Author: R.

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 ANY TOWN BUT FUNKYTOWN.

We’ve got stories by:

• John
• Jeffrey
• Richard
• Lizzie
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Seicher Rae
• Serendipity
• Tom
• Munsi
• Zackmann
• Chelsea
• Spate
• Singh
• Danny Dwyer
• Norval Joe
• Tura Brezoianu
• Planet Z

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of WHO DO YOU MISS?

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
“Beverly Hills” by John Musico

People think they know Beverly Hills. They don’t.
I do. I was born there. You’d think it’s in the hills.
That’s only half the town. The residential and commercial districts are strictly separated. The commercial section is in the south that is flat. When you go north on Canon and cross Sunset boulevard (at the intersection where the Beverly Hills hotel is) and the street name changes to Benedict Canyon. There is where you find famous homes. Further north, which are in the hills, the homes are instead quite modest.

JEFFREY

Last Exit
by Jeffrey Fischer

They call this the end of the road, the place to run to when you’ve exhausted every other rabbit hole. When you’re on the lam and ask where you should go, the answer is always “Anywhere but Funkytown.” And yet so many eventually find their way here.

Ah yes, Funkytown. Of course, that’s not its real name, but it’s the name that stuck, what with the freaks and grifters and sad sacks who turn up here. And me, of course. I’m the man in the middle. If someone wants to find you, I’ll find you. If you don’t want to be found, I can make that happen too. After all, you’re now in Funkytown.

Upstairs, Downstairs
by Jeffrey Fischer

George Clinton died and found himself in a white room filled with flowers. Creatures in robes with wings on their backs strode to and fro, arranging flowers, bringing meals, and laying out clothes. The bar was fully stocked with his favorite drinks.

Clinton touched one of the angels on the sleeve. “Hey, man, I must be in Heaven, right? This here is FUNKYtown!”

The angel consulted an electronic tablet. “No, sir, you are in the correct place. Your entry reads ‘Any place but Funkytown.’ Now if you’ll excuse me…” The angel opened a CD case and placed the disc into a slot, then pushed the “close” button. The sound of Kenny G issued from the surround-sound speakers. “Welcome to eternity, Mr. Clinton.”

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story: Part 50 – A woman scorned

“So, what’s the deal?”, scowled Emily: “You watch me get kidnapped without lifting a finger, then abandon me while you make a quick getaway? Then, you come here, drinking tea and munching biscuits as if everything is ok?”

George tried to placate her:

“Hey honey, chill baby! Just be cool about it.”

She stared at him.

“You sound like some seventies throwback! What do you think this is? Funky town? Well, listen buster… it’s anything but!”

Emily glared at him, then burst out laughing.

“Oh dear, I can’t believe you took me seriously! It’s good to see you again, George!”

#2 – Won’t You take me?

“Taxi!”

“Where to, guvnor?”

“I wanna go to Funky Town, won’t you take me to Funky Town?”

“Sorry guv – I can’t… I can take you to China Town, Downtown, Dirty Old Town or a Town called Malice”

“But none of those towns are right for me, can’t we talk about it?”

“Talk all you like, but the answer’s no. How about Trenchtown, or maybe Motown?”

“No, it’s gotta be Funky Town, or nowhere – c’mon, man, this is a taxi, right?”

“Yeah, this is a taxi, but I’m the driver and I’m telling you… dis goes any town, but Funky Town”

LIZZIE

The right place was also the wrong place. This yin/yang theory seemed valid, at least while Peter was aware of the fact that he walked a fine line of certainties and hesitations in a world of constant change. He would cross town to make sure his theory was right, lingering in shabby neighborhoods, only to realize that all the wrong places could never be the right places. He wanted to give up, but always gave in. That line before him became a harsh reminder that what was once perfect was really nothing more than a lie in shades of white.

CLIFF

I jumped in the cab and told him to take me to Funky Town.
“Oh, you don’t want to go there. How about Groovy Town?”
I declined.
“What about Trendy City? Coolsville? I know, I can take you to Really Happening Village.”
I was getting ticked and demanded that he take me to Funky Town.
“Oh, sir, I cannot take you there. I can go to any town but Funky Town.”
I asked if he was a wanted man there or something.
“No sir, it’s just that I have no soul and without soul, you cannot go to Funky Town.”

SEICHER

She studied the map. The route would take her several days of hard pedaling, but it appeared the terrain was fairly flat and if she chose the roads wisely she’d stay clear of nearly every town, no matter how small. Tara was convinced that she was still alive because she kept moving and avoided population centers. But now posted everywhere — on fence posts, barns and highway signs — were the cryptic messages about Funkytown and how the chompers were everywhere but there. Promises of shelter, supplies and other normals. She slipped her toes into the clips and pushed on towards safety.

SERENDIPITY

When I got the job, they asked me where I preferred to be based, I told them – any town.

But Funky Town?

I hadn’t bargained for this – the afros, the spangly jumpsuits, the strutting and posturing and all the jive talking – it’s just not me at all, but I’ve no choice – I’m stuck here.

Sadly, the funny mascot business doesn’t pay so well after all, but then again, what prospects do I realistically have: an ambitious, but overweight guy, with a drug habit, wearing a gorilla suit for a living?

I’m just a spunky, chunky, monkey junkie from downtown Funky.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationships Part 41

With the silent vow sealed the decision of where to make their stand was
the next order of business. “Carter’s Gap” offered Morehouse. “Bender’s
Turn.” countered Delmonico. “Funky-town.” said Proctor. Both revs chimed,
” Any town but Funky-town.” “Sorry boys, but this band of brothers ain’t
no democracy.” “Funky-town is undefendable.” “No high ground, just
ground.” “Le Cid Caesar will think were idiots, then we get cut to
ribbons.” “You have both forgotten your Sun Tzu?” said the Doctor turning
toward the churchyard. “Where are the going?” “To find a regiment of
women.” The plan was forming as he walked.

An Elegant Solution

The good people of Megiddo had had it with the born again tourist trade.
As a final act to drive the Pilgrims away they change the name of the town
to Funky-town. In the first year tourist trade dropped by 60%. The problem
was members of the Knesset were have none of that, the “Any Town but
Funk-town” bill went on to easy victory. So Funky-town was renamed, “Jesus
Sucks” the “Any Town But Jesus Town” bill went on to easy victory. After a
rafter of scatological name and scatological bills a final name was agree
upon. New Babylon.

Up the Rabbit Hole Part Nine

In the darkness the strains of Lipps Inc filled the air with disco. “Any
town but Funky-town,” thought Adam X. He had no idea what town he was
currently fastened to a chair. They had loaded him an a military transport
and he could now be seated anywhere on the greater North American
continent. Hands settled on his shoulder, then the hood was removed from
his head. It took a moment to readjust to the brightness of the light.
Something high and white caught his eye. Fort Meed Lost/Found. “Not the
same place Mr X.” said a voice behind him.

The Times They Are A Changing

During the Disco revival of 2260 towns all over the central territories
changed their name to Funky. It became common practices to announce your
municipality with a billboard of undulating females with prominent
posterior poses. The catch phrases Any in Butt Funky-town moved into the
English lexicon. It was a multiple decade party that in the end ground the
economy to dust. By 2310 the Neo-Puritan revival swiped all that
undulating way. Town’s got rename Providence and Temperance. Any town but
Funky-town. In 2408 the Neo-Romanic revival prove so sexually expletive
some longed for the gentler days of Funy Town.

MUNSI

Reflections Upon Your Town and Mine

By Christopher Munroe

There are lots of towns out there.

And, each in their own way, all of them are funky.

Detroit has Motown, Memphis Stax. James Brown grew up in Augusta.

Even Minneapolis has funk. Prince, Morris Day and the Time and more, who thought Minnesota would be funky?

But it is. Every town is.

Every town is funky.

It’s a beautiful thing.

I tried to write a story about a town other than Funkytown, and found that I could not.

But that’s okay.

Because finally I’ve realized: I don’t have to take you to Funkytown.

You’ve been there the whole time…

ZACKMANN

“Hey Cabby, Take me down to funky town.” he said

“Sorry no, any other district but not that one.” replied the driver.

“I can get another cab.”

“You could get another cab but unless you walk or take a train you won’t get there because no motorised vehicle is getting into Funky Town until Michael Bay is finished filming the Scott Roche Libertarian Wank Fiction trilogy. Your best bet is to get back on the commuter train until that stop.” cabby advised.

“Thanks, I play the Liberal Internet Executive who gets kill by his own bodyguard in the second act.”

CHELSEA

My home town.

You know, this used to be a real funky town, art work on streets corners, interesting little shops down town, an indie book store every time you turned around.

Something happened to my town. I don’t really know what it was or when it happened, but at some point this stopped being the place I grew up, these stopped being the streets of my youth.

Now all I see are giant office buildings and yuppy chain coffee shops.

What happened to the place where I grew up? What happened to the streets that shaped my world? What happened to my town?

Story prompt: Any town but funky town

SPATE

Taxi Driver

You dancing back there?

Look at you! You’re shaking like a Minnesota ice fisherman taking a leak.
You should copyright those moves. Collect royalties. or charity.

Say what?

You can talk about it, talk about it till you turn blue but we ain’t going
there.

Are you listening to me? Listen dancing fool, there is no Funkytown so I
cannot take you to Funkytown. It’s some guy’s metaphor. Imagination. Make
believe.

So how bout we just turn back to Washing-town, Senator, where we can all
make believe democracy is being served by lobbyists and super PAC’s with
hidden wealthy donors.

SINGH

29.1

in the throat of the night

Yogi dreamed blue petal-shapes

swirling interstices lattice window

net of jewels star-point to star-point

a face Saraswati of music learning

with a mala holding a palm leaf scroll

playing the veena under-drone aum

eight-petalled violet core

through it her sari moon white

her face the meeting point

slim lips eye-slits

Saraswati? no no Margaret

gold diademed peacock-seated

her voice a chiming bell

becoming words articulate

“stop dawdling go just go

walk the ice talk with mountains”

Yogi woke switched on the lamp

wrote and wrote with ardour

29.2

Darling,

I don’t have visions your way, but you entered my dream like a thief. No. I’m not going all Jesus-Wept on you. But did we hit the same frequency? Being apart, maybe we’re closer.

You were hummingbird-blue behind a stone lattice window. I wanted to get through its cosmic geometry to your Saraswati lips, but this head’s helmet is banal, banausic. How do I escape from a lead mask?

People regard me, but I’m feeling wrong.

I won’t be long. I will be back.

Always your

Yogi.

He folded, then licked the envelope to pass to Barhai.

29.3

The next morning Yogi followed Barhai

downstairs to the workshop. “Why not sit

and oversee? I have a meeting planned —

for the Kirtan Mandal where you will be guest.”

Yogi obliging, rose to wave him off.

Gaurav the artisan was sawing rosewood lengths.

He smiled as Yogi watched him plane, then fit

a dovetail joint. Yogi nodded approval

for work done with a straight up, solid heart.

Little Chotu turned up with his tray

bearing bottle-green glasses of milk chai.

Gaurav took a break. He was a poor man

with sinuous hands. His look was simple, kind.

29.4

After chai he looked about, producing

a box for Yogi to balance upon his knees

across his chola, holding thirty-three pieces

of hand-carved sandalwood and ebony

elephant howdah maharajah and rani,

with tiny tusks whitely eburnine,

suggesting ivory.

“Oot,” said Gaurav,

meaning camel bone. There were figures

on camelback, warriors on horses,

siege-leaders, soldiers, an antique Indian army.

Gaurav drew out a matching chandan rani,

making last naps and nicks with a pocket knife.

Blowing dust, he pressed it to Yogi’s chest

“Apki rani hain,” he said. “Your queen.”

It was his way of saying: look after your wife.

29.5

Chauhaan’s cream Ambassador pulled up.

Gaurav slipped away to furniture work.

“Greetings., Yogi. Do you know chaturanga?

Chess was born in ancient India.”

Chauhaun, the history buff soon told him how

Chaturanga meant ‘army’ – a royal game

to strategise with elephants, chariots, horsemen

and foot-soldiers. “It’s in Mahabharata.

Two sides, or four will thrown down bones of dice.”

“Just like Shakuni?” Yogi countered, “Who cheated

Yudhisthira of his kingdom?”

Chauhaan nodded.

“Er…sorry, Yogi, we have a satsang scheduled.

an invitation from a Sardarji friend.”

Queen in pocket, Yogi thought of Margot

as the solid Ambassador engine elephant-snorted.

29.6

Gobind Electricals had a roll-up door.

Amrik Singh smiled and greeted him —

with marigold garland and two chubby palms

joined in reverence. He spoke Punjabi:

“Aao, Sant ji,” then flicked a switch to English.

“You come to my shop. So nice!” He whacked

a chair of its dust, the scourge of highway towns

with dirty cloth, once a sleepy pajama.

His whip-the-snake technique also collected,

a bric-a-brac tray of defunct nuts and plugs,

cannibalised parts. The folderol catch-all

crashed and a screw-loose scrabble field.

“Sorry, Sant ji! I am very much clumsy.”

29.7

Amrik, a name aspiring to America

went hands and knees to clean up chaos quick.

The Sikh man with a beard so neatly pressed

into a hair net glued with fixer, puffed hard,

clearing the path for hospitality.

His young boy came from a nearby deep fry

witches’ cauldron bearing greasy samosas,

and served them with more chai. So frequently

offered, Yogi thought he should mainline it

to save on washing up. At last the Sardar

relaxed behind the counter and mopped his brow

with sweaty relief. Yogi had been brought

for a fifteen-minute, in-store quickie blessing.

29.8

Decorum needed small talk. Or distraction.

Yogi noticed a wall-frame, golden-tasselled.

It’s turbaned figure had black flowing beard,

wore sword, a bow, a quiver of deer leather

while meditating on a tiger skin.

Wearing a pelt he looked more warrior

than a skinny sadhu.

“So who is he?”

Yogi asked.

“Guru Gobind Singh

our Tenth Master,” said Amrik. “In his past birth

he sat at a lake circled by seven mountains.”

“Also where the Pandavas meditated,”

added Chauhaan.

“Is it real?” Asked Yogi

“We call it Hemkund Sahib, near Badrinath.”

An inner urge told Yogi: go, just go.

29.9

Almost on cue, a monsoon shower fell

like a superpower upon an errant outpost,

adding effect to Amrik’s passionate telling

of the Dasam Guru’s exploits — the one who gave

turban and beard to the Sikhs for coming times —

a hawk against an empire. Aurangzeb,

its Mughal, incarnadine, an anti-Hindu,

swearer of false oaths upon the Koran,

forcer of Islam upon two baby sons.

Gobind’s young refused and were bricked alive,

praising Formlessness to their last breath.

Yogi was moved.

“Please come for Hemkund Yatra,”

Amrik said. “Bless us with your presence.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow, Sant ji.”

29.10

“It feels the thing to do.” Yogi agreed.

Chauhaan was flummoxed, “But what about the satsangs,

the Kirtan Mandal? It’s only two weeks off.”

“Plenty of time,” said Amrik. “I will have him back.

We must show Sant ji some of India.”

“We will discuss with Barhai,” Chauhaan said,

“And send a message.”

“Thanks, but I’ve decided,”

said Yogi blithely. “I’ll let Barhai know.”

Chauhaan was stymied. He couldn’t say much now,

check-mated by a local business man.

“Chunga! I will book and pick you up

quite early,” Amrik manoeuvred quickly.

He was no Prince of Bumbledom after all.

29.11

“I had no choice. Yogi wants to go.

He said straight out.”

Chauhaan was reporting

in the workshop.

Barhai thought on it

and cleared his throat: “Next time, cut back on

the daily satsangs. Screen the parties first.

We cannot push the Ganga. She will flood

or flow the way a river wants. Now is

the time to exercise restraint – not of

Yogi, but our urgency. Amrik Singh

will have him back on time, especially if

we fete him at the Maha Kirtan Mandal.”

“Excellent. It will be even better.”

But Barhai knew he had no other choice.

DANNY

Crapton, Florida. Recently incorporated in 2013, the towns founder and mayor, Eric Crapton, is proud to say his family owns the horse manure, the cow manure, the chicken slaughterhouse, and the chicken manure factories that compromise 89 percent of the town’s economy. The rest of the town’s economy is created by the speed traps recently created on U.S. route 301 in Bradford County, Florida. Crapton is the proud location for the 324th Walmart super center in the State of Florida. Yes, there are additional speed traps in the parking lot. Crapton is a Funky town, but only because it literally smells like shit.

NORVAL JOE

Merle and Verle Hurley left the railway station, walking down the center of a empty, dusty street dressed in chicken suits. Merle’s was plain white, while Verle was a Rhode Island Red. Other men and women, similarly dressed, approached from different directions and converged on a large square building. Frenzied music blared from within while poultriesque patrons bobbed and jigged about the floor.
Merle dug through a feathered pocket and asked the woman collecting tickets, “Is this Funkytown hall?”
“Of course it is,” the woman said. “Everyone knows you ain’t gonna dance the Funky Chicken in any town but Funkytown.

TURA

Any town but Funkytown
——–
“Take me to funky town, big boy?” drawled the girl at the bar.

I tried to look at her sideways, but she didn’t have any sideways, so I looked her up and down. “Your mamma know you’re out late?” I said. “Send her over, and I’ll show her funky town.”

I didn’t see her move, but suddenly there’s a knife poking my throat, and the bartender’s playing invisible. “I tried askin’ nice, so now I gotta ask nasty. Some guys outside, they wanna talk to you, real bad.”

I had a feeling we were going anywhere but funky town tonight.

PLANET Z

I wrote a fourth act to Our Town.
It begins with everyone in the cemetery sitting quietly, including George and Emily.
Then, a bulldozer and a backhoe roll across the stage, scattering everyone.
Work stops. “What the shit is this?” yells a crewman. “This isn’t on any maps.”
“Just dump it all in the woods,” says a supervisor. And he bribes a county official.
Finally, the land developer sticks a sign in the ground: Grover’s Corners Country Club.
The play finishes with half-inebriated rich people golfing.
The fifth act is where they allow blacks to join. (But still not Jews.)

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 WHERE HAS THE TIME GONE?.

We’ve got stories by:

• Lizzie
• John
• Jeffrey
• Richard
• Tura Brezoianu
• Singh
• Neil
• Tom
• Munsi
• Serendipity
• Zackmann
• Danny Dwyer
• Chelsea
• Seicher Rae
• Spate
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Norval Joe
• Planet Z

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of ANY TOWN BUT FUNKYTOWN.

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.

LIZZIE

“Mark my words, son, time flies.” The six year-old Tommy nodded diligently. His grandfather surely knew about these things. “One day you’re young and the next…” Tommy wasn’t quite sure of this though. When he was born, his grandfather was already old. He had gray hair and wrinkles. “Let’s go. We still have a few hours till sunset.” And they played football. His grandfather moved quite well for an old guy. Years later, when his granddad died, all Tommy could think of was that afternoon. “Time does fly, granddad,” he whispered softly, looking at the sun hiding behind the horizon.

JOHN MUSICO

“Time Cures All” by John Musico

The Alzheimer’s patient returned to his psychiatric appointment accompanied by his wife.
During the interview, the patient’s wife, as visits prior, answered all questions for him while shooting glares at him with her eyes to keep quiet and just sit still. He wasn’t his usual expressionless mute self that day. The wife declared to the psychiatrist; “He has clearly deteriorated.” The doctor explained; “ He is advancing to disinhibition. That means he can no longer suppress his urges.” She replied; “ I still don’t understand”. The patient turned to her and said smiling; “That means; time to shut up bitch.”

JEFFREY

On the Case
by Jeffrey Fischer

The police detective glanced around the ransacked room. “Okay, sir, just tell me what’s missing.”

The homeowner looked frantic. “The thieves took everything of value – my computer, my TV, phone. But I can replace all that. The one thing that is irreplaceable was a gift from my grandfather.”

“Don’t worry, sir, we’ll try to get your property back. Just describe this gift for me.”

“It’s a mid-century watch. It didn’t cost much, but it has great sentimental value for me. Please, detective, find out for me: where did the Timex go?”

Golden Years
by Jeffrey Fischer

I leaned back in the easy chair and turned to my wife. “It’s so nice to be able to sit here with you without a care in the world. I guess that’s what we worked so hard to achieve. It seemed like only yesterday when you were my bride. Now look at us: content just to while away the hours until we die. Where *did* the time go?”

Jennifer peered at me over her glasses. “Jeffrey, sarcasm doesn’t become you. When you married me, you knew I liked to watch “Downton Abbey.” It’s only an hour, and if you don’t like it, read a book.”

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story: Part 49 – Time to go

Seeing the look on Rasputin’s face, George started babbling and looking for an escape route. He glanced at his watch:

“Oh, my goodness… where has the time gone? I’m terribly late… I really must be going. Terribly sorry!”

Rasputin’s sudden firm grip upon his shoulder said otherwise.

Without haste, the big man led him across the chapel, knocked on the ante-room door, and roughly pushed him through.

“And where the hell do you think you’ve been?”, said a familiar voice, sarcastically.

Sat upon a Sunday School chair, far too small for her, was Emily. And boy, did she look annoyed!

#2 – Time Lord

The first time that I met him, I was thoroughly impressed – long scarf, floppy hat and deep, booming voice.

He told me he was a Time Lord: “I keep time safe, I ensure it runs as it should – all the time in the universe passes through my hands. Never ask where the time has gone, for I am its keeper, and it comes to me!”

He gave me an enigmatic wink, before stepping into a nearby ‘phone box.

The next time I met him, I wasn’t quite so impressed.

Turns out, he owns the clock shop on the High Street!

#3 – The Timekeeper

‘Who wants to live forever?’

That was the advertising slogan that accompanied the launch of ‘The Timekeeper’, and despite its high price tag, millions were sold.

‘The Timekeeper is a revolutionary new product that captures all your wasted, lost and spare time throughout your life, keeping it safely and securely stored until your final moment. Then, simply press the chrono-key to release the stored time, extending your lifetime far beyond mortal years!’

Of course, I bought one.

And now, on my deathbed, I pressed the key…

Nothing.

Frantically, I tried again, and again.

Turns out, ‘The Timekeeper’ was just another scam.

#4 – Einstein

Einstein got it right, but Hawking messed up the mechanics.

Time is relative, but black holes? Sorry Stephen – you blew it!

A crushing singularity, where time itself grinds to a pulverising halt – it’s simply incorrect.

What really occurs is that the time that’s in short supply – the long summer days, memorable moments, happy hours… the times that seem to be over in an instant – these are captured by black holes, stretched to infinite length, then squeezed out the other side, where they become…

Those interminably long bus journeys, embarrassed silences, and the unending hours spent in the dentist’s waiting room.

TURA

Live fast, we’d certainly done that. Not the die young part, though. Then we’d all moved on, lost touch. But you never lose friends like that, so when his son called me, I had to go.

They’d had to cut out one lung, and the other wasn’t up to much. We talked over old times, although truth is, he was already slipping away, and his memory was pretty vague.

His eyes suddenly clouded with uncertainty, and he feverishly grasped my arm. “Tell me, Jake,” he quavered, “we had fun. Didn’t we? We had fun?”

“Yes,” I said, “we had fun.”

SINGH

28.7

She blinked with daylight. The storm had broken. Birds

were fluttering, stealing thatch.

“Atul!”

He’d migrated from the chair to her bed end.

“Your mother will be worried.

“No Madam.

She knows that you are sick.”

“Pass me water,

will you?”

As he jumped down, Yudhi jumped up,

then sank his butt, wetting the concrete floor.

Atul passed her a tumbler and let him out,

then squatted to sluice away the puppy puddle

with half a bucket, brooming the yellow runoff

out the door.

“You’re a darling,” Margot said.

She was glad for the boy, but wished Yogi was here.

28.8 kaleidoscope

Thanks to Little Man

Margot didn’t starve.

He brought subdzie-roti

packed by neighbourly women —

vegetable and chapati

spiced over hot-plate fires

from the rainbow tray of powders

always with tumeric, haldi

adding its yellow bias,

the Indian cure-all

anti-bacterial ginger-

cousin, along with mirch —

chilli that burns out fever.

Atul was courier for

the billions of women network

(local unsung chapter)

rolling dough into action.

Her sickness brought acceptance.

Bukhar, the fever leveller

breaks people, then bonds them.

None escapes what tries

to wrench body from soul,

dandled in the hands

of the death god Yama.

28.9

walking to the mandir red temple compound

for post-fever reboot inside the Gate of Aum

time overspent with newbie greenhearts

looking out not inward being a tree a shade-giver

she sighed relieved ding-alinging the God bell

bowing body down before the fire-pit

sprinkling samagri sandalwood sawdust rose-petals

with steel spoon camphor dhoop seven grains

to seek guidance feed the mouth of Agni

learn your life’s role Q & A with the fire-god

stay still ear tuned source ominous weather

the action of bowing on warm marble

blessed her forehead impressing a seed open sesame

28.10

The villagers bowed here with their skinny hopes

requesting rain, a cow, or marriage matches.

Their scale of wants was simple milk and roti.

Meanwhile a man ladled drips of ghee

from time to time, to appease the fire-god.

He was the Brahmin following tradition

who also tilled a plot, although his brood

lived out the back mainly on offerings

of store supplies and grimy rupee notes

earned for wedding services and funerals,

harvest mantras. His birth horoscopes

spoke auspicious outcomes, softened truths.

She fluttered rupee butterflies onto marble.

Eyes lit up. He chanted with more vigour.

28.11

The English-knowing priest soon spoke aloud.

“Where is your husband? We are missing him.”

“Yogi is busy. He will be back.”

She sat.

Her eyes searched the flames and climbed the wall.

Shiva was framed above in embossed tin,

the Lord of Yoga in his lotus pose

with three-pronged trishul, a cobra for a scarf

was well-scorched by the rising havan heat.

Then Yudhi barked, wagging his happy tail.

Rushing in, he leapt to clean her face.

The fire-priest flared up. “Get it out! Get it out!”

A tongue had spoken. No dog can enter heaven.

28.12

For his next trick he piddled by the fire.

The priest rose livid, scrabbling for a stick.

Margot should have laughed, but the fever —

her hard-to-send-off guest had made her tetchy.

She stood up, tree-like to protect the dog.

“Don’t touch the little thing. It’s just a puppy!”

Brahmin glared at the untouchable pariah.

“Don’t even think it, or I’ll crack your head.”

She grabbed the iron trishul against the wall

ready to wield like battle-goddess Durga

till the pissing war became an Indian stand-off.

He left in a huff. She cleaned the place and went.

28.13

This argy-bargy did not endear her

to the prestige priest and his close cronies.

Revere the goddess or just plain fear her.

Such men make witches from strong yonis.

These ruling males were at a loss

and Foreign Madam got a wide berth.

But children knew she was the boss.

Thus Gora the potter discerned her worth

like Om Prakash and Janadan

whose kids loved school. To make amends

Gora sent cups and Janadan, a melon

each day to her. She earned friends,

while the burning priest just stayed on fire

and gave bad press as the village-cryer.

28.14

Ram, her closest neighbour,

husband of Kamal Devi

urged by Atul dropped by

to do odd jobs, fixing

the waterpump handle

loose on its ratchet,

and mending the rot in gaps

of her enclosure. He

had no children in school

but following his wife’s

kind thought for Madam

did what he could, clearing

the sludge build-up

in the run-off channel.

Some old women passing

looked with hard eyes

wondering why this man

was helping out so much

the white Foreign Madam

whose own husband

should be doing her own chores —

not all their children

taken from farm duties.

28.15

She began to see the village folk divide

as the self-appointed, and the humble few

Kaurava cousins, Pandavas everywhere.

A woman without husband and protector

was danger time and a gossip topic.

Without school, she lacked a postal service

to send needful messages to parents.

But Atul and a handful of the keen

traded chores for some close-up lessons.

The poorer children had the appetite

as the monsoon poured down in fever bursts.

Each day she would read or act a story

from the Mahabharata book – this one

in verse with Atul as her translator.

28.16

Eklavya, the lowborn lad

did not know the high-caste law:

that poor polluted ones cannot

be purified through arts of war.

None told him Dronacharya

the warrior Brahmin of the bow

who taught the princes in silk robes

would one day, cruelly, strike a blow.

Eklavya, still fashioned faith,

shaping his Drona from raw clay

and bowing to the Guru’s form

gained archery an inner way.

Adeptness came, until one day

he shot seven arrows through the jaws

of some stray dog, pinned down and skewered,

the death-shake rattling in its claws.”

Yudhi then rolled over to play.

28.17

“He’s an English dog,” joked Atul.

He understands you, Madam.”

Now Drona with his best disciple

watching, walked out from the trees.

Arjuna, student-general

could not command such expertise.

Dronacharya, in a flash

now thought of rebel-flags unfurled,

inciting subdued tribes behind

the Greatest Archer in the World.

No, he must be one High-Born:

like Prince Arjuna—the hope and goal

who had the ancestry to assert

good politics of caste-control.

Drona called the boy: ‘Hey come!

How did you perfect your game?’

‘By offering all to you, my Lord,

I worshipped—you improved my aim.’”

28.18

“Is it true, Madam?”

She continued.

“I appreciate you for all this love,

and I see you practice everyday.

Now, as per custom, give my homage.’

The crafty guru made his play.

‘Though none can match, Eklavya,

who has shot upward from a slum

the future’s arrowhead is Arjuna.

Thus, I demand your severed thumb.’

So, Eklavya, the faithful slave

gave dakshina, the guru-fee.

Ever since, dissenting Dalits,

stretch the bow, but hold thumb free.

He placed it at the guru’s feet

a blemish on the Brahmin Law.

Now Dronacharya is best recalled

for stealing thumbs, not arts of war.”

28.19

Thus she passed her days of wet and hot

inside her hut with a happy yellow dog,

neighbour kids arriving between the storms.

Avoiding the Brahmin and fire mandir

she turned inside and found another place.

Nataraja danced before her eyes.

She saw and heard his damaru, the little drum

shaped like an hour-glass, sounding syllables

that make and break the universal law.

There was Ganga Devi in Shiva’s hair

unbraiding herself from his flowing dreadlocks.

Outside, rain had not let up and tractor blades

were ploughing the road. Then she heard Atul.

“Madam ji! Madam!”

NEIL

— Junkie —

You can get it all at Mr Johnson’s Time Emporium. Pop-books of individual seconds. Hours sealed in a can. Tanks containing whole years, if you’ve got the cash.

Time is money, Mr Johnson says.

And since he opened, I’ve never missed a deadline.

Never hit one, either. Because I can always get a couple more days, I never feel like I have to start anything.

It’s getting bad. I’ve got so much time that nothing ever gets done. I’m almost 50, but I’ve not yet had my 22nd birthday.

I’d quit, if it didn’t mean facing my credit card bill.

TOM

A silence gather about the Ghetto. Father Tony was joined by Rev
Morehouse. “Not you too, we are not going to have a dipped in nostalgic
band of brothers were has the time gone moment?” “Yes Captain Proctor, we
needn’t bring up what happen in that valley, just the death of dreams and
by my account we are the last still standing.” As if the years themselves
fell away, he was looking into the eyes of Lt Morehouse and Staff Sargent
Anthony Delmonico. “It will not go well.” said the doctor. “Never does.”
replied the priest.”Where are the guns, Morehouse?”

MUNSI

Floating Through the Day

By Christopher Munroe

You shiver, then whimper, naked and drained.

You assure me you’ll only need a minute.

It takes more like an hour.

I’d like you to stay, but you need to be at work in the morning, so do I, and I totally respect your decision to sleep in your own bed.

You thieve my pajama pants and TShirt, swimming in their size, and I walk you to your car, kissing you as you climb in, watching you drive away.

On the way back, it’s my turn to shiver.

My weekend is drawing to a close.

Where has the time gone?

SERENDIPITY

It sits on your hard drive, waiting to strike, then – at the worst possible moment – it starts to suck up your precious time, slowing your system to a crawl.

It mocks your deadlines with rogue updates, unexpected restarts and inexplicable crashes, misinterprets keystrokes, drops connections and hides files… and always when time is of the essence.

It comes preinstalled with every computer – PC or Mac – and there’s no escape.

So next time you wonder, “Where has the time gone?” – try switching off, and maybe you’ll work it out.

ZACKMANN

“Honey, where is the thyme? I bought some from the guy at the farmers market with the Volkswagen 412 squareback and am looking for the empty jar to fill.” said Zack

“Don’t worry dear I’m sure you’ll find it. I am sure I saw it recently, have you checked the top shelf of the dishwasher. I meant to put away the dishes but I could not find the time.” replied Connie.

“We haven’t used much since our baby left for college.” remarked Zack

Connie teased “We both worked but tried to give our child all the thyme in the world.”

DANNY

The world is asking, where has all The Time gone? The negative news about the crisis in Crimea, the missing airplane in Malaysia, and Eddie Van Halen previously wanting to join Kiss as their guitarist because he was fed up with arguing with David Lee Roth, left All The Time so fed up with humanity it decided to stop and take a vacation in the Bahamas. Top physicists and world leaders now question exactly when All The Time will come back so we can resume destroying ourselves, and whether All The Time will be to hung-over to resume moving forward.

CHELSEA

There was a sucking hole in his life. He wasn’t sure when he’d first noticed it. He’d always felt it there on the edge of everything, eating away at each moment.

He tried to keep a hold of the things that were important, family, friends, his sanity, but little by little each moment was stolen, devoured by the sucking hole in his world.

But, where did the time go, where was it actually going?

Was there a physical place he could go to get it all back?

That’s when he built the machine, and no one ever saw him again.

SEICHER

They say your life flashes rapidly in front of your eyes when you know you are about to die some sudden death. Who are They and how do They know this? Wouldn’t the people who know be…dead? She returned to watching a particularly embarrassing moment from junior high, vivid in its detail, right down to replicating the pain in her gut from the long ago angst. That was a random, cruel life review. And, why hasn’t anyone ever remarked that these flashes can happen at other times? She continued her reflection and her blank stare at the Windows loading screen.

SPATE

Bottles and Needles

She knows where Time goes. She followed him after the betrayal. Across alleys with dark corners, down sewers and through tunnels; all the way she hung not far behind him.

He stopped in a dank cavern and sat upon a rock. She quietly moved closer to see his skinny nakedness was covered with tattoos that looked like blue green bruises against his pale gray skin. And then she saw the ground all around was littered with bottles and dirty needles.

Heroin. That’s how he was manipulating the seconds and minutes and hours and days. Bottled smack.

Time is a junkie.

CLIFF

“All right, Eddie. You were the last one to be seen with it. So where is it?”
“I don’t know, I tell you. I didn’t take it.”
“Don’t lie to me, Eddie!”
“I’m tellin’ ya, when I left, it was right there in the bottle.”
“And now that sealed bottle is just empty?”
“It musta leaked out or something.”
“I’m warning you…”
“You ain’t got nothing on me. I got rights.”
Detective Crookshanks rubbed his eyes. Eddie wasn’t going to crack. It looked like the lab report was right. Nobody stole the liquid time. It just slipped into the future.

NORVAL JOE

Dergle followed Widow Finklestien to a small cafe. Either, she didn’t notice him following behind herA, or, with his changed status in reality, she didn’t know him anymore.
She sat in a booth, leaning across the table, holding hands with a man a little older than she. Dergle sat in the next booth, his back to hers.
“Where has the time gone, Harold?” She asked.
“That’s my point, Beula. Time’s moving on. Are you going to marry me, or not?”
A long pause followed his question. When she finally spoke, Dergle heard happiness in your voice, “Yes, Harold. I will.”

PLANET Z

Every week, the TIME magazine moves from the mailbox to the table by the front door.

Then, it moves to the countertop in the bathroom.
(Or the bathroom floor, if a cat knocks it there.)

After a day or so in the bathroom, it lands in the stack of magazines next to my wife’s easy chair.

It will float between the bathroom countertop for a few days, and then end up in the basket next to the toilet if there’s anything interesting in there for further reading.

And then, the trash. Along with all the other old catalogs and magazines.