Weekly Challenge #528 – Your Earliest Memory

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:

Box Tinny


This Land is My Land
by Jeffrey Fischer

After months at sea, we all felt relief to see land again. The ship anchored in a harbor. I led a small party to shore. As captain, it was my honor to be the first to step foot on the virgin land. I did so, planting our flag and speaking the words I had rehearsed: “I claim this territory, from this shore to the next, in the name of our sovereign.”

Of course, I wasn’t speaking English, but you get the idea. My memory of it is quite distinct. I have been reincarnated many times, and one of my earlier lives was the first person to ever come to the Americas. That means I have dibs. It’s all mine, Chief, every square inch.

The Event
by Jeffrey Fischer

The memory is indelible: I was warm, snug, and content in my cocoon. I certainly didn’t want to leave. Then came the cold and a blinding light. I fought to stay where I was, but someone yanked me from my hideaway. I’m sure I cried.

“Get up, you big baby,” my father said, glaring at me and throwing the covers to the floor. “We agreed to this weeks ago. I’m not asking for much: just start looking for a summer job so you can earn some money for college so you don’t bankrupt me. It’s not like I’m ripping you from the womb.”


My earliest memory was the death of my twin. It was misclassified as a crib death. Timmy’s head was stuck between oak bars of the Ikea crib for two days, while the baby sitter smoked crack and my parents vacationed in El Cabo. My uncle, a decisive thief, suffered a form of crib death as well. He broke into a furniture store one night to crack the safe and to steal a crib for his newborn. He attracted the attention of a dozing night watchman, and during a brief gun battle, succumbed to a chest wound at the guard’s hand.


An early memory. A very early memory, is that of my time swimming in a large pool of warm, amniotic fluid, tethered to a round, pulpy sea creature by my belly button. Really scary looking stuff I imagined, since I could only feel it, and I couldn’t see it. I imagined everything to be squishy, veiny, purple, and icky looking. I did spend a lot of time squirming around, tumbling in the warm medium, and was only disturbed a few times during my stay by another grunting creature trying to worm it’s way into my secure cave in the evening.


A memory that will live for me in infamy was the day I succumbed to the new, shiny, 320i Beemer my new lady friend drove. I wanted to drive that car, to wax it, to wind it up tight in third gear on the highway, to drift around some slow curves on the pass, to wind the tach to red line in expressway traffic. This car pulled me into a relationship that I wish I could expunge with a quick dose of something, or a memory wipe of some kind. I eventually had my way with the car, of course.


#1 – Hungry

My earliest memory? That’s easy – it was seeing you for the first time just now.

Nothing like a stranger turning up with snacks when you’ve not eaten for as long as you can remember.

Not that my memory is good: We goldfish aren’t renowned for our long term recollection!

And what’s that you have? Food! Marvelous! I haven’t eaten, for… Well, as long as I recall.

Do I know you? I forget… One of the downsides of being a goldfish: Seven seconds and then… Poof! Gone.

Oh, is that food you have? Excellent… I haven’t eaten for… Well, ages.

#2 – Memories

My earliest memory was implanted on June fifteenth 1997 – my fortieth birthday, which might seem a little late in life to be establishing a past, but up to then I didn’t really know where my life was heading.

So many people form their memories far too early, I think… By the time they’ve got themselves a career, settled down and made their plans for a satisfying future, they’ve accumulated years of baggage, disappointment and bad decisions, clogging up their minds and exerting a stranglehold on their future.

Not for me though, life is great… As far as I remember!


My first memory
The doctors tell me that my first memory is from when I was two. Not to me. I can see that memory sitting in my head, but it doesn’t feel like mine.

To me, my first real memory is waking up in cryonics recovery. Everything from before I died feels like a story I know but never experienced. The doctors talk about “dissociative memory disorder”, blaming the patient so they can call cryonic revival a success.

So it is, for me. My predecessor died, and his past is a museum exhibit in my head. The sense of freedom is dizzying.


“I died and went to Heaven. Heaven is very cold. My wife ordered me to bring a pullover. She knitted it for me. The last thing I recall is those men forcing me to wear it. Heaven is also quite intriguing. I thought I’d meet God, angels, and good-hearted people but my earliest memory of being in Heaven is when I almost turned into food. Now, I’m a pet. Good thing growling Mathilda (as I call her) is warm and cuddly. Still today, I wonder why my wife sent me to Heaven, although I seriously doubt it’s really called Heaven.”


Story: Your Earliest Memory

I am your earliest memory.

I was there when you burst from the warmth and safety of your mother’s womb, screaming and helpless into a dangerous world.

And I have stalked you ever since.

I have watched from the deep shadows in your bedroom in the night; I have followed you along unfamiliar dark alleyways; I’ve peered over your shoulder while you await bad news, and listened in to the unexpected phone call in the early hours of the morning…

I was with you at the beginning and I will accompany you to the very end…

For I am… Fear!


By Christopher Munroe

It’s said that your earliest memory’s the one that matters most. It’s the one that shapes you, going forward, turns you into the person you eventually become. It’s the memory you can’t escape, because it’s the one that, more than any other, IS you.

That’s why they’re called “Formative Years.”

For me, it’s my aunt, in the early eighties, dressed as though she were Boy George, singing Blondie to me in the crib.

One way, or another…

I’m going to find you…

I’m going to get’cha, get’cha, get’cha, get’cha….

And that is, essentially, everything you need to know about me.


The Greatest
My earliest memory of the man was the 1960 Olympics. I have never been much of a prizefighting fan but Clay was amazingly fast. Fists just blurred across the screen. When he said he had no quarrel with them Vietcong, he was so spot on. My sentiments exactly. When they took away his titles it reminded me of what happen to Jim Thorpe. White people love to fuck with people of color. Then he made this world class come back. I wish I could write as well as Norman Mailer. He totally captured the Ali thing in The Fight.


We were downstairs, in the family room.
My twin brother, Roger, and I were sitting on the piano bench. We were inseparable for the first twelve years of our lives. Our oldest sister, Susan, was sitting on the brown couch with a red heat lamp shinning on her shoulders.
Susan was my sister. She watched out for me. Roger had Donna to keep an eye on him.
The next day, Susan went to the hospital and died from leukemia.
We all lost our sister. But, I lost my sister.
Susan was nine years old. Roger and I were almost two.


I was barely born, considering it was a normal birth, if C-sections among 40 year olds are a normal birth in 1968, with the usual circumcision shortly thereafter. No, I’m not Jewish, but my mother was convinced it was a hygiene thing, because my dad was un-circumcised, and mom was obviously totally disgusted by it. So I’m circumcised. No wonder it took literally 20 years of marriage before their only son was born, or it took literally 20 years of marriage to figure out to have a child. Anyway, mom is holding me, and Belle is slobbering all over me. There, my earliest memory.


The building is shaking.
My phone reads zero zero zero one.
It’s a minute after twelve.
I use military time on all my clocks for some reason.
I guess AM and PM look alike when you’re too drunk to see straight.
And with all the lights, night can be like day, and day can be like night.
I wipe the sweat from my eyes, put down my phone, and try to go back to sleep.
The building is still shaking.
Wait, I’m not in a building.
I’m on a plane. The plane is shaking.
I cover my eyes.
And sleep.

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