One moment, we were surrounded by stars. And the next moment, they were gone.
The heavens had gone completely black.
Women and children screaming in the dark.
So, I turned on the microphone and said to the audience: “Please stay in your seats. This is just a temporary technical issue.”
And I got out my flashlight to look at the fusebox.
The planetarium had tripped a breaker.
I reset it, rebooted the systems, and the stars came back.
Why didn’t the emergency exit lights come on?
I brought up the house lights, ushered people out, and called Facilities for repairs.
Author: R.
Retired Number
Ted was one of the best second basemen in the game, so when he hung up his spikes for good, his team retired his number seven.
Not just the number seven jersey. They retired it from the batting averages and RBI counts and all that crap the geeks love to obsess about, too. If they scored seven runs, it was “a lot.” Drove the statisticians insane.
Oh, and the seventh inning? That was called “the inning between the sixth and eighth.”
The front office reversed their decision when the accountants couldn’t calculate revenues, and the staff bitched about messed-up paychecks.
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:
JEFFREY
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.”
CHARLIE
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.
#2
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.
#3
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.
RICHARD
#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!
TURA
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.
LIZZIE
“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.”
SERENDIPITY
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!
MUNSI
Memories
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.
TOM
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.
NORVAL JOE
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.
DANNY
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.
PLANET Z
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.
Science Ball
Shattered bats are a common occurrence in baseball, but once, I was in a game where the ball shattered.
The pitcher was experimenting with substances to doctor the ball, and for one game he was trying liquid nitrogen.
How he managed to conceal the tank, let alone soak the ball in the misty hypercooled solution, nobody ever figured it out.
But he somehow got it cooled, threw it, and when the batter hit the ball, it shattered into tiny splinters and wispy smoke.
The umpire threw out the pitcher and called it a ground rule double.
I call it Science.
The Deepest Sleep
You know how some people need noise generators to help them sleep? Rain, or seashore sounds, or a rain storm?
A fan sometimes does the trick.
I need the sound of the stock market trading floor. That cacophony of phone calls and shouting traders and ringing bells lulls me into a pleasant slumber, and I wake as rested and fresh as a new person.
The more brutal the trading day, the better the sleep.
But I want more.
A friend says they can score me an old recording of Black Tuesday.
Will it take me so deep, I won’t return?
Everywhere Data
Wireless phone companies are always showing off their maps of high-speed data coverage.
They all have every major city covered. And most have the major freeways covered.
It’s the suburbs and smaller cities which make the difference, I guess.
The prices and family sharing plans don’t really matter to me. I’m on my own.
And I don’t talk to folks much, either.
Just the data matters.
Unlimited data.
Sweet data.
As for power, I charge up in restaurants and truck stops.
Or solar panels when I’m off the road.
Anywhere. Everywhere.
I’m crushing candy.
And nothing’s going to stop me.
PR Guy
The Lorax told The Onceler that he spoke for the trees.
A few months later, all the trees were gone, and The Lorax was out of a job.
He lifted himself into the sky, where he flew back to the PR firm he worked for in New York.
“Well, that ended badly,” said his boss. “And those trees haven’t paid any of our invoices, either.”
The Lorax was handed a “rehab” account to get him back on track, and he did well with it.
Then, a tobacco company.
“Shit,” said The Lorax.
“You again?” asked The Onceler, smoking a cigar.
Names Names – Eleventh Anniversary
Another cemetery walk, her and me.
The preacher said that it’s not the numbers on the stone that matter, but what we put into that dash.
I think he’s wrong about that dash. What matters is the name.
You get that name for only so long. As long as that dash, the preacher says.
But barring an incident or bad workmanship, the stone gets that name for longer than you do.
We walk along the path, reading names.
Getrude… Rosemary… Eunice…
“Betty?” I ask.
She thinks. “No,” she says.
We’ll take a different route tomorrow, unless her water breaks first.
The Christ Killer
Whenever someone throws the “Christ-Killer” insult at me, I snap their photograph and run their face through my databases.
Then, I go back in time and kill their mother before they are born.
When I return to the present time, the person is gone, because they never existed.
No, I didn’t kill Jesus this way. It would mess up too many things.
Nor did I shout with the rest of the crowd to call for Jesus’ death.
Instead, I waited for the guy after he “came back.”
Stuffed his body in the time machine engine.
The book says he’s “ascended.”
Weekly Challenge #527 – What’s for dinner?
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:
MUNSI
Happy Anniversary
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.
You’re welcome.
So: What’s for dinner?
JEFFREY
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.
Supper Duty
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.”
CHARLIE
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.
#2
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.
#3
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.
RICHARD
Life lessons
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.
TOM
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
SERENDIPITY
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!
LIZZIE
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.”
NORVAL JOE
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.”
TURA
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?
PLANET Z
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.