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 Christopher Munroe
An anniversary requires an appropriate gift.
For the eighth, according to tradition, that gift is Steel.
Google is useful.
So I figured, tonight, we’d slip into something a little more comfortable, all of us, every listener, every author and you, Laurence, then we’d cuddle up on the couch, together, again, all of us, pour ourselves some wine, and pop in a DVD.
Specifically, the DVD of the movie Steel, starring Shaquille O’Neal as the titular character. The film is a train-wreck, but tradition is tradition, after all…
Shush, don’t speak, no words are needed.
So: What’s for dinner?
To Serve Man
by Jeffrey Fischer
Jack found himself stranded on an island with plenty of vegetation but no meat, save for a talking rabbit who had befriended Jack. Still, as much as he valued their friendship, as days passed, the rabbit looked increasingly tasty. One day, he asked the rabbit to join him for dinner. He prepared a variety of vegetables and added them to a stew pot. As the concoction started to come to a boil, he made a grab for the rabbit. “Some friend you are!” squeaked the rabbit as it ran away.
Before Jack could devise a plan to get the rabbit to return, an enormous bird swooped from the sky, plucked Jack from where he stood, and deposited him into the stew pot. The rabbit waved at the bird and collected his payment of a dozen carrots.
by Jeffrey Fischer
When Sarah returned from her first semester living off campus, her mother said, “If you’re going to live here, you need to take a turn at dinner. Make us something you’d cook for your friends.”
Sarah dutifully bought supplies at the local supermarket and set to work. When the meal was ready, she called her parents to the dinner table. Each place had before it a bowl containing orange pasta, tomato sauce, and a variety of spices. Next to each bowl was a pill.
Her father looked at the setting and asked what he was supposed to be eating. “It’s my own recipe: mac and cheese, spaghetti sauce, and any three spices in the cabinet.”
“What’s the pill?”
“After the first few times I served this, I learned that it went best with an antacid.”
My wife always asked the same question when she came home after work. “What’s for dinner?” We took turns: cooking, shopping, cleaning the toilets, washing dishes, making the beds, doing the laundry, scheduling the yard work, on top or on the bottom, and so on. The marriage was a partnership…no…more like a small business operation. The last time I cooked for her, I made it a very “special” dinner. My unique ingredients, including the garnish for her plate, cannot be disclosed here, as it would be cause for investigation. As you know there is no statute of limitations for murder.
Mom was a nurse, and aware of what we should eat. When I asked “What’s for dinner?”, she would say: “Son, it’s a special meal tonight. We are having butylated hydroxytoluene, monosodium glutamate, citric acid, polydextrose, zinc oxide, yellow #5, high fructose corn syrup, xanthan gum, propylene glycol, polysorbate 60, caramel color, malic acid, some wood pulp, and some grapes. This was a long time ago. Today’s dinner would have dozens more “delicious” ingredients, would probably taste better because of the additives, and would be more filling because of the unique supplements, including rodent hair, fish bladders and coal tar.
I could smell it when I pulled into the driveway. I asked “what’s for dinner?” I knew already…a tuna casserole. It was easy to throw together. It was like eating a gas leak. You could smell it, see it, and you knew that if you had too much of it, it would probably kill you. Had she foregone the spices, the dinner would have been much better and palatable. She overdid the spices and the crumbled blue cheese sprinkled over the pasta mixture. It turned out to be a big rectangle of gelatinous, yellowish paste, and it tasted like ass.
Experience has taught me that – depending on circumstances – there are some questions that it’s usually better not to ask.
Never, for example, ask a friend “Does this outfit make me look fat?”
When pulled over by a policeman, never ask them why they’re not using their time catching real criminals.
And never ask for a person’s full sexual history on a first date.
Most important of all, unless you have a particularly strong stomach, when traveling in Korea, China or Japan, never but never, ask what’s for dinner.
Because they might just tell you!
And refusal often offends.
Car died in The Double tree
I get an email at 1:40 informing me artwork has been accepted for a show setting up at 8:00 in San Jose. Four in bumper to bumper I pull into the hotel parking lot. Stering and electrical dies. Call Triple A, its the alturnator. Call Gail, who calls Amy, who calls me. Lost in hotel parking Amy calls. Bout this moment I’m the cell is most important tool I own. We pull into Fremont at 10:30. All I want is bathwater and food. Wonder what I’ll have for dinner. Comfort food
There comes a point in a marriage, when all of the magic has gone, and all you’re left with is the depressing realisation that this is as good as it’s ever going to get.
You resign yourself to a future of futile fallings out and bitter disagreements about who’s going to put out the bins, those irritating habits your spouse insists are in your imagination, and conversational exchanges limited to the bare bones of necessary information…
What are you watching?
Why were you late home from work?
What’s for dinner?…
Arsenic dear, with a helping of hemlock on the side!
The children looked at their plates, disappointed.
“Can’t we have something different for a change?”
“Be grateful, there’s food on the table,” replied the headmistress.
Some of the kids sulked, others refused to eat. When lunch ended, most of the food went back to the kitchen, untouched.
“What should I do with this?” asked the head cook.
“Give it to the dogs. There’s no room in the fridge. And when you go by the cemetery later today, don’t bring the hands. The kids don’t like seeing fingers floating in the soup. Oh, well, at least the dogs will be happy.”
Mickey helped the unnamed girl across the street to the Chicken King restaurant.
“Mmmm. What’s for dinner?” she asked when they pushed through the front door.
“Chicken, of course,” Mickey said. “But you shouldn’t eat anything. You may have a concussion.”
“Oh right. I forgot,” she said with a sheepish smile.
“What’s going on?” Mandy asked, walking around the counter to them.
“This girl got hit on the head. She has amnesia. I need to take her to the hospital.”
“Let me see,” Mandy said, examining the girl’s scalp. “Mickey. This girl’s pulling your leg. This isn’t blood. I’s ketchup.”
What’s for dinner?
Squeak, we called him, because of his squeaky little voice. Our little brother, but little for his age too, never got strong enough to make himself useful. Not much in his head either. When Squeak was hungry, which was all the time, he squeak “What for dinner?” over and over. Boiled potatoes and salt, usually.
I don’t really know what became of him. I didn’t notice him for a few days, and when I asked, Da said he’d fallen from a tree. We never talked more, not even among us brothers. Times were hard, and what else could you do?
Bud Abbott and Lou Costello took the “Who’s on First?” routine all around the world.
They milked it for all they could.
Once, they tried to do a tour of Africa, but their plane went down in the jungle.
Bud and Lou were captured by cannibals, who threatened to eat them.
The comedians thought quickly on their feet and came up with “Who’s for Dinner?”
“No, What’s for dinner,” growled Abbott. “Who’s on First Base.”
“What’s on Second Base?” cried Costello.
“I don’t know!” replued Abbott.
“Third base!” they both shouted.
While the cannibals laughed, they ran for their lives.