A Love For Spuds

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Arthur finished his third bowl of mashed potatoes and let loose a fond sigh.
“I love mashed potatoes,” he said. “I love them oh so much.”
Emily had heard this once too many times that evening. “So why don’t you marry them?”
The ink and gravy stains weren’t dry on the divorce papers before Arthur headed to Vegas to marry his beloved mashed potatoes.
The preacher, just finished marrying a pair of Star Wars-loving store clerks, muttered “She’s quite a… side dish?”
The preacher took his money, performed the ceremony, and let the Health Department and courts fight it out.

In Russia, The Hundred Breaks You!

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Night. Fog. Cold.
Where am I?
Wherever it is, I’m not in the best part of it.
Hungry, confused. Cell phone’s dead.
Ugly, dirty faces pass by. Almost feral.
Markings in… some strange language?
Is it language?
I feel in my back pocket, take out my wallet.
It is overflowing with one hundred dollar bills.
Hungry.
No restaurants around. Just shabby vending machines.
“Where can I get food?”
They grunt in… what language is that?
I walk up to a machine. I…
It only takes coins.
“Can you break-”
I stop. I see the knife.
This is when you run.

Abraham

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Freedom. So many have given their lives to preserve it.
For some, freedom meant an end to slavery. For me, it meant being able to use stem cells – and a heap of grant money – to perfect replicant technology. Cloned humans.
Think of the possibilities! Replacement organs. Better: being able to answer the age-old question: What if?
I had to know. It was a bitch getting the DNA, but somehow I managed.
He comes out of the gel-tank tomorrow. Twelve weeks of deep-sleep hypnopaedia, and he’ll be ready for his stovepipe hat.
Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Abraham Linclone.

Special delivery

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Lots of nines on the odometer, each one showing up quicker than the last.
Wheel in one hand and phone in the other, Bill was ready to snap a photo of the big rollover.
“Million Mile Club gets you a bonus,” said the boss. “Gets you moved to a better shift, too.”
Bill had covered a day shift for Hector once. It was much more interesting than weekends.
As the zeroes started to appear, Bill pushed the button.
Nothing. No flash.
Did it work?
While Bill fiddled with the camera, his van slid off of the bridge into the river.

Weekly Challenge #30 – Leaf

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Welcome to the thirtieth 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 selected by Caroline from Quadra Island: Leaf.
Ten stories were submitted this week. Double digits!
No rookies this week. I guess all those people reading the Pickle Tales who said they’d join in were just blowing smoke up my ass.
And, as always, the usual madness by Planet Z.
Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

Who wrote the best story in the Weekly Challenge #30?
Elisson of blog d’Elisson
Caroline from Quadra Island
Laieanna of HodgePodge Point
Lisa from Lemons and Lollipiops
Beck from Incite
Caleb from The Black Tie Martini Club
T.A. Marquette of Footnote
Andrew from Dodgeblogium
B
Houston Keys from Tater Tots for the Masses
The Deranged Bard of Planet Z
  
Free polls from Pollhost.com


WE GOTS PRIZES:
I will be sending the winner the cost of a cup of coffee through PayPal. And who’s on the five dollar bill? Heh heh heh…
So listen, vote, and tune in next week to find out who won!


The full text to each story…
CAROLINE

Shattered like a broken pot, two many pieces to put together, I sit under the tree, pondering my fate. He left yesterday, this time for good. I have to get out. I need to be alone. It is not autumn, yet the leaf gently floats down. It is quite brown, and fully formed. Perfect. I look up. The sunlight twinkles through winking at me. Winking! At a time like this? And yet, and yet through it all I feel a quiet peace enveloping me. I would be all right, more joy. Taking the leaf, I lightly run home.

LAIEANNA
It wasn’t long before Allie found just the right pattern to fit her need. And it was a beauty. Everyone loved Allie’s leaf. It was a mixture of yellow, gold, orange, red, and even a bit of remaining green. Her leaf was admired no matter where she went. Strangers were constantly coming up to her at all times of the day. It was even photographed for a local magazine. Never did she plan on having her leaf become such a crowd pleasure. For Allie, she just wanted the tattoo to mask large, ugly veins on the back of her hand.

LISA
In a coma for fifteen years, Janie shocked staff and her family when she started to move one day.
For the next three days, she’d open one eye, look around, and agitatedly moan, “leeeeaaaaf”. Her family brought in leaves for her, consulted with psychologists; nobody could figure out what Janie wanted.
Her sister arrived from overseas and finally solved the mystery. She went back to her parents’ home, to the room she’d shared with her sister and brought Janie the last thing she’d seen in her own bed back in 1981, a 16X20 glossy of Leif Garrett.
Janie finally smiled.

BECK
You have clearly lost your fucking mind.
You honestly mean to tell me that for the past thousand years, generation after generation of your family has trained for the day when they would be called upon by God to assassinate the Leader of the greatest nation on earth?
You are aware that the United States has not existed for one thousand years? Just checking.
It’s too bad the leaves aren’t falling thickly enough to conceal the evidence of your manifest failure. Turns out, two years of correspondence classes in Criminal Law trump a thousand years of training. Gotta love Capitalism.

CALEB
“Hi Honey I’m Home”
“I’m going back to mothers!”
“But Pumpkin…”
“You told me you’d reform. You told me you’d give up your violent ways!”
“Baby, ever since we got married I spend my days playing with the Angels and sprinkling fairy dust”
“More like playing with fairies and selling angel dust you mean! Gladys said you was high as a kite and stomping the village again. You know that kind of thing just gives giants a bad name!”
“But it wasn’t me…”
“So you didn’t destroy the Rosenblatz-O’Shaugnessy reception?”
“No.”
“Then why’s this table leaf stuck in your boot?”

TOM
“Rudy give me a hand with that bag of leaf,” said Larry. “Don’t you mean leaves the plural form of the noun. Such a lovely confluence of Scandinavian and Saxon linguistic bases noted by the interpolation of the v over the f ,” droned Rudy. “No this is leaf,” declared Larry opening the black garage bag to Rudy’s ever widening eyes. “WOWie” said Rudy. “No Santa Cruz Sens,” returned Larry, “Grown on the slopes of Loma Prieta repelled 200 feet down a cliff to pick it.” “By the way where’s David?” Larry asked. ” Dave’s not here man.” puffed Rudy

ELISSON
John Rolfe surveyed the plantation, arms akimbo, forehead beaded with sweat in the Virginia sun.
The new crop was doing well. Every year, the quality improved and yields increased. Feeding the new European craze was making Rolfe a rich man.
A good thing, too, he thought. Pocahontas, for all her being an Indian maiden, had become a high-maintenance wife. A real Jamestown American Princess, that one.
Who would have imagined that inhaling the smoke from burning leaves would be so pleasurable to so many?
Rolfe smiled, thinking: Centuries from now, they’ll still remember the man who brought Ganja-Farming to Virginia.

ANDREW
I was leafing through a dusty tome of mine as the leaves fell outside on a cool autumn day.
It was a book I had neglected for many years, one of chaos magic that could be turgid at times. The book was on my shelf for all to see next to my collection of quantum theory texts and my grimoires.
As I reached the end of the tome and turned to read about the author a leaf of paper gently floated onto my feet.
I picked it up and began to read.
“My dearest coleague…Ordo Templaris Chaoticus invites you to…”

B

Thanksgiving dinner and 10 unexpected additional guests. Where the hell was
she going to put everyone? Fran whispered to her husband, “Would you please leave the table as quickly as possible? We need the extra room.”
30 minutes later she asked her brother, “Would YOU please leave the table? There’s just not enough table space. Hurry!”
Dinner’s ready and so are the guests but no one had done what she’d asked! Lazy bunch of assholes!
Looking all over, she finally found her husband and brother in the den, ‘You could have at least put ONE fucking leaf in the table?’

HOUSTON KEYS

Dispatch Dallas 911.
Caller Help! I got a leaf problem!
Dispatch Ma’am, did you say a leaf problem?
Caller YES! See here, I was over at Horace’s place and he had some plants. I was feeling kind of freaky so I grabbed a handful and rolled ’em up and smoked ’em!
Dispatch Ma’am, you smoked some leaves? What kind were they?
Caller I don’t know. I tried to remember the rhyme, “Leaves of three, leave them be, leaves of five, get you high,” but I might have screwed up.
Dispatch You smoked some poison ivy?
Caller Yeah, I think so, I’m really itchin’ for some twinkies! Hurry! Hurry!

PLANET Z

Sam pulled out his gun and pointed to the topmost leaf on the old maple tree.
“I bet I can shoot that leaf,” said Sam.
“I can do you one better,” said Oliver.
He pulled out… a boomerang.
Sam laughed when Oilver threw the boomerang away from the tree, but wasn’t laughing when it clipped off the leaf on the final turn.
The boomerang fell into one of Oliver’s hands, and the leaf fell into the other.
“I win,” said Oliver.
Sam shot the leaf, blowing a hole in Oliver’s hand.
“That wasn’t the bet,” said Sam. “Pay up, asshole.”


Thanks to everyone for sending in their stories, and I look forward to what you’ve got to write (and say) next week.
The theme for next week’s Weekly Challenge will be posted shortly.
(In case you’re interested, I’ve settled on “Clair de Lune” as the opening music and “Moonshine” by Michael Oldfield from the Tubular Bells II album.)

And then there were seven

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I looked up from the battered, scratched pass to look again at her garishly made-up face.
“National Spiritual Advisor?” I asked.
After several checks, National Spiritual Advisor Melinda Gauche’s security pass was stamped VALID.
She smiled. “Ronnie was so nice to indulge his Nancy,” said Gauche, adjusting her veils.
“Follow me,” I said, leading the jangling mysticist down the hall.
When she entered the room and laid her charts on the table, the discussions stopped.
“What’s wrong, Spooky?” asked the President.
“I can’t chart it,” said Gauche. “Uranus is missing.”
I swear, the president turned to the Surgeon General first.

The Wormholy Land

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The official name of the technology is Geographic Phase Displacement, but it’s marketed as Phasics.
Got a land dispute? Just set up a Phasics engine, set the boundaries of the field, and now both parties can occupy the region at the same time.
The Nobel Prize for Physics went to its inventor, and then three years later the Peace Prize went to resolution of the ancient conflict over the Temple Mount and Haram Al-Sharif.
Phasics engines were spread throughout the territory, and refugees hopefully and joyously poured into the parallel Al-Quds pocket-reality.
Problem solved.
So, why isn’t the terrorism stopping?

Handling the pressure

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Arthur’s control panel was a thing of beauty.
So many switches, so many dials, and so many pretty green lights.
Day after day, Arthur would sit in his chair and whistle a happy tune.
When one of the lights turned yellow, Arthur stopped whistling.
He tapped the bulb a few times, just to see if it would change.
It stayed yellow.
Looking in the manual, a yellow light meant… something… to be… corrected.
So, like all the other yellow lights before it, Arthur got out his marker and colored the lightbulb green.
Arthur’s whistling covered the pressure valve leak nicely.

You shoah me yours, I’ll shoah you mine

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Despite eating five meals a day, Schultz was as thin as a rail.
The doctors tore out too much, he thought, and he fell asleep listening to the camp radio.
He woke suddenly, hearing the alert.
The Americans are coming!
Schultz looked around the camp, but his comrades were long gone.
All that was left were… those filthy survivors.
Schultz shed his uniform, rolled in the ashen dirt, and stumbled along with the skeletal crowd.
The Americans caught up with his group, put blankets over their shoulders, and led them to a Red Cross station.
“Goldstein of Lvov,” groaned Schultz.

From the future’s footlights a dim bulb sputters

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I went into the archives, pulled the tapes, and threw them in my satchel.
With the originals gone, people would have to rely on the edited copies that had spread throughout the world over the years.
Then, I went into the labs, stepped into the Epimetheus Booth, and removed the handset.
“Number, please?” said a voice.
“July 20,” I said. “1969.”
“Thank you,” said the voice, and I heard the connection tones.
I pulled the slip of paper in my pocket, but I’d stuck my gum in it earlier.
It covered the “a” in “One small step for a man.”