Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.
This is Weekly Challenge Number Two Hundred and Ninety-Three, 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 Cookie
And we’ve got stories by:
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The more people see this on Google Plus, Facebook, and Twitter – the more explaining you’ll have to do with your loved ones, coworkers, and parole officers.
So I go online to order a Chinese, and there’s my own name already on
the web page, and, “How about your favorite Hot Singapore Noodles
tonight?” WTF? I fire an email saying “don’t you tell me what I want,
*I* tell *you*”. Dammit, the Singapore Noodles *are* my favorite but
I’m not giving them the satisfaction.
It’s the cookies. Can’t deal with anyone online without them sticking
cookies all over you, it’s the mark of Revelations without which no
man might buy nor sell, save that he accepted the cookie.
When does Revelations say the Cookie Monster shows up?
She was a tough cookie. She had her hand on my thigh and an eye on my bank account. She did special favors for me, and would leave a plate of brownies or pie at my door, two times a week. She wanted to fatten me up, figuring my heart would explode and I would leave her a bundle in my will. She watched my weight and my health more than I did. She encouraged me to spend time reading and watching videos, figuring the sedentary lifestyle would aid my early demise. My will left everything to the Humane Society.
She only had one cookie, but it was enough for all of us. We all took turns taking a bite of her cookie. She only came through town on weekends, and we got in line, early on Saturday, knowing she’d be here a little after supper time. We had to eat supper at the café before we were allowed a bite of dessert. Her bodyguards were positioned close by to oversee the presentation. Each of us, in turn approached her, our hands behind our backs, as touching was not allowed, to take a polite and deliberate nibble of her cookie.
That cookie looked good. I came in from a run hungry. It was just
sitting there. I knew it wasn’t mine, but I wanted it.
I pulled some stuff off of the table and let it fall to the floor.
Now, the dog should get blamed. I went over to her and scratched her
under her ears. I smiled at her.
I went back to the cookie. Still looked good, very tempting and the
stage was set. I reached for it when I heard the front door open.
“A dog almost got your cookie,” I yelled.
I brought cookies, though I know you’re about as likely to accept them as you are to accept my apology.
If I were in your position, I wouldn’t forgive me, so I suppose I can’t expect any different of you.
Why would you forgive me? You don’t owe me anything.
Plus, I’m a god-awful baker, I’m not sure the cookies are even edible.
But I had to do something. After what I did, I figure I owe you at least a gesture. Hence: The cookies.
I’ll leave them here, by the door. You can fetch them once I’m long gone…
Dr. Wiley had spent this entire career getting to this point. He’d never felt so alive, well not since he had been a kid. When he was a kid, life had always been great. Every day filled with joy and happiness. That was until Clyde had moved to town, junior year. Clyde had taken everything, his girl his spot on the football team, his spot as valedictorian, everything. The last straw had been, well that didn’t matter. He set the time machine and got in.
He reached out to the startled boy in front of him.
“That is my cookie.”
Me, Cookie. Me, no original cookie that was on Television. Me big Cookie from toy store. One day Me see really big guy. He buy me and take me to his house. Guy called Big C. Big C does something called BearCrawling podcast http://bearcrawlingnation.com/ were he talks to people on Stickam. It have chat room. Big C read chat room and say “Really! Really? Dammit Zackmann, I am not a plushophile.“ then Big C pat me on head and say “Don’t worry Cookie, I don’t love you that way. I hate Yarn Burn.” Me sleep with eyes open.
Hugh was reading about solar power and saw an article about a way to warm hot dogs then thought if he make it bigger, he could make a house out of cookie dough and find a use for Costco sized quantities of baking goods. The neighborhood kids ate Hugh’s cookie house and autumn rains destroyed what they did not. Hugh remembered a news story a woman who made a house out of gingerbread and she got so mad that children kept eating her house that she started a rumor that she ate children to keep them away from her house.
Cookie Laroo was an exotic dance at
San José’s legendary Pink Poodle.
She did this thing with a stack of quarters
That would blow your mind
Ed Frovishor came in ever Sunday afternoon
After Sunday-school class to watch
Cookies do that cookie thing. He said he
Could feel the presence of god. His wife
Gladys was happy to get him out of the
House until the Pastor dropped by for
Sunday night dinner. Tuna casserole is
Some serious business in the Frovisher household
The pastor was never late cuss Ed and he
Would leave the Poodle together.
Praise the Lord.
Chris the Nuclear Kid
What did we do to deserve such cruelty? They burn us till we cannot
move. Being forced to wait for our doom. And they put us in round
upside-down domes where we sit there, unmoving, waiting for their
return, dreading what is to come. It happens all the time, and now, it
is my turn.
I sit in the dome thing and wait. There is a tall green triangle in
the corner with smaller square objects under it. Then, to my horror, I
see the gigantic red and white demon. A ravenous monster, a legend
among my kind.
Steven the Nuclear Man
”You’re ten,” Mom says. “Old enough to make the cookies for Santa.”
I look up and stop cleaning my hamster’s cage. “Am I old enough to get
Mom winces. “I’m sorry, honey. I think Santa ran out.”
My dad yells from the living room. “Dammit, Brenda, get me another beer.”
Mom winces again, and gets him another can. Our recycling bin is almost full.
She leaves me with the ingredients.
Later, I leave the cookies for Santa.
Mom smiles. “What kind did you make?”
“Chocolate chip,” I say, and head to bed with my hamster’s very clean cage.
Cookie was another high priced prostitute who lived in the shadow of the Nabisco factory, just off of route 208 in Fairlawn, New Jersey. Cookie was best friends with “Bubbles,” who was now somewhere in Holland with her boyfriend on some insane search for the Hollish. Cookie liked living up to her name, she ate cookies all the time, during work, during sex, plus during sex while at work. Cookies favorite morning was Tuesdays, when the Nabisco factory was making Nilla Wafers, so at least once a week, Cookie’s neighborhood no longer smelled like an oil refinery, it smelled like heaven.
Kesso Fromage of the cheeze police was called to a crime scene in the wee hours one sunday morning. She tip-toed through the wrecked bakery and struggled to keep her previous evenings dinner down.
Cookies of all description and size were scattered indiscriminately across counters, work tables and the floor. Written on each, in cursive script, formed from softened American processed cheese, was the capitol letter ‘S’.
“Cheese belongs on crackers,” Kesso said and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. “This flagrant violation of the cheddar cheese protocol can only be the work of Sleezy Wheezer, the Easy Cheeze squeezer.”
I warned Billy not to eat cookies before dinner, but I caught him with his hand in the cookie jar again.
So, the cookies are in a lockbox on a high shelf in a locked pantry.
“Have a piece of fruit,” I tell him.
But he’s obsessed with getting a cookie.
“Make a healthy cookie from fruit,” whispered the muse, and I rushed to the kitchen to make a batch of fruit cookies.
I guarded them as they cooled, then put them in the old cookie jar.
Billy took one, bit into it, and vomited.
He’s back on heroin now.