I live in an apartment complex with several communal laundry centers.
There’s two rows of washers and two banks of dryers.
The washers take 30 minutes to run and the dryers take 60 minutes.
So, on a busy laundry day, wet laundry piles up while I wait for a free dryer.
The problem is compounded by people who don’t collect their stuff from the dryers for an hour or two.
I use a kitchen timer for my own laundry when it’s in the dryer so nobody gets stuck behind me longer than they have to.
We really need a house.
Author: R.
Never go home
They say you can never go hone, and as long as the restraining order is still in place, that’s true.
Google Street View lets you get a glimpse at all the old familiar places, as long as they’re close to a main thoroughfare and not blocked by a new thick, tall hedge paid for by monthly alimony checks… your alimony checks.
So, if you want to peek into a window, you know, just curious, that will take a private detective with a camera. Or a wireless steerable webcam.
Or two.
Or three.
Or…
Obsessed? Me?
Just making sure they’re… safe.
The Unbecoming
Fred lost his leg in a hiking accident.
The carbon-fiber leg replacement was so good, he had the other one amputated and replaced.
Refinements made them even better, and with intelligent and sensing exoskeleton enhancements allowed him to leap and run in ways he could never imagine.
He underwent more procedures, replacing his limbs and organs to make him a mechanized superman, capable of doing amazing things.
Still, every so often, he’d hesitate. Caution held over from his weaker, biological days.
One robotic hand raised up on its own, yanked off his screaming head, and tossed it into the trash.
Who Do You Miss – Singh
29.12
Yogi was glad for a side-way door to leave.
The satsang circuit had become a weight.
Forced to wear his heart on a holy sleeve
he had to role-play as every person’s soul mate.
Barhai had said. “Ah, Utterakhand! We’ll wait.
You go and see the Himalayan snow.
Amrik will bring you back by the due date.
It will be a rare experience. Go, just go.”
Margot’s signal! Was she trying to break through?
Oneiric words were pushing his heart rate.
To hear so clear a message was deja-vu;
so he’d slept little when Amrik came at eight.
29.13
They took a bus to Meerut to catch a train
and walked the streets of musical instruments —
a local industry of drums and horns
for Indian brass bands. Amrik stepped into
a roll-a-door store and flicked a latch.
The harmonium gasped and coughed to find its voice.
Amrik’s hand ran up and down the keys,
then song took flight with intricate raga rills,
elaborating flightpaths for a line of birds.
Yogi was shocked, hearing such classical heights
of an Indian voice in love with syllables.
Who’d have thought this merchant talked to mountains?
Yogi’s kirtan? A Simple Simon version.
29.14
Time to rush on for the Chandigarh train
second-class sit-up, six hours to Punjab.
Amrik yanked Yogi up and through the door
as the long snake slithered away from Meerut.
They wedged into sweaty vinyl seats,
four moustaches leering back opposite
at the foreigner in his crisp white chola.
Amrik Singh, the short and stocky Sikh
in dark blue turban, business suit and tie
squeezed their bags onto the luggage rack.
Some psycho-bluff was needed to gain a hold
in this give-no-dog-an-inch demesne on wheels.
Yogi clamped his guitar between his knees.
29.15
Above and opposite two young newly-weds,
off now, to visit relatives in some
village perhaps, or honeymoon in Himachal,
had managed to sit up happily jammed together
on the luggage rack – now a romantic nook,
an invisible zone of public privacy
away from myopic eyes of home in-laws
ready to walk in on, and ogle a pretty bride
with hennaed hands, jangling wedding bangles
that she must wear for months to say ‘hands off’
to any male. It was a luxurious bed
for a giggly couple, while those below ignored them.
Yogi half-peeped and thought of Margaret.
29.15
The train moved on. Ragpicker boys boarded
between stations brooming the floor for tips.
Some got a kick and a curse. Snack-wallahs packed
salty treats in newspaper cones for zilch.
One of the four moustaches bought some grams
offering Yogi. He crunched a roasted chick pea
nodding his thanks.
A gift demands a gift.
Amrik dug out a tin-foil wrap of paronthas
with dollop of pickle oily at the core,
offering around. One of the four tactfully
took just one, sharing the Sardar’s wife-packed
travelling luncheon. Ghee-spread rotis oiled
the wheels of the railway journey, clacketing north.
29.16
The compartment soon became a gaming parlour,
the clip-on wall tray attracted playing cards
with popping eyes and gesticulating hands.
“Are you feeling comfortable?” Amrik asked.
They’d only traded glances since leaving Meerut.
“I’m fine thanks. How long will it take to reach?”
Yogi had not inquired about the journey.
“We stop in Chandigarh. I have seva there.
Tomorrow we will join the Hemkund yatra.
My friends are waiting.”
Yogi knew that ‘seva’
meant ‘selfless service’. Enigma still held its cards.
Impoliteness might have pushed, calling his hand,
but he knew he had to play a game of patience.
29.17
In the next compartment a group of schoolgirls
started to sing and clap. “What’s that Amrik?
Is it a party?”
“No, Sant ji — Antakshri
a parlour game. He listened, then translated:
Baithe, baithe, kya karein? Karna hai kuch kaam,
Sitting, sitting what to do? Pass the time with a game?
Shuru karo antakshri, leke prabhu ka naam!
So let’s play Antakshri, invoking first God’s Name.
Amrik said : The letter ‘m’ starts off the next round:”
Mehfil Yeh Humari Hain
Toh Bol Do Yeh Saare Zamane Se
Men Not Allowed, Men Not Allowed!
A typical Hindi-English Bollywood mix.
The last line rang out like a strident challenge
and the four moustaches shouted their own version:
Women Not Allowed, Women Not Allowed!
29.18.
The station coming up was Saharanpur.
The newly-weds were getting down. He jumped
to the carriage floor, grabbing their bag.
It was her turn. She dangled hennaed feet,
ankleted, over the edge. Her nose-ring jiggled,
while necklace and gold earrings made her more
resplendent in blood-red salvaar kamiz,
her vermillion sindoor parting married hair.
All eyes turned up. It was too far. The train
was stopping fast, so she took a leap of faith
into husband’s hands about her petite waist.
The warm crushing together of shy bodies
made all sigh at the starting heat of love.
29.19
After Saharanpur they measured time
by flashing stops: Pilkhani, Sarswara,
the ochre earth, the thorny kikar trees,
green fields of paddy and wading buffaloes,
next Kalanaur then onto Yamunangar.
The Yamuna was swollen with monsoon
as they crossed the pylon bridge into Haryana,
green miles of farmland and more rail sidings:
Mustafabad, Barara, Tandwal and Kesri
three clackety hours until they reached Ambala.
The blue snake pulled up. There was delay.
The four moustaches left and new ones came.
Chai-wallahs boarded with aluminium urns,
white plastic cups while coolies in red coats
fought over luggage. Yogi and Amrik waited.
29.20
As Yogi and Amrik moved to window seats
a woman was taking a shortcut over tracks
baby on hip, lugging her ragpicker bundle.
She struggled, but none on board could help,
fearing the train would leave. She stepped from rail
to rail over bitumen fill, struggling her bundle
onto platform concrete, then tried to climb, but her
baby slipped from her hip, plummeting headfirst
onto a steel rail. She jumped back screaming,
but the picked-up infant was now a thing of jelly.
It was hopeless to watch as the passenger train inched out
of Ambala Station — lives transformed forever.
29.21
As fire is covered by smoke and a mirror by dust
the obvious cannot be seen.
As an embryo grows through love or a moment of lust
death reneges on the life caught in between.
As Yogi thought of the child with a jelly-dead head
he tried to accept what he saw.
One slip of a hand had lost the gold in the thread
and wrecked a natural law.
What lay uncertain ahead was a curtain of rain,
shrouding the nothing that’s there.
And the capital Chandigarh, also ahead on the plain
might just leave him gasping for air.
Weekly Challenge #414 – Who do you miss?
Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.
This is 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 Who do you miss?.
We’ve got stories by:
- John
- Jeffrey
- Richard
- Tura Brezoianu
- Julie
- Lizzie
- Cliff – Uncle Monster
- Serendipity
- Munsi
- Zackmann
- Whispy Darkstone
- Spate
- Tom
- Norval Joe
- Planet Z
The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of PICK TWO?
Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:
Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.
JOHN MUSICO
“A Rose by any Other Name Would Still Smell as Sweet”
by John Musico
Two thousand years ago, Jesus stood before the masses.
He was concerned that much dissention regarding the Messiah had led to wars.
He passed his hand over his face changing it to the face of Buddha and announced; “My name is Buddha.” He pointed at one of his followers and asked sternly; “Do you no longer believe in me?” He again passed his hand over his face revealing the face of Mohammed and said; ”My name is Mohammed. There is but one God, see that He comes in more than one form.” The Messiah then left and prayed for them.
JEFFREY
The Missing Doctor
by Jeffrey Fischer
Last November, when the 50th anniversary of Doctor Who rolled around, the BBC made sure that the anniversary was both a statement about where the show was heading and a celebration of the past. Between the anniversary episode itself, the prequel “The Night of the Doctor,” and the Peter Davison-penned “The Five(ish) Doctors Reboot,” all but one of the surviving actors who played the Doctor made an appearance. Smith, Tennant, Hurt, and Tom Baker in the anniversary episode, a marvelous six minutes of McGann in the prequel, and Davison, Colin Baker, and McCoy in the “Five(ish) Doctors.”
Christopher Eccleston, I don’t know who pissed you off, but it’s time to stop holding a grudge. We missed you.
Jimmy
by Jeffrey Fischer
That smile. The gentle southern accent – the genuine article, not an affectation.
Military service. An engineering degree. Experience in both business and governing.
A wife who wasn’t a national scold.
The relative competence in foreign policy. (I did say “relative.”)
Yes, I miss the Carter Presidency. Sure, energy crisis, gasoline rationing, sweaters in the White House, hostages in Iran, inflation, unemployment, malaise, misery index… and yet… Come back, Jimmy, all is forgiven.
My wife yells from the next room. “Jeff, stop reading the goddam Washington Post! You know it just irritates you!”
RICHARD
#1 – George’s Story: Part 51 – Missed me?
“Did you miss me?”, enquired Emily, flirtatiously.
Annoyed at her joke, George responded grumpily: “No, I didn’t! If anyone can look after themselves, you can. To be honest, I was happy to get the hell out of town without you holding me back!”
Emily looked hurt; “But George, I missed you”
George sighed, “You know who I miss?… all those normal people from before this nightmare started, my friends and family. People who weren’t terrified the world was going to end.”
Emily still looked upset.
George laughed.
“Gotcha! You’re not the only joker around here! Of course I missed you.”
#2 – The One
There’s always ‘the one’ – she’s the one you grew up with and shared your schooldays; maybe even that first kiss. You had a special connection, loved the same music, and enjoyed those wild and crazy moments together; now so long ago.
Then life intervened. You moved apart, stayed in touch for a while, but gradually, quietly, you grew distant and apart.
And now, only memories remain… the fleeting moments restored by a familiar song or rediscovered photograph.
So many years have passed.
And, do I miss her?
Hell no! She was a complete leech!
But I bet she misses me!
TURA
We might have met on Ios, or perhaps it was Delos, or Santorini. The only customers in a small café, an invitation from one to join the other, and then walking together to contemplate the gleaming white houses, the blue domes, and the occasional fragments of antiquity.
And we did what neither of us would have done alone, going island-hopping around the Cyclades for two weeks, using our small Greek to find lodgings wherever our spirits took us.
And then? Well, there is no “and then”, because this is just a story I made up. But I still miss her.
JULIE
Host Body
The white BMW
Rides on autopilot—
It knows its way to work.
Where I smile, nod
And acquiesce
For $85,000 a year.
I spread my legs weekly,
Let you
Take my body—
To keep the peace.
Smile and nod, again.
17 years ago
I carried a child,
Nausea, piercing spear pain
Under my ribs
Until they took you—
All they gave me was Tylenol.
Oh Tylenol, Oh Tuinol, Oh Xanax
Blessed saviors—
These aliens, they inhabit me
These strangers, they take me,
In bits and pieces
What remains?
Who I miss
Is that girl
Not tied,
Or obligated
To anyone.
LIZZIE
The roller-coaster was closed. A crowd of people stood at the gates of the Carnival. The media gathered, awkwardly silent except for one reporter.
“Who do you miss?” he asked.
“I miss my friend Tom,” replied the kid.
The reporter motioned his cameraman to go back in the van. No report would come out of this…
He took one last glance at the crowd of sad people, poor souls. They had all been decapitated by that darn rollercoaster and apparently they didn’t know it yet.
Of all things, the reporter couldn’t help thinking “I would’ve replied… I definitely miss myself”.
CLIFF
In my profession, you can’t afford to be sentimental. The higher ups expect things of you and they don’t take excuses. Emotions get in the way. Mind you, I’m not a machine or anything. I have feelings just like anybody. I just control them. Still, everyone has a weakness. You know, someone they can’t forget. For me, it was Natasha. I spoke to her once seven years ago and I still miss her. It seems stupid, but it’s true. I miss her but some day, I’ll get over it and finally hit her. Being a sniper is a tough business.
SERENDIPITY
They call it ‘sniper alley’ – the only route into the city, and anyone using it is a sitting duck.
It’s almost too easy from where I’m hidden on the hillside. I’m protected, invisible and deadly. It’s a case of ‘you can run, but you can’t hide’ – and I’m good at my job, extremely good.
I keep on the move: claiming a new spot under cover of darkness, waiting until daybreak, and the next unfortunate soul.
Load. Aim. Fire… Reload.
Too damn easy.
Not so much a case of whom do you target, more a case of who do you miss?
MUNSI
I Miss Him Still
By Christopher Munroe
I miss the man I used to be.
The energy, the enthusiasm of youth. The belief that I could do anything, these are things I do genuinely miss.
Don’t get me wrong, I’d never go back to being him in a million years. He was just the worst. If I met myself at seventeen it’d be five minutes before I wanted to punch him in the face. He was too full of himself, too in love with the sound of his own voice to be even remotely tolerable.
I still am, but the material I do now has improved somewhat…
ZACKMANN
“How was your grocery shopping trip with my favorite cousin?”
“Not too bad dearest. I brought you home some fresh butter.”
“But I asked for cream not butter.”
“Yes, I purchase you cream and you have butter.”
“You don’t make any sense.”
“Well Dearest, It would make sense if you had been riding in the car with you cousin. He got pulled over with the police officer accusing him of almost hitting a pedestrian. He might have gotten away without a ticket if he hadn’t said something to the cop about what matters is how many pedestrians he decisively missed.”
“I read that the place that Spongebob lives was probably named after where those nuclear tests were done.” mentioned Drew.
“Bikini Atoll?”
“Yes Dylan, and Bikini Bottom would be under it.” said Drew
“I never understood how crabs could give birth to blue whales.” pondered Zack.
“Mr Krabs didn’t give birth to Pearl. He is a crab not a seahorse.” responded Dyan
“Is Mr Krabs the Sweeney Todd of Bikini Bottom?” inquired Zack
“No, thats silly. Mr Krabs isn’t a barber.” replied Drew
“It’s unlikely Krabby patties are crab meat” added Dylan
“We’ll miss these talks when spring break ends.”
WHISPY
The Captain’s Eyeglass
Ruby wakes prodded from her sedation,
“Did you say, how do you do Miss?”
“I’ll have you know, I’m no Miss! I’m a Ms!”
“I was a Miss, a proper little Miss!”
“He put paid to that, ‘HIS Mrs’, he said, his to punch, slap and shout, get on yer back to! Do I feel remorse, do I heck, that knife set me free! What? Oh!”
Ruby grins.
“Who do I miss? I miss the dog, now give me my medication and get out!”
The officer drops the pills, rushes out, slamming and locking the door.
Ruby swallows the pills.
SPATE
Grace
She was gone. He knew already as he lay in the fog of sleep before even
getting out of bed. He couldn’t smell coffee. She always made the coffee.
He wasn’t sure what he would find. A note? Torn photographs? An empty
ring? But as he turned the corner she was there, sitting at the kitchen
table, smoking a cigarette, wearing that vacant stare.
The doctors said Alzheimer’s. Dementia. Neurodegenerative plaque. Said
her brain got all tangled.
He couldn’t let her go so ungraciously.
He reloaded the pistol, moved closer and aimed, determined through bitter
tears not to miss again.
TOM
Well Defined Relationship Part 40someting
As the good ladies of the Gear Guild swirled on the veranda, edges of lace
danced in the sunlight. The year of black was coming to a close. But who
would she leave behind when the morning-ware was neatly folded into a
chest? Who would she miss more the husband or the mother? As tea and cake
circulated a moment of seemly least significance arose. A random Sunday
with mother, her’s, and her sisters, flashed, then dissolved. She found
herself pulled to that circle of women. A black shawl dropped into the
dust. “My name is xxx” said the ex-widow.
Who would I Miss?
Speaking as an agnostic I wish to say the lure of heaven is as seductive
as a pint of Ben and Jerry’s on an Osage August afternoon. The more years
you pile up, the pile of funeral card keeps step as the days slip away.
Who do I miss? Grandma, Tony, Cliff, Jack, Susie, Billy, Adolph, Betty,
Zax, and Carl. For one reason or another be it distance or time I never
got the full measure of these people’s company. A happy wish heaven, but
if wishes were horses then beggars would ride. Oh yea Jimi Hendrix and Jim
Morrison.
Fiddlers Zero
Old King Cole was a merry old soul, but not any more.
Rebellion in the colonies had cut off the shipments of tobacco, so his cherished pipe and bowl lay empty.
And he’d caught one of his fiddlers fiddling around with the queen.
“Execute all three!” shouted Cole.
The musician’s guild refused to send any more musicians to the castle.
Well, except for Angus McPherson, who played the bagpipes, but Cole rejected the offer.
Angus stayed in the guild hall, practicing Amazing Grace all day long.
All. Day. Long.
So they spread a rumor that he was fucking the queen.
Scapegoat
Our town practices the ritual of scapegoating, where our sins are loaded into an animal and then we cast it out into the wild.
The problem is, we’re a rather sinful lot, and we’re running out of animals.
Let’s see… there’s Bob’s dog. And there’s also Arthur’s horse, but Arthur needs his horse to deliver messages, and everybody really likes that dog.
The priests nixed my idea of recycling animals. Once they’re loaded up with sins, they’re useless.
Arthur packed up and rode out of town this morning.
Bob suggested we use the priests.
The dog wagged its tail happily.
Backups
Parents are well-advised not to allow their children to connect to the network unlocked.
There are far too many worms and viruses out in the wild, and despite the claims in the commercials, firewalls don’t block and eliminate them all.
One minute, your son or daughter is sitting there, researching a school project. The next minute, they’re staring blankly and reciting a ransom note.
Fifty thousand dollars by midnight, and they’ll restore your child’s personality.
I agree with them: don’t call the police.
Just disconnect from the net and restore from backup.
(You do make backups of your kids, right?)
Contender
The Houston Astros had the worst record in professional baseball last year with 106 losses.
After trading away veterans and remaining talent to teams still in contention for some prospects, they’re on track to lose even more.
I still watch the games, though.
First off, we’re coming up on September, and that’s when the rosters expand and they can call up players from the minors. They’ll play their hearts out, either making amazing plays or hilarious mistakes trying to impress.
Even better, nothing’s funnier than a play-by-play announcer for a lousy team.
What, you thought I’d PAY to see them?
Jim
I went to college before the advent of the Internet and music piracy. The compact disc was king, and they were sold in long boxes meant to fit within the record store racks as the records themselves were on the wane.
The long boxes served as cheap miniature posters, easily tacked or taped to the walls to advertise our taste (or lack of taste) in music.
The Best Of The Doors hung above a candle, and at night we’d light this shrine to Reverend Jim Morrison.
Instead of spending hours praying to him for better grades, I should have studied.