“Come with me, CUPCAKE!” One of my favorite lines from J.J. Abrams reboot of the Star Trek Franchise. It’s a line that seems both appropriate and timeless in our current age. Case in point, I’m watching the latest episode of Dr. Who, and Bill is shocked to hear the Doctor’s response to her question about freewill, “You had freewill, and look at what you did with it. Worse than that, you had history. History was saying to you, ‘look, I have some examples of fascism for you to look at.’ No. ‘Fundamentalism?’ No.” Quite a mess our current state, CUPCAKE!
Author: R.
Weekly Challenge #580 – Cupcake
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:
JEFFREY
The Cupcake Craze
by Jeffrey Fischer
When cupcakes became a fad, I ignored it. No chance that I’d spend 45 minutes standing in line on a hot sidewalk in the middle of the day in summer for the opportunity to purchase 600 calories and 20 grams of fat for $3.25, contained in a product small enough to slip in your pocket. Well, if you were okay with a very messy pocket.
I don’t blame the entrepreneurial skill of bakers taking advantage of the fad. I blame consumers willing to participate in an orgiastic ritual of overeating.
Oh, it’s my turn? I’ll take three of the Red Velvet, please.
CHARLIE
I think cupcakes are stupid. When served a cupcake by my mother in law, I drop it, and it always lands face down on her fancy, Turkish rug. She hasn’t learned her lesson yet.
I don’t think a blue collar guy would buy one. If anyone saw him eating it, they would think he was a ladyboy. My son pulled one out of his lunch bag one morning. I slapped it out of his hand, and asked him where he got it. He said the cute, neighbor boy gave it to him. It figures. My son is a big sissy.
2.
The cupcake was the brainchild of Millie Marsepan, a baker and Massachusetts resident. She observed a lot of wealthy, rotund ladies stuffing themselves on cakes and pastries during afternoon tea. They would sit eating, nervously wiping their lips, and watching and listening for anyone in the tea room that might be making remarks about the group of fat ladies eating so much cake, and eating it so furiously.
Millie figured that the smaller cupcake size could be concealed in a napkin or the folds of garments and scarves, thus allowing the ladies to stuff more treats into their voracious gobs.
3.
Ramekins for my Lambikins. Every Saturday, I make a special treat for my poochies. A special cupcake for each dog, made in porcelain ramekins.
They are decorated with a flourish of piped on flowers made of peanut butter and liverwurst. The topping is made in a food processor. I use a special tip for the pastry bag.
I mix 1/2 cup each cornmeal and all-purpose flour with 2 teaspoons baking powder, 1/4 teaspoon salt and 2 tablespoons sugar. I add 1 egg, 1/2 cup milk and 2 tablespoons oil. Mix everything well, then “bake” in microwave for 3 minutes. Voila.
RICHARD
Cupcake
I named my company ‘Cupcake’ – I wanted something quirky, like ‘Google’ or ‘Moonpig’ – it seemed a good idea at the time.
Little did I know how the irony of that decision would come back to haunt me.
The company was a huge success; I struck it rich and began living the dream. Above all, I could indulge in my very greatest of passions: Food!
Now, years later, as I lie here, morbidly obese and near death in a diabetic coma, the only thought that passes through my consciousness is that I really should have laid off the cupcakes!
JON
The Cupcake Generation
By
Jon DeCles
“You mean they are really, truly deprived? Like… Like they don’t even
have cupcakes?”
That’s how it was with the Millennials. A whole generation raised in such
profound insulation from natural reality that they measured happiness by
access to cupcakes; a desert no different from regular cakes but for their
presentation and individuation.
These were people who sat at tables communicating with two thumbs on
cellphones, while real people across from them were ignored. Plugged in
to people who were not present.
Isolated.
The fashion for Cupcakes of Happiness quickly vanished. Nobody missed the
Millennials, who were never really there.
TOM
A Man Called Cupcake
All the best code names had been taken. It was the early 50s and there was
a spy behind every tree. This didn’t bother Cupcake much. He was a huge
fan of the Art of War, the more they underestimated him the better. He was
in the shadows just in front of the dark silhouette of Brandenburg Gate,
the Quadriga hovered in the pre-dawn dim. Napoleon had taken to France as
a victory trophy. Too much for the permanence of victory. If everything
went accordingly, which it hardly ever did, the man called Éclair would be
walking through that gate.
LIZZIE
“My cupcake’s gone,” wailed the man when he was arrested. “My sweet wife, you’ll be on that wall, eternal and beautiful.”
The policemen scanned the room. The only thing they could see was an old portrait.
“Is this your wife?”
The man nodded.
A policeman got closer to the portrait.
“Are you sure this is a woman?”
The man was offended, cursed on and on till they removed him from the house.
“Where did you put her body?”
He shrugged.
And no one noticed the disdainful eyes on that painting, moving towards the door as they escorted the man out.
TURA
Cupcake
———
Have you expanded your comfort zone lately? Try something new today, something uncomfortable! You can start simple, by hugging every stranger you meet. Answer every request at work with “I would prefer not to”. And my favorite, address everyone you deal with today as “cupcake”!
You might get into trouble when a policeman asks for your driving licence and you say “Sure thing, cupcake!”, but you see trouble, while I see new experiences. Studies show that happiness comes not from things, but from memorable experiences! Every experience is a happiness opportunity!
Growth Mindset! Comfort Zone Expansion! How about it, cupcakes!
NORVAL JOE
Shortly after we were married my wife started calling me Cupcake. I knew it was supposed to be a term of endearment, but I didn’t like it. It didn’t sound manly enough, so I asked her to stop.
She wouldn’t.
Two could play this game. She was embarrassed by her wide hips, so I started calling her lamb chops.
She started calling me Slim Jim because… well, just because…
I knew she had a leakage problem every time she sneezed, so I called her puddles.
Apparently, that was too much. She stopped calling me anything. Instead, she called her lawyer.
PLANET Z
Ned was in jail. He didn’t want to be in jail.
So, he asked his wife Stacy to bake him a cake.
“Put a metal file in it,” he said.
Stacy tried to bake the cake, but it never quite came out right.
It was either burned on the edges, or still gooey on the inside.
She was much better at making cupcakes.
“What the shit?” said Ned.
“They came out much better,” said Stacy. “And you can share them a lot easier.”
For what he shouted at Stacy, Ned earned a week in Solitary.
And she never visited again.
Race to the finish line
Ted wasn’t the smartest, but he studied hard to overcome it.
He worked a job at night and a job on the weekend to save up for college.
So, when he got the acceptance letter, along with a generous scholarship, it was everything he’d hoped and dreamed of.
Except that it wasn’t for him.
There was a mistake in Admissions.
The letter was meant for a black kid.
Who didn’t study hard. Or work two jobs.
The Admissions office broke the news to Ted in a letter a week later.
Ted bought a sniper rifle, and went to college anyway.
Heizer
Artists make art.
Michael Heizer makes massive engineering problems for other people to solve and pay for. He also creates massive logistical problems for those who need to arrange permits to transport his “art” to the fools willing to host it.
But not maintain it. An installation in Lansing had to be torn down because of structural and design flaws which posed a danger to onlookers.
These stone, steel, concrete, and dirt monuments to his ego are the illusion of permanence. Just a place for his rich patrons to party, then scurry back to their mansion fortresses behind massive walls.
The New Black Black
At first, black was black, and it went with everything.
Then they said that blue was the new black.
After that, yellow became the new black.
And blue became the old blue again.
At some point, every color has been the new black.
Except for orange. Until that television show appeared.
Then, orange was the new black.
That’s when blue became the new yellow, pink became the new red, and white became the new purple.
When ultra-violet became the new white, billions of people died from radiation poisoning.
And black was the old black again.
And it went with everything.
Plan A – The Dozenaversary
A wise person once said that if Plan A does not succeed, there are 25 other letters in the alphabet.
Well, our alphabet. There’s a lot of other alphabets out there, so Plan Alpha and Plan Zhe are available.
There’s an infinite number of numbers, too. Although you may not want to go with Plan 9. Unless your plan involves space aliens raising zombies from the dead.
There’s also a rainbow of colors available. Plan Green, Plan Red. Even Plan X-Ray if you don’t limit yourself to the visible spectrum.
But by then, you should hire a professional wedding planner.
Downtime by Munsi
Downtime
By Christopher Munroe
For the record: It’s not all club lyfe and binge-drinking, here on the party-bus.
Though there’s plenty of that.
We also, for example, have a biweekly Dungeons and Dragons campaign, for while we travel.
I play a chaotic-neutral half-orc ranger named Thog, Master of Contusions. He’s our party’s tracker/private security. Kind of a high-fantasy Pinkerton…
Jill, on the other hand, is our bard, a Zither player/epic poet. She’s very funny, though Alec, our paladin, finds her poetry borderline blasphemous.
It’s a fun way to spend time on the road.
And like I said, not EVERY party needs to be debauched…
The Pipes On Her
Fred and I went to the opera the other evening.
“Check out the set of pipes on her,” whispered Fred.
Sure enough, there was a singer on stage wearing a dress made out of plumbing conduits.
“What about this one?” I said, pointing at a diva wearing a dress made out of organ pipes.
Fred smiled. “Oh yeah? What about this one?”
A woman walked on stage, wearing nothing but laced-together crack pipes.
“Amazing,” I said. “Who knew that opera was all about fashion.”
That’s when a fat woman wearing a Magritte painting came on stage.
“Show’s over,” Fred said.
Give A Shit
My grandmother died recently.
She gave me a lot of advice over the years.
Her best advice was to never take any shit from anyone.
Always pay fair market value for it.
And keep the receipt, just in case you want to exchange it for something else.
Like a sweater, or a coffee pot.
Or, if they give you the shit, be courteous and give shit right back to them.
Be sure that it’s a fair exchange of shit.
In volume, quantity, and velocity.
And, I suppose, ferocity.
When she died, she shat herself.
And left it all to me.
Weekly Challenge #579 – PICK TWO: Track, Jill, Pinkerton, Blasphemous, Contusion, Orc, Zither, Neutral
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:
(Be sure to wish Myst a happy birthday… she turns 8 today.)
JEFFREY
Private Dick (Part 1)
by Jeffrey Fischer
Young Jill Pinkerton – yes, of those Pinkertons, some number of generations removed from the great Allan – sat in her car, idling in neutral to stave off some of the cold. A tap at her window caught her attention. She opened the window with a punch of the power button, only to see the quarry she was tracking, a zither-playing orc. It was one of those days. “Why you follow me?” the orc growled, smacking Jill in the head, leaving a large contusion the next day. Without another word, the orc wandered off, playing the theme from “The Third Man.”
Private Dick (Part 2)
Jill’s client was a foul-mouthed, blasphenous priest who had been swindled by the orc. He had peeled off a number of large-denomination bills from a huge wad, swearing the entire time. He never explained how the orc swindled him, but it was clear that he held a grudge.
As she recovered from the orc’s blow, she reconsidered her career. Everyone expected a Pinkerton to go into the family business, but this day convinced her she was in the wrong profession. Maybe she’d open a small tea room. She’d ban all priests, orcs, and, yes, zithers too.
CHARLIE
After the new, school track opened, Jill JuciVana was the first to run the inner lane naked, while chased by the Pinkerton guards that were on duty.
Her behavior was heinously blasphemous. Earlier she was responsible for the GM’s contusion, and for breaking the large, Orc figurine he had on his office desk.
Displaying and demonstrating several yoga and sexual postures, unsolicited, for the General Manager, she snapped all the strings on his Zither; trying to prove that she was completely neutral about the outcome of the current relationship and the clumsy advances of the GM and the coaching staff.
RICHARD
Blasphemy
They’ll stone you for a bit of gentle mockery. Blow your brains out just for a satirical cartoon or imagined slight.
Somehow, they manage to argue it’s justifiable – no matter what common decency, morality or law might say – it’s protecting the faith, living according to the holy scripture, following the one pure way.
I try to stay neutral in such things, no matter what my personal feelings, but sometimes, the truth has to be spoken.
After all, what’s more blasphemous?
Speaking out against a warped ideology;
Or blowing up kids at pop concerts in the name of religion?
TOM
Can’t Fool Me
In 1894 my mother’s family was involved in the Pullman Strike. Not many
words were spoken about their stand. All the same the general feeling in
that end of the family was never cross the line. My father not one to let
in-law opinions sway him took a job as a Weekend Pinkerton. My mother’s
spit loyalty settled into an uncomfortable neutral gray. I on the other
hand was confirmedly in the red camp. This didn’t stop me from joining him
backstage at the Monkey’s show. Or James Brown or the Jackson Five. Live
music trumps principal every time.
JON
Battle Night
By
Jon DeCles
Jill Pinkerton, (on the track of an Orc, who, she was assured, was neutral
in the current phase of the battle) had suffered a contusion when she fell
from a ledge, overwhelmed by the sound of the blasphemous music of an
infernal zither. Now she lay on the rocks breathing as quietly as she
could, hoping the blood from the wound would not attract the attention of
any of the evil things that roamed the rocky canyons at the edge of the
Dark Border.
The soft plangency of the plucked and strummed strings continued to lure
her toward dangerous sleep.
LIZZIE
Mean Orc
Peter and Matt, two friends of the orc, were talking in the hospital corridor.
“No orc should have to go through this. The contusion was serious and now he’s talking funny. Everyone is laughing at him.” Peter rolled his eyes in disgust.
“Well, I suppose,” replied Matt, “but he was always slightly mean. Don’t you remember when…”
“I really don’t care. He should be respected. He’s fragile now.”
Suddenly, the orc died.
Peter waved. Matt got closer.
“I killed him,” whispered Peter.
“What on earth? Why??”
“I was talking to him and, man, did he have a mean bad breath.”
SERENDIPITY
I lay down across the track, preparing for the end.
It’s not like you imagine: It’s uncomfortable, cold, dirty. You’d like your final moments to be a time of reflection and peace, but all you can think about are the stones in your back and the awkward way your neck rests against the rail.
The driver saw me well in advance, hit the brakes, and my world filled with the sound of screaming, tortured steel.
So much for suicide… I walked away with just a minor contusion. Unlike the train passengers, whose broken bodies they pulled from the mangled wreckage.
TURA
Orc; Jill
———
The three orcs sat round the fire, gnawing on the bones of an elf.
“You ever wonder,” began Hrakht.
“Wonderin’s for elves an’ yoomns,” grunted Gnurgle.
“I thought…” said Hrakht.
“Ooh, thinkin’ now, izzee?” mocked Rabjagh.
“You know Hrakht ‘ere’s only half an orc?” said Gnurgle. “Yoomn mother. Must have scared her when he came out!”
Hrakht remained silent. How could he tell them that he didn’t feel like an orc at all? That he dreamed of belonging to one of the fair races, like the one they had just eaten.
In his dreams, he— no, she— called herself “Jill.”
———
NORVAL JOE
Deep in the forest, Jill and I followed the track of the Blasphemous Pinkerton brothers.
What they had done which was so offensive to the moral majority to earn that title was unclear. What was clear was that whoever caught them would be rewarded most handsomely.
Morally neutral and already beautiful, Jill didn’t need the reward. I was the one who looked like an orc with facial contusions. Any reward that would make me more handsome was worth the effort.
Zither birds, named after their distinctive call, burst from a grove of trees, pointing us to the brother’s probable location.
PLANET Z
Capone had rivals. Lots of rivals.
Sometimes, the cops would pick them up.
And take them to jail.
Capone would send a woman to the courthouse or jail.
She’d have a briefcase full of money.
The money was for bail. And a little extra for the judge or court clerk.
So they’d let out Capone’s rival.
His men would be waiting outside.
They’d pick up the guy.
And after a few days, he’d turn up dead.
The woman would come back with her briefcase.
And collect the bail money.
She’d set it aside, ready for the next time Capone called.