix. And Amazon Prime. And every other service.
All this noise! I’ve got a fuckin headache…
How about some silence?