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 OLD:

And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:

• Mike
• Thomas Pitre
• Norval Joe
• Jeffrey
• Richard
• Serendipidy Haven
• Munsi
• Lizzie
• Singh Parts 1 and 2
• Tom
• Tura Brezoianu
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Miata Stardust
• Zackmann
• Steven
• RedGoddess
• Justin
• Danny
• Planet Z

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of SMELL.

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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MIKE

OLD
by mbnels

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Do you have any singles?”

“Why?”

“That girl. I think she wants me to put a dollar in her g-string.”

“We’re at a high-school basketball game!”

“I know, but for God’s sake she’s wearing mesh pantyhose! She has tattoos, a butterfly on her ankle, a tramp stamp on her back and she has flowers that go up her tummy and over her-”

“Dude! That’s Amanda Tomlinson.”

“Wait. Mandy Tomlinson? Andrew Tomlinson’s DAUGHTER?”

“Shhhh, yes. Andy is right behind us.”

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Do you have any forks in there?”

“Just a spork…why?”

“I wanna gouge out my eyes.”

THOMAS

Henry was an old man. In the last ten, maybe twenty years, he realized that he had grown invisible. When shopping, picking a loaf of bread off the shelf, or choosing a couple of oranges at the produce counter, young people would pass by, almost brushing into him, but not making eye contact or offering a greeting. At the front entrance of the post office, an attractive young lady appeared, face to face at the large, double doors. She stared straight ahead, not changing her expression. She looked through the old man as if he was glass in the door.

#

The geezer was old

but still felt bold

older than dirt

but still the flirt

ogling the legs

with his ham and eggs

checking behinds

through venetian blinds.

Any chance he had

with the scantily clad

at the park

daytime or dark.

He’d wait for the runner

an exceptional stunner

to jog on by

and to catch his eye.

Bright yellow shorts

which barely supports

her magnificent tush.

Her fanny, a bubble

screaming for trouble

to the nasty old goat

tightening his throat

and raising his nubble.

Old, but not dead.

He could still pray

for that magical day.

NORVAL JOE

Before Katie could drag Borle from the hut screems issued from the tropical forest. Through the screen walls of the structure men could be seen leaping from the foliage and rushing to crowd around the small man’s house. Each warrior held a drawn bow aimed within.
“I knew you were O’Malley spies,” the small man whined. As one the women threw their spears to the ground, their bare breasts heaving as they sighed in resignation.
“O’Leary. Send out those thieves and make sure they’ve got the Tahloohlah gourd with them,” someone shouted from outside.
“This is getting old,” Borle grumbled.

“Mr. Dunderspawn. If you won’t sign the paper, there’s not a lot I can do for you. You’re being held on suspicion of being an international terrorist. You have no rights as a US citizen.”
A guard walked up, unlocked the cell door and said, “Come with me. You have a visitor.”
Across the plexiglass divider, Widow Finklestien scowled; an old cardboard box sat on the table before her.
“I’ve been feeding your wiener dogs while you’ve been away, but this one won’t eat.”
The grey muzzle of Long John Silver poked from under the folded lid of the box.

JEFFREY

Parker
by Jeffrey Fischer

The pen was old, a black 1947 vacuum-filling Parker 51 with a blue diamond on the arrow clip. Scratches along the soft metal cap gave the pen character. The rubber in the filling mechanism had become brittle with age, but with some careful work I replaced the diaphragm. After soaking the pen in water to dissolve years of dried ink, the 51 was ready to write.

I sat at my father’s desk, like the pen another antique I inherited, with the 51 in my hand, poised to make a note in my new leather-bound journal. My father thought of his pen as an extension of himself. Does the pen still have that power, or, in an age of electronic diaries and hand-held computers, is it hopelessly anachronistic, mere evidence of a bygone age?

Goin’ Mobile
by Jeffrey Fischer

My first car was a 1982 Mercury Lynx. It was old at the time I bought it, held together more by duct tape than welds, moved from zero to sixty in a brisk ten to twelve seconds or so, and had an annoying tendency to refuse to start when the engine was halfway warm.

Still, a car meant freedom. I loved that. Of course, to a young person, a car also meant car payments, and an old car meant lots of repairs. Did I say “freedom”? I meant to say “prison.”

RICHARD

#1 – The Dig

The team gathered excitedly around the find. The artefact was old – ancient in fact – but that wasn’t its most striking attribute, for there in the trench, surrounded by pottery and tile fragments, covered in mud and scoured by the ravages of time, lay unmistakeably, a Roman timepiece.

This was an historical moment – one that would change forever our understanding of ancient technology… nobody had realised the Romans were so technologically advanced.

Johnson walked up to the crowd, wondering what the excitement was about.

“Hey Guys, has anyone seen my watch? I dropped it around here a couple of days ago.”

#2 – Grow Up!

‘Grow up!’ It’s an admonishment I seem to get almost every day…

Like the time I put itching powder down Miss Turner’s back or the hilarious occasion I slipped those little blue tablets into Sydney’s orange juice. “Grow up!”, they said, in exasperation.

I don’t want to grow up – there’s time enough for that when I’m older.

Today, Louise caught me tobogganing down the stairs on a tea-tray. It was the last straw for her, resulting in a proper telling-off:

“For goodness sake grandpa, will you please grow up – you’re just too old for this kind of behaviour!”

#3 – Hasty Retreat

George’s exit from the mortuary was a great deal more rapid than his entrance – whatever disaster had befallen humanity outside, he’d much rather take his chances with the living dead, than hang around with the dead and decaying.

He cleared the corridor in five seconds flat and tore back up the several flights of stairs he’d only recently made his way down.

Finally, he could run no further and collapsed in a heap on the floor, fighting for breath and wishing he’d spent more time keeping in shape.

Miserably he thought, “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing”.

SERENDIPITY

My coffee table is an heirloom from my grandmother – I remember her teaching me to count the rings in the grain to see how old the tree was. No matter how many times I counted, I always came up with a different number!

We’d sit at the table and she’d show how each ring represented a particular year – “This one was made at the time of the industrial revolution, and that one is around the date of the American civil war”

“What about that dark one, right in the middle?”, I prompted.

“Your grandfather’s coffee cup made that!”, she grumbled.

MUNSI

Dubstep

By Christopher Munroe

I have to admit, I don’t enjoy Dubstep.

Which is weird, I’ve enjoyed electronic music in the past. I liked Chemical Brothers and Prodigy during the ‘90s, I still love Daft Punk. Aphex Twin’s Richard D. James albums is one of my favorites, and there’s a clear line between that and Dubstep, and yet…

I can’t get into it. I suspect the fault isn’t Dubstep’s, but my own.

Because I’m growing older.

I’m always growing older, every minute of every day. It’s the one constant of my life.

And one day I’ll die.

But, more importantly, I don’t enjoy Dubstep.

LIZZIE

To understand

“Preferably,” mumbled the foreigner, leaning against the SUV covered in dust.

Shariq didn’t speak English, but his job was not to understand; his job was to take the man to different locations, like this abandoned old house in a deserted area.

The foreigner checked his watch and shook his head.

Another SUV appeared from behind the house. A man stepped down. They talked for a few seconds.

The foreigner came back, muttering, “The devil’s waiting.”

As they drove away, there was a huge explosion and pieces of the other SUV flew in all directions. Shariq thought “The devil’s at work.”

SINGH

Dante and the Tumult Cards Part 2

9.
Dante looked down at the broken body in the pit. A flicker registered in the face.
“You thought I could forget, Wolfgang? How you snatched my company, my wife and children? Remember our deal done by kerosene lamp? Poetic justice, isn’t it? You tripped into your own bear trap. The one you dug ten years ago.”
“Take it all, Dante. Let me live.”
“Aha? You think I care. I’m way too old. But I will play a last card for you.”
Dante shuffled. The Surrogate Card turned face up.
“Sorry. You lose.”
Dante lifted the trapdoor and let in the wolves.

10.
The alpha dog tore at his throat, the she-wolf his genitals. The others attacked at each limb, ripping him like a rag doll. His neck was spurting red, but Dante was supra-conscious beneath the excoriations of pain.
It should not have happened like this. Had he become his enemies’ understudy? Yes, the Surrogate Card had decided and this wasn’t a rehearsal.
What circle of hell was he in? The leopard, the lion and the wolf were still at his heels. From the shit pit of bodies writhing in human ammonia, a black hand emerged holding aloft the Clone Card.

11.
“Ladies, you can change your spots through the Lady Leopard Sexercise Programme.”
“Francine?” He spun around. ”I never thought I’d see…” and broke off…the once chubby face of his childhood sweetheart had been cloned by wall to wall video screens, She was the Wellness Goddess.
Nothing made sense. Had he been saved from Hell, only to land up at this cheesy mall promotion with a Lady Leopard Lookalike Pageant just beginning?
The future couldn’t be so random. The idea of progress had to exist.
He tossed the Tumult Deck into the air.
Each falling future was a Time-out Card.

12.
Time is a lion pacing the cage, losing grip. The past might have been the tawny savannah of Africa, but the future was a putrid stall of thrown bones.
Shocking, Dante thought. How nobility could be so reduced to an object of pedestrian pleasure pointing and licking its French-fry fingers.
Caged in his consciousness he was no different to the big cat. Sitting on the bench under a tree, he felt truly compassionate and remorseful for the first time. Heavens and Hells, Africas and zoo-purgatory. Were these destinations or stopovers? Wind shook down the leaves and the Power Card.

13.
Dante met his she-wolf on Tuesdays. The circle drummed them into the underworld. Howling and mating as Power Animals, they then returned.
Lycanthia Wolf had founded the Therian Support Group after coming out two years back. Meeting her alpha she was happy.
He was circumspect about Therianthropy. All these drooping tails pinned to backsides.
“Psychiatrists call this ‘species dysmorphia’,” he challenged.
“It’s animal past lives,” she answered.
A newcomer jumped in. “We meet in a virtual world and are in a loving raccoon-hyena relationship now.”
Dante fiddled with the deck in his pocket and pulled out the Buddha Card.

14.
To escape leopard, lion and wolf Dante had backpacked here seeking sanctuary.
Thirty monks sat before the rare monkey wood image.
“Chop off Buddha’s head,” the abbot ordered.
“It is sacrosanct. Unthinkable!” one factional monk complained.
“Just do it!” said the cranky abbot.
Was Dante being ensnared in a power struggle? Who to align with, who would win?
“Why are you waiting, you fool?”
So, Dante swung. A chip flew out. Another card! It was Surrender.
“Now chop and burn it! My toes are icicles!”
Dante understand none of this. Lust, greed and power were still growling beasts in his belly.

15.
She was one hundred with a face leathery as a shrunken doll. But her eyes were pellucid as the mountain river.
Dante had to purify himself in water before Tingri the sky god would revoke the three evils.
Old Grandmother donned her she-wolf mask and danced into trance.
Soon she was howling in an animal tongue. Dante couldn’t understand.
Suddenly, she punched him left and right and left with such force it loosened a tooth.
Later in the yurt after a meal of horse offal, he dreamed of falling stones. On waking the Clemency Card was stuck to his palm.

16.
“Leniency, Sir?” Dante asked. “At Ypres, the beast in man was born from mud,”
Thirty miles behind the Front, General Sir Ossian Quayles luncheoned on.
“Some Christmas clemency please. Trench morale has been gnawed raw.”
Quayles held his tarte d’oignon mid-fork. “In battle Colonel, the lion must be unleashed, then goaded forward.”
Dante clenched knuckles remembering thousands sentenced to machine gun oblivion.
“The three deserters?”
Quayles considered the political implications. Let him carry the shit can in case anything leaks to the press. “Hush it up then, Colonel.”
Dante returned to his rat quarters, cut the Deck, turning up Death.

17.
Inside the coffin he was awake. Scripture re-surfaced: “The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them.”
Was this death? Dante blinked. The kidnapping came back, being knocked unconscious. Who was wolf, who was the lamb? Even here images of leopard and lion would not leave him alone. Fear’s movie was going on inside him.
Then, a phone vibrated rudely on his chest. A reprieve or ransom demand? No. Just a picture-send. It was the Birth Card.

18.
The wolf woman lived over the pass in Tumult Valley, an isolated place known for storms. She trained animals for Hollywood. Randy the leopard and Tamerlane the lion were caged out back with others, while Half Moon, a she-wolf had slept by her bed since a puppy. Few visited and she liked it that way. A stuntman got her pregnant during her last shoot. She was glad and never told him.
Around sunset the first contractions began. She walked up and down, rocked in her chair, but couldn’t settle. Even the wolf began to fret. Why was the midwife late?

19.
As the storm broke so did her water. She and Moon were on their own. Throwing down quilts she nested beside the brass bed, spread herself breathing and pushing until finally the baby crowned and was in the world. She slumped back and brought it close. She had done it. Alone, Moon licked the baby’s face. The tumult was over. She reached for the Deck on the bed table. As a ritual of significant beginnings she knocked it flying to see what fate would turn up for a newborn girl. It was the clean slate, the heart-shaped mirrorcard – the Blank.

TOM

Timmy smiled at dad. Raised his hand shook two fingers proudly proclaiming “I’M TWO!” The remains of the cake and candles were smeared across the top of the wooden highchair and Timmy’s face. Of the mountain of toys from Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, Parents Timmy seemed most fascinated by a nerf ball. The Godfather Tom sheepishly apologized for inadvertently up-staging the family. “It’s ok Tom. It’s actually on the list of toys Timmy can take with him.” Mother carefully put the knit hat on Timmy’s shinning head. As they drove to the clinic Tom thought three years old was highly unlikely

To mark my 500th story at Laurence’s 100 World Story Archive I want
to thank you all for the shout outs for my birthday. As one advances
in years the milestones call to celebrate become more distinctly
spaced out. To this end only birthday ending in zero get properly
acknowledged. This is why I brought this to the attention of our band
of brothers/sisters gender correct thank you very much. Turning 60 is
sort of unfamiliar landscape sort of Gallup on acid and I highly
recommend not doing acid in Gallup, for one I feel no wiser or mature
then when I turned 14 but at the same time I am the last living
member of my childhood rat pack.. In the last year my best writing
has been in the form of eulogies. Gail keeps saying I’m just middle
aged, I don’t know many folk 120. I’ve always thought it odd that at
19 you’re a young man at 29 you’re standing at the border of middle
age. Now I’ve double 30 my goal is to care half as much about what
other think of me and have six times as much fun as when I was 10.

TURA

“Say, how old *are* you?”

I usually leave before people start asking, but it’s getting harder to disappear. Time was, I’d get on a ship and go missing, turn up somewhere as a stranger and start over. It’s not so easy under the eye of Google Earth, the Internet, and CCTVs everywhere.

I recently gave a DNA sample to a research survey. I’d like to know what they find, that’s kept this body going three thousand years, but it looks like I can’t stick around to find out.

Time to leave, time for a new life. That never gets old.

CLIFF

The book store was a collectors dream. Leather bound volumes lined the shelves. The older books were in display cabinets under lock and key. I loved it. I chatted with the owner for a bit and bought a first edition of 1984. He was obviously a huge bibliophile and grew quite animated when talking about his collection.
“I have a first edition bible. Would you like to see it?”
Of course, I said yes. I’d never seen a Gutenberg up close.
“Oh, it’s not a Gutenberg,” he said as he unlocked a door. Inside were stacks of stone tablets.

MIATA

I was young. I saw an old woman at the park. At first, I was afraid of her, that is, until I saw her eyes. They were like the Mediterranean Sea, and they were sparkling at me! Her voice cracked as she spoke, but after listening I caught the lilt, the music from her soul. Had she been to all the places she sang about? She was my grandmother, and the love I came to have for her had no bounds.

I am old. I met my grandchildren at the park. At first, they were scared of me….

ZACKMANN

“Hey Pops, Did you hear that new dubstep song on the radio?”

“No young man, and I hope I don’t. Back in my day music didn’t have to sound awful for kids to dance to it.”

“Pops, You know hating new music exclusively because it’s crap is a sign of old age.”

Pop winks and says “I’ve always hated bad music and I told you to call me Uncle when we go places without your mother.”

“Yeah, thats like so mature”
“Your mother assures me that I might have become responsible, maybe even old but I will never be mature.”

STEVEN

You don’t want to, you really don’t. But the scab – dried platelets and blood – can’t be ignored.

Try to concentrate on the smooth skin – not the red raised inflammation around the scab – focus, dammit, focus.

Your fingers, your clothes, the air brushes against the scab.

The invisible elephant makes it impossible to move, to breathe, to think.

Dig with fingernails chewed and peeled and bitten with worry. The sharp flashes of pain are relief, any sensation besides the crusted deadened dread.

You are surprised by the blood, by the wound.

It will stain your clothes.

It will leave a scar.

REDGODDESS

Lola can count the number of awkward moments at the hotel in both hands. Most guests are cordial unless they are in one their bad moods. You know, “the my problems are bigger than yours” look. They walk around like zombies with blank stares with the scent of rage. Lola feels like an invisible sculpture in the lobby. On other days, they seek her out like a lost friend, spilling their repressed secrets to her like a designated Therapist. The next day, some zoom by without saying a word. In spite of their indifference, Lola will remain the most reliable stranger in their lives.

Lola has come to accept the reality that old age is like death, both are inevitable. After turning 30, she stops counting. It’s a waste of time considering she feels older than she looks. Sadly, the media won’t let her forget either. Everywhere she turns, there are ads for wrinkle and cellulite cream. Her friends shower her with complements but she’s skeptical.
Henri, a French hotel guest with a permanent tan, greets with air kisses and spins her around like a ballerina. . “You look younger by the minute!” he squeals for everyone in ear shot to turn and stare. Lola blushes but feels oddly convinced by this drunk man’s flattery.

JUSTIN

Delbright traipsed across the Capital Wasteland, enjoying no longer living in the Vault. Sure it was a big giant mess, but not boring. Bright sunlight glinted off something in the sand. Delbright picked it up. It was old, but still new and shiny. Looked like something from the vault museum. It was amazing something this old still looked good out here. He fiddled with it trying to decide how it worked. It fell from his hands when the back of his skull cracked. Delbert fell and saw his killer. The sneaking bandit took it back, as well as Delbright’s things.

Carson goaded his brahmin along the path between Megaton and Bigtown. The wagon they pulled was his life, goods to trade. Travelers needed items of all sorts, and he needed caps to put food on his plate. Something that looked valuable laid in the sand ahead, reflecting the harsh sunlight. Carson picked it up. It was old, and it was in mint condition. Far too mint to not have been placed here recently. He took cover against his wagon. When a bandit came around the corner, spiked bat in hand, he shot, and added the bandits things to his own.

DANNY

An Old Man tried to commit suicide by carbon monoxide gas. The old man carefully hooked a long tube from the exhaust pipe of his car into the rear window of his four door sedan parked in his garage, then thoroughly sealed the back window with duct tape. Unfortunately, the car the old man used was a hydrogen fuel cell car from Honda. The Honda was so well built, and the duct tape job around the exhaust was so brilliant, and the cabin of the car was so well built, it rapidly filled with water. The old man drowned instead.

PLANET Z

Whenever I find an old ornate bottle that looks like it might contain a genie, I pick it up and wish that I never found the genie’s bottle in the first place.

This guarantees that my life will either stay the same, because the bottle isn’t magical at all, or that it will get better.

How will it get better?

Because with all this crazy shit going on, there’s no way I’d wish for the life I have now, so it stands to reason that the genie made my wishes backfire on me.

No bottle, no crazy shit.

(Fuckin’ genie.)

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 BLANK:

And we’ve got stories by a lot of people:

• Thomas Pitre
• Jeffrey
• Lizzie
• Tom
• Tura Brezoianu
• Yordie
• Munsi
• Thomas N
• Serendipidy Haven
• Sam
• Steven
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Miata Stardust
• Caledonia
• Bonchance and Sevi
• Justin
• Danny
• Singh
• Norval Joe
• Zackmann
• Planet Z

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of OLD.

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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THOMAS

Stanley’s mind was a blank. After two weeks of meditation, taking no food, and only sipping water, his mind was clear and thus so vacant that the natural operation of his brain that controlled breathing and movement had stalled to the point where all autonomic functions that sustained life had put him in jeopardy. His friend intervened, putting earphones on his head, and blasting Pink Floyd into his ears, while force-feeding him chili, shots of cinnamon whiskey and tickling him with a feather duster until Stanley’s mind exploded with stimuli and his breathing changed from life threatening to normal breathing.
#

Nick had no offspring. Nick shot blanks. A stuntman for a B film maker, he was responsible for weapons, explosions, and flames used in productions. When the set opened for a father and son day, Nick asked his brother, Don, if he could “borrow” his son to tour the studio, meet the actors, and help him do the set ups for a car chase and gun battle that was being filmed. Don’s son was quiet, but unknown to anyone, was the spawn of the devil, and intent on causing harm when the opportunity presented itself. You know what happened, right?
#
All the pages of TJ’s new book were left intentionally blank. Everything he had wanted to say, was already said in his other books and papers. The book, sold by Amazon, was intended as a novelty, but it soon jumped to number ten spot on the 2013, best seller list. People bought it and used it as a journal, or a notebook. Others put it in their bookcase or displayed it on their coffee table. The cover was made in China, of recycled automobile tires, and titled with gold embossing. Black, thick and malodorous, the books cried out to bibliophiles.
#
TJ’s next book contained blank verse. The first piece, dedicated to his lady friend, was his favorite:
By this morning sun, among red tulips
He stooped to pull weeds, and his knees cried out
Not up to the task, nor willing to submit
To more discomfort , for a glorious yard.

The book of mediocre verse sold one copy to his great Aunt in Waterbury. She had three of her Canasta Club members write fantastic reviews, and asked the congregation at Saint Luke’s if they would also write reviews that she would dictate to them. The author sold three more.
#

He was shot, point blank. Many have heard the phrase, but do not know that point blank is the distance between the gun and the target, such that the bullet in flight is expected to strike the target without adjusting the elevation of the firearm. If the assassin has to raise his pistol as little as one degree in order to strike the victim, it is no longer a point blank shot. Therefore, to avoid being shot point blank, it is recommended that you leap into the air as fast and as high as you can, as the hammer falls.
#
Joe’s assignment was to write a 100 word story using “blank” as the queue word. He wanted to please and impress his writing teacher and coach. He thought of a piece of metal used as a blank to form a car part, analytical blanks as it relates to chemistry, and the expression on a woman’s face when he complemented her on her shoes. He settled on writing more about his uneasiness when trying to engage a beautiful woman. His work as a Gynecologist in a woman’s prison had more to do with his lack of social prowess than anything else.

JEFFREY

Caroline
by Jeffrey Fischer

The first thing people tended to notice about Caroline, before the unkempt hair and jaundiced skin, was her blank stare. She gazed into infinity, not bothered by a visitor’s presence, not even acknowledging it.

Yet behind the unblinking eyes Caroline lived entire lives, free from the institution. She loved, married, bore children and raised them to adulthood, mourned the loss of loved ones. She grew old and died and was reborn, all this in an instant as she gazed impassively at the beige wall. She looked at nothing – and everything.

Shooting Blanks
by Jeffrey Fischer

The doctor looked at me kindly as he told me I was shooting blanks, that my wife and I could never have children, at least not the old-fashioned way.

When my wife could no longer hide her pregnancy, I was confused, then angry. I may be slow, but if I couldn’t knock her up, someone else must’ve done it for me.

When my son was born, the doctors did another test and said he was really mine. Those earlier tests were wrong, they said, or my stuff got better. That made me very happy. I apologized to my old lady for thinking she whored around on me. But I couldn’t stay long – just a few minutes at her grave then the guards took me back to prison.

LIZZIE

Blank Humans

“This is a nightmare,” the man sighed. “We all died. Some of us came back. So what?”
The woman sat in silence.
“Who’s your government source?” she asked, scratching the paint off the table.
“Frank.”
“A fool.”
“I’m afraid we are past that.”
“Just type it, then. Some of us will die again. No one will come back. There aren’t many of us left.”
“They’re…”
“Producing them, I know.”
He started typing – Project for Sector X75: Production of Artificial Humans – Top Secret.
“Were we ever really humans once?”
“Life’s not fair,” she said, the word “Alive” on the rusted table.

TOM

A vague recollection of a breakfast conversation with my beloved Anne connecting the name I saw with a chain of familial reference that lead to the realization that through law I was related to Mr. Poe, the author. In Ernest I repeated, was there need to summon a doctor? He took my hand. The fabric of his coat was thread bare and seemed ill fitting for a man of his station. “Give this to Lee,” he said, a gray shroud fell across his eyes. I tore a blank page from this very journal, hastily penned a note to Dr. Snodgrass.

TURA

I don’t actually know how to say my last name. After choosing it, I googled it. It’s Romanian. There’s a main street in Bucharest named for one Ion BREZoYAnu (or should that be breZOYnu?). He is famous for having a street named after him.

At first I read it as “BREzoYAnu”, but the other week, I thought of saying “breZOIanu”, which I quite like. Or maybe Romanians would squeeze it down to “brezWAnu”? Or “BREZwanu”?

I’ve googled up some Romanian tutorials, so I know what sounds the letters stand for, but as for the stress patterns, I’ve drawn a blank.

YORDIE

The Samurai’s Poem
by Yordie Sands

I approached the samurai seated in my teahouse. I bowed with respect, saying, “konnichiwa honorable sir.”

He looked at me with inquisitive eyes, unlike the blank stares of those warriors who engage in battle to feel alive.

He bowed and said, “Honorable lady, please sit by me. I’ll read the poem I wrote for you.”

If of love I die
then above my grave mound, dear
Yordie come and cry

I smiled and bowed to him.

I’d read many haiku and recognized the one he read to me. It was by the courtesan Oshu, except she didn’t use my name.

MUNSI

He was blank, of average height and average looks, favoring neutral hues in his clothes and uninteresting hairstyles.

He was friendly, personable, but never took a stand on any issue, never offered an opinion that was in the least bit out of the mainstream. He kept to small talk and platitudes, and listened more than he spoke.

Once he left a room everyone immediately forgot he’d ever been there.

He was invisible.

And it was only later that they realized their jewelry was missing, never making the connection to the fellow who’d been with their crowd but not of them…

THOMAS N

She sent me an apology tape. Our relationship began that way, with a mix tape. I declared my love through others’ poetry set to music, encased in plastic. Hundreds of tapes, each song carefully selected to send a message from my heart to hers, or vice-versa were the artifacts of our history. How to respond to this latest betrayal, and the apology? I should be depressed, relieved, angry, something. But I was just tired. I unwrapped the cassette, labeled it, and contemplated the eventual contents. I closed the box, addressed the envelope, and dropped the tape in the mail, blank.

SERENDIPITY

Turn on laptop and stare intently at the blank screen in front of you.

Chew fingernail reflectively.

Let attention wander; distractedly tidy desk. Stare intently through window.

Type for a moment – tippy-tap, tippy-tap.

Pause.

Backspace, backspace, backspace, delete.

Critically examine chewed fingernail. Chew into more pleasing shape.

Sigh.

Make coffee. Drink coffee.

Strengthen resolve… fingers poised over keys… brow furrowed with concentration.

Nothing happens.

Run hands through hair in frustration.

Stare, and stare, and stare at the blank screen, willing words to come.

But the words stay stubbornly silent.

There’s nothing today – my mind is a complete blank.

SAM

The sheriff stood facing the outlaw, hand poised over his pistol, ready to draw.

“When both y’all are ready, I’ll start counting,” said the impartial judge. Both men inclined their heads, in the barest suggestion of a nod.

“Ten, nine,” he counted, while sweat trickled down the sheriff’s brow.

“Two. One. Draw!”

Both men drew and fired but the outlaw was just a smidgen faster. Yet the sheriff stood, and the outlaw fell.

“What happened?” The judge exclaimed in amazement.

“He must have been shooting bl…. shooting blan….what’s the word?” Asked the sheriff.

“I don’t know. I’m drawing a blank.”

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

This isn’t a story.

You want purpose? You want some kind of reassurance that there is meaning?

There is no evidence that there is meaning. None.

Faith, maybe, but no evidence.

As far as we know, there’s just a huge, empty, terrifying blank. A vast nothing, throwing your brainstem into survival instinct protective recoil. It’s terrifying, no matter how many times you look at it.

You want to just give up. To give in to the nothing.

And then you get up. You go on. You do something awesome anyway.

Then it gains meaning.

Only then does it becomes story.

CLIFF

I’m not saying it was my idea. It wasn’t. I just asked a question, that’s all. It would just be nice to be in the footnotes somewhere, you know? You see, I was working with the boss on the big project. No one knew what the project really was. The boss didn’t like to explain himself, even back then. Problem was, you couldn’t even see the thing. It was just a big blank his studio. So, I said “Why is it so dark?”. That inspired the boss. He sat a moment and then said the words.
“LET THERE BE LIGHT!”

MIATA

This week, I’ve drawn a blank. So, here are some quotes…..enjoy.
“Writing is like surfing – it’s a challenge to stand on the board, but when you do, it’s a glorious ride.” – Sark
“A human being is nothing but a story with skin around it.” – Fred Allen
“Judge each day not by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds you have planted.”
– Robert Louis Stevenson
“If music be the food of love, Play on, play on, play on.” – Shakespeare
“Fire not only consumes; it purifies.” – Unknown
“Write a saying and your name will live forever.” – Anonymous

CALEDONIA

“It is a huge expanse of white, gaping emptiness. It could be so many things. It could not be so many things. How will I know? Fingers drum on the clean, white formica worktable. What is it? Hand sorts through the long clutch of wooden handles in the ancient Taco Bell mega-cup. What size? Digits dance over the bottles crammed into the oversized Christmas cookie tin whose lid is long gone. What color? Just make a choice! It doesn’t matter what. The only failure is the failure to engage. The brush poises over the surface. Contact: embracing the many possibilities.”

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

Ode to…

His name was Mr Cinnamon.
He loved to sing.

Lost among the crowd, yet within the throng,
lifted his head and began his song.

Without thought, the flock would open and part
the burdened would feel an uplifted heart.
His songs, each one, were simple and pure
and none could escape the magical allure

of the one who sang
the one who went
by an aromatic name.

He never rumbled.
Always humble.
Females preened and posed.
Offering needed repose.
His first name was always a blank,
He only wanted to do one thing.

His name was Mr Cinnamon
He loved to sing.

JUSTIN

A piece of paper, a blank slate. This is a character sheet for a role-playing game.

Formless, then with dice and a creative mind: life, an avatar into imaginative, fantastic worlds.

The person’s existence is like a character in a play, and only exists when the stage is set and the lights are on. But what will they be like?

The toss of the dice determine if they are strong or smart, and the imagination of the player determines how they will live. What choices they make.

Use wisdom, especially if they’re a mage. Use strength if they’re a fighter.

DANNY

Whenever I’m in public, I always wonder if I reek of alcohol. Whether others perceive my inebriation. My mind draws a blank. I walk down an empty hallway, then start cursing because the hallway never ends. “This isn’t a hallway,” I proclaim, “it’s a god damn treadmill! I grow tired of walking it!” I go to an open bar, stand with drink in hand, in a loud, crowded room. I’m the lonliest man on Earth. Yet I can go online, letting everyone literally walk through my brain. Then I’m at one with the world, yet that world is a delusion.

SINGH

The Tumult Cards

1.
Dante was always drawing Safe Passage and blank Time-Outs, until the first Tumult Card turned up. It brought real storms. Fresh tribulation. Ongoing trouble.

Last time, a car crash, then two cracked ribs. Before that, an obscure company posting – a banishment overseas. But this time, Dante was determined to crash and burn, or crash through and end this cycle of bad karma, or what ever psychological self-sabotage was going one. Three tumults in a row! Could he break the bad cycle?

Francine dealt. Dante turned his card over with trepidation and then, relief. It wasn’t ‘Tumult’. He’d drawn ‘Shadow’.

2.
The lights blew out.

“Francine,” Dante called. “Joe, Krystiana.” No answer. “Hey guys, this isn’t funny.”

But all he could hear was panting and growling in the shadows.

“Alright, I’m done. You win!”

There was the scratch of a match. Dante still couldn’t see much until the flame became a lit candelabra. He was shocked. A leopard, a lion and wolf were sitting around the table.

Their eyes narrowed about to pounce and rip.

Where was the door? No. He’d never make it.

There was only one thing left that he could do. He reached for the deck and drew ‘Paradise’.

3.
Paradise Beach is a heavenly place for a deckchair and a piña colada beside it on a bamboo table.

Composing a homily to sun and surf in his head, life seemed to have turned a corner since the last Tumult Card.

Not for long. The Three sprang from the palms transformed in swimwear. Leopard Girl dropped a porno DVD on his lap, Lion Man thrust a hand mirror before his face and Wolf Girl fanned the deck before him like credit cards. Choose, their glaring looks said. Why leave Paradise after just arriving? They glared. Reluctantly he flipped the Heart Card.

4.
Dante landed on a dance floor. The neon sign throbbed, ‘The Heart Club.’ The topless girl in leopard skin miniskirt danced up to him, eyeball to eyeball. He felt a chill, but couldn’t help grinding hips with her.

“Why am you here?” he asked.

“To be eaten by desire, Dante.”

Then he realised what the throbbing was. It was his heart. She dug in her red fingernails. Dante felt the moment of puncture, but couldn’t stanch the bleeding.

“Help!” He cried, coughing up arterial blood.

There was a Card tucked in her cleavage. He grabbed at it, desperate. It was ‘Giant’.

5.
Dante heard music coming from The Brobdingnagian Brothers Carnival. Wobbling on giant stilts he stepped over the entrance. The crowds were ants. He would much rather be down there eating hot dogs and candy floss.

While thinking this, the massive crowds began to unbalance him. Then another stilt figure stepped over the ferris wheel. It was a giant lion-head.

“Why are they pushing?” Dante yelled.

“Because they think you are vain and lofty,” the lion said.

By now Dante was toppling over.

“Help me!”

The lion flicked a Card. Dante caught it in mid flight. It was the Credit Card.

6.
“Good luck, sucker,” growled the blonde-headed Lion teller.

Gradually he had emptied Dante’s $20,000 credit card in casino chips. Up $57,000 at first, it was gone. Dante was down to his last.

He returned to the Black Jack table. Leopard Girl attached herself to his shoulder, ready to leap on any gazelle competitor grazing nearby.

Turning up two picture cards, Dante hungering for windfall split them for a double Black Jack.

Wolf Girl, the dealer slid over two. He turned them up. Cruelty and Pain.

“Don’t be greedy,” snarled the she-wolf in her tux. “Choose just one.”

7.
She wore pants, jackboots, SS cap. The suspenders over a malnourished chest made her boyishly desirable. She sang and moved, leopard-sleek and didn’t flinch when his riding crop struck her. So far, prostitution and cabaret art had kept her from the gas showers.

Obersturmfuhrer Dante Engel was not a bad officer, but to love a Jewess had to be negotiated through a masquerade of cruelty in front of other guards, just as her blank face hid her own affection. She bowed theatrically and offered him something tucked in the braid around her visor cap. It was the Pain Card again.

8.
Joy and suffering cohabit. Dante didn’t want to move from their bedroom into the spare room, but she left him no choice., Too accepting, forgiving he’d brought pain upon himself. To leave would be to lose — game, set, house.

It was a matter of pride now. He cared what others would think, so endured their rough trade through the plasterboard. She tortured Dante with her lover’s leonine moves. He felt sick in the gut sitting at the mesa of the table cutting the deck of cards. He didn’t want to play, but fate spoke up. ‘Murder’ tumbled out as he shuffled.

NORVAL JOE

Borle panicked, sweat running freely down his face. Flerdy only shook his head.
Fifteen amazon warriors stood behind the two spacemen, their spears aimed at the two men’s backs.
Before them sat a small man in a wicker chair, his bald pate a mosaic of freckles.
“You see? My daughters very persuasive,” he said and giggled.
“We’ve done nothing wrong. You’re holding us illeagally,” Borle protested.
The small man’s face went blank.
“Don’t lie to me. I know who you are. You’re spies for O’Malley,” he said, calling one of the maidens forward. “Katie. Take the sweaty one for questioning.”

“Mr. Dunderspawn. I’ve been assigned by the state as your lawyer,” a man said from outside his cell.
Dergle swolled as he tried to decide if the man’s wrinkled shirt was originally white or was supposed to be yellow.
“Ok. What do we do now?” Dergle said walking to the bars.
Close up the man’s skin had the same yellow cast as his shirt and his few strands of greesy hair failed to cover the pale baldness of his head.
“You just need to sign this,” he said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
“But this is blank,” Dergle said.

ZACKMANN

“Your sign says Will Draw Stars Living or Not. Draw me a blank.”
“Like polar bears in a snowstorm?” the street artist asked
“Well you see Doc, I want you to draw me the Blanc. The Blanc, I say.”
“Oh, Sy”
“Si”
“As, Sy?”
“Si. Sorry hard to stop that. Not as Sy but that age. Mel Blanc was the voice or rather voices of my childhood. I remember him better form Man of 10000 Voices interviews but really like the work he did with Benny. Maybe he will be easier to draw since he was in black and white”

PLANET Z

Leo Blankfein was the best accountant, but his sense of direction was total shit.

Hire him for a job in Queens, and he’d call you from Hoboken asking for directions.
Hire him for a job in Yonkers, and he’d call you from Harlem asking for directions.
Hire him for a job in the Bronx, and he’d call you from Staten Island asking for directions.

I tried to test this by hiring him for a job in his own apartment.
And he called me from Riker’s Island.

Okay, so the son of a bitch murdered his wife with a claw hammer.