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 Storm.

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

• Jeffrey
• Miriam Merriwether
• Munsi
• Seicher Rae
• Lizzie
• Tom
• Serendipidy Haven
• Zackmann
• Rick Thomas
• Thomas Pitre
• Steven the Nuclear Man
• Severina Halostar and Bonchance Longfall
• RedGoddess
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Norval Joe
• Danny
• Singh
• Planet Z

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

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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JEFFREY

After the Storm
by Jeffrey Fischer

After the storm, the air became clearer. The stars emerged from behind the clouds. I left the house, damaged but miraculously still standing. Many of the trees were not as fortunate. A large oak had toppled on the car port, crushing the pickup truck and trapping the Chevy sedan. In the distance, I could hear sirens, but knew they would not be coming out this far, not tonight.

*Lucky,* I told myself. *You were lucky, having survived a powerful tornado.* And yet, surveying the damage, the ruins of the house, the outline of the devastated fields, somehow I didn’t feel lucky. I felt as though all I knew had been carried away on the winds.

Storm Warning
by Jeffrey Fischer

I could see the storm in her eyes. When we married, I knew she had a fiery temper, but I loved her. Truth be told, I was also frequently short-tempered, and as passionately as we fought so too did we passionately make up. We were Burton and Taylor, unable to live with one another, yet unable to stay apart. But this time, perhaps, I had gone too far.

“Dammit, Jeffrey, you left the toilet seat up. Again.”

MIRIAM

Not like the sound of a freight train, but twenty giant C-130’s warming their engines on the Tarmac. Not threatening, because to me the sound was familiar. Then suddenly the realization that it was out of place!

“If you can hear my voice, it’s too late! Don’t keep listening! Take cover now! It’s too late…,” pleading, desperate.

Later, after the enormous wall of destruction passed, eerie quiet, then the incessant buzz of chainsaws and hum of generators.

Finally, droll words from politicians, promises made and broken. And television reports; the story was the hype, the hype was the story.

Tornado.

MUNSI

Stormy Weather

By Christopher Munroe

“There’s a storm a’brewin!” Grandpa always used to say.

But, like, always.

He’d say it every single day, regardless of the weather. He went out of his way to wrap every conversation around to the subject of storms, brewings, or the like, just so he could say it.

Grandpa was a little off toward the end, I have to admit.

To make matters worse, whenever there actually WAS a storm, he would claimed that he knew it, that he’d tried to warn us, if we’d only listened to him.

And, technically, it was true, so none of us could disagree…

SEICHER RAE

The clouds started gathering when I learned that mom had cancer. Within weeks she was gone. Then came the divorce from a 25-year marriage. It was same year my younger brother hit the five-year survival date for successful Hodgkin’s treatment, only to start having epileptic seizures and die of a brain tumor. Ozone swelled and crackled—with each gale the sky darkened. General Hospital never had such scripts. Successive thunderclaps rang out for bankruptcy, relocation and unemployment. In a brief atmospheric interlude, the seconds pausing like years, the word “Lupus” soaked in. This was going to be a gully washer.

LIZZIE

His spirit roamed ahead of him while he struggled to walk through the storm. His mission was to deliver the message “Energy levels low in the Old City”. Oddly, communications were down. As he arrived, his spirit returned. No one, he said telepathically. They moved on. And that meant humans would finally have to leave. Their long awaited end on the planet made them less significant to other species. He was not sad to see them go. Ironically, considering the past of the human race, without their recently acquired need to play the eternal peacemakers, the war could finally start.

TOM

Not Normal

The old man sat in front of his house head turned to the north and east. One by one as neighbors passed asked what he was looking at. He’d raise an arm and point at the storm. Soon a dozen people were standing on his lawn staring at the storm. It was rolling in from the Lake at 103rd and Jackson Park. In the Midwest no one stairs at a storm, just too dam many, further no one is going to join a collective and gawk at one. But this was not a normal storm. It was black on black.

SERENDIPITY

Take a good measure of humidity and oppressive heat, mix well and allow to simmer under low pressure until just off the boil. Now you’re ready to get creative!

Throw in some sudden squalls, drench with heavy rain and – for that piquant zestiness – the odd unexpected gust.

Let the mixture build to a rolling boil; carefully add a generous helping of well-matured, full-bodied, thunderous rumbles together with a dash of static charge.

Serve in hearty portions with a lightning garnish, and accompany with sweet hale, fresh from the freezer.

And that is how to cook up a storm.

ZACKMANN

My X Girlfriend

“Dad I am in love and will be proposing to the woman I am dating.”
“I know she is beautiful and a wonderful woman, very desirable but do you not think mixed parentage will be a problem for your children?”
“No father, what do you think this is 1800? Mulatto have become successful businessmen,actors, and even president.”
“That is not what I mean you idiot, I mean if you marry Storm isn’t there a likelihood your baby will bring lightning strikes down on your house before it learn to control its mutant powers but you do have my blessing.”

RICK THOMAS

From afar she watched the storm clouds encircle the village.
They called her “tramp”, “whore”, “WITCH!”
Hauled out of town on a fence rail!!!
She began twirling and swaying in a chaotic yet rhythmic fashion.
Cursing, swearing, spitting.
Her face a mask of hatred and rage!
The storm assaulted the small village …
Hail, thunder, powerful wind.
Each stomp of her left foot sent lightning crashing into the village.
Having leaped, screamed, stomped, and danced to exhaustion she fell to the ground clutching at herself, moaning with pleasure, smile upon her face!
In the distance fires raged, screams filled the air!

THOMAS

The storm in his head was incessant. Steve threw food the last time he ate at the 101 Diner. Dipping into a bowl of tapioca pudding, he threw it at the blond waitress and the mirror behind the counter. He continued to eat his buttermilk pancakes, head down, only lifting it to sip his black coffee. Everyone was stunned, not saying anything. They were shocked. Steve acted as if nothing had happened. The diners wondered if it was a prank. They went about their business. A busboy wiping the mirror, and things went on as usual for a Sunday morning.

Letta Storm was the favorite exotic dancer at The Torso Parlor. Letta could do things with her double-jointed body that made all the customers sit on the edge of their chairs and lean forward, mouths agape. After a warm up, and a few spins on the pole, she would lean over backward, tuck her head under her behind, twist it 180 degrees, and move up a few inches to kiss her own belly button. One day, after a very stressful fight with her boyfriend, her muscles locked up and she was taken to emergency as a hideous, screaming, overhand knot.

He stormed around the room, ranting about the quality of poetry he had just heard at the monthly reading. He sat through the first twenty minutes as the “humorous” guest poet read and mimed his work, then gritted his teeth as four more read. The first poem was about the woman’s cat, the second…read by a portly gentleman…was a poem paying homage to lean meats, the third…a long, erotic piece about the female author’s affair with a Whirlpool washing machine, and the last…a piece by Dottie Aphid…a sonnet about the community garden and her ten by ten plot of rutabagas.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

Tyler Durden was an idiot, two decades late and oblivious to the fact. Blowing up buildings in dramatic, exiting, and useless puerile adolescent dick-wagging.

This is different.

This, now, is the tornado siren, the wavering whine echoing across the landscape.

It is too late to run. Too late to print, to fax, to copy, to burn to disk.

The storm is coming, a maelstrom of artificial life, digital ones of teeth shoveling food – data – into the naught of its gullet.

Already the storm boils through the cloud, races along the highway, flows through the tubes.

Static sounds like rainstorms.

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

A Dark and Stormy Night

Pepe and Fifi were at their hangout when the storm hit. Lightning and thunder filled the air, which pleased Pepe.
Quivering Fifi would snuggle up closer with every bang and flash. At storms peak, the door swung open and “he”
swaggered in. “He” exuded confidence. Glaring sternly, it was clear not to mess with him. His fur looked perfectly
dry entering from the storm. He glanced at Pepe, “the names Poncho. Now that we’re all pals here How’s bout you be
a good mutt and fetch me a drink.” Pepe began to plan as he got the newcomer a scotch.

Timmy

A storm raged in little Timmy’s mind. He looked around to see if anyone saw but no one paid any heed. So many
images, colors, sounds. Too much stimulation! Timmy looked around again still no one acknowledged anything.
Not even Miss Wrong, the math teacher, seemed to notice the difference. Unable to take it any longer he
cried out for help in a different way. He began to hit and bully classmates. In the Principal’s office the
teachers, counselors and concerned parents stood in a circle around silent Timmy, looking for answers. The storm
raged for years until the end.

REDGODDESS

There are three topics hotel guests talk about obsessively: weather, food and relationships. Many won’t even plan their day without the weather report. Lola finds meteorologists to be overzealous promoters using scare tactics for ratings. How the hell is a snow storm breaking news when there are multiple wars waging globally? Lola knows to keep her political opinions to herself. Besides, her role is to please and serve with a smile. Being a smart mouth has dire consequences she’s not willing to pay. Instead, she complements guests on their clothes, hairstyles and jewelry. Blending in, as an outsider, is key to weather unpredictable life storms.

CLIFF

It’s the usual story. A dozen supposed strangers stranded in a country manor, roads and phone lines washed out by the storm. Every one there has a secret to keep and a past to hide. It’s only a matter of time before some desperate soul starts killing them off one by one. So far, of course, it’s just been rounds of cards, cold drinks, and polite conversation. Haven’t any of these people ever read Agatha Christie? It’s almost midnight and no one has died. Guess I’m the only one who cares about tradition. Now, where did I put that axe?

NORVAL JOE

“The system with the greatest potential for aquatic life is in sector 14,26,a,x,” Borle said. “It’s twelve hours by standard Gimlet drive. However, I think we should go to the second best choice which is thirty-six hours using the controversial Oopsiedayzee 360.”
“What makes it so controversial?” Flerdie asked.
“There is a one in 36,000 chance we may experience a temporary exchange of internal organs.”
“And why, then, would we not want to go to the first system?”
“There’s a galactic storm in route and we would most likely die.”
“By all means, then,” Flerdy said. “Let’s take second best.”

Dergle hunched over the steering wheel as if being closer to the windshield would make it easier to see through the driving rain. Water dripping from his sodden hood fogged the glass.
He clicked the knob and hoped. A moment later the blades whooshed across the glass but refused to move again. In the moment of clarity his headlights shown across the gravel road to his house.
“Neither rain nor snow nor dark of night,” he said pulling his wings from his back.
No. That was the postman, not the wiener dog fairy.
He was getting too old for this.

DANNY DWYER

The clap of thunder rumbled from the black, ominous clouds steadily rising before us in the far west of the desert. Both I, and my trusted donkey, Meatloaf Flying Spaceship, were heading directly into the storm, while my ex continued to chase us after I told her, “It’s over, we’re through.” She didn’t take the news well. Now she is closing in, breathing down our neck’s riding on the back of her favorite Clidesdale named “Mr. Sprinkles.” “If she catches us, we’re dead,” I said. Meatloaf responded, “look at us, an ass riding a donkey.” That’s right, he’s a talking donkey.

SINGH

Red Storm Postcards
Chris Mooney-Singh

Adelaide, South Australia
I’m leaving you and Aussie during a dust storm, escaping on my first overseas flight. Toggling music channels, I stop at “Australian Country and Western”. The song takes me all the way back to childhood: Christmas morning presents with Rolf Harris singing in the background “Six white boomers, snow-white boomers racing Santa Claus through the blazing sun” — It was our national Christmas loony tune evoking Santa and sled with kangaroos replacing reindeer, minus the snow. Suddenly I taste all the sickliness of nostalgia, and though I hate admitting it to you or anyone, I feel Australian for the first time.

Singapore
Darling, sending you this postcard between flights. Stepped out of Changi Airport and took a shuttle bus to Orchard Rd. Man! Crazy Christmas decorations everywhere. Shopping madness. Packed streets. A sea of Eurasia. It seems that all people do here is eat in the food courts and shop till they flop. And the humidity is unbearable for Adelaide Hills dwellers like us. The weirdest thing? Ubiquitous Claus left his kangaroo sleigh behind at the equator and arrived here as a Zeppelin Santa tethered above on a giant cable, the ultimate helium balloon being buffeted about by monsoon storms. Signed Intrepid Traveller.

Detroit, Michigan
There’d been a big dump of snow on the front yard just before I reached your relatives. Flirting with ridiculousness, brother-in-law Frank (direct from his Singing Santa gig in an old folk’s home), became the retrenched husband again, while your sister just keeps quietly dealing with the avalanche of bills. Then, guitar-slung over his red suit, lugging a milk crate of songbooks, wires and mics, he waved to me with a flapping elbow like a chicken’s wing. Startled, a red squirrel shot between his legs. Frank, now fully embracing epic failure, let himself topple headlong into the snow.

Manchester, UK
Peter, my Manchester friend told me how a stream of couch-surfing, no-obligation sex came and went regularly from his city apartment. Dusseldorf Frieda for instance, was quick to show gratitude with a blow job within the hour. Yet, the mind hungers on. Massing below, the Sexy Santa Fun Run was a perfect storm about to happen. He imagined girl Santas galore in every gastro pub. Frieda was left like cold pizza in the box as he went down to register. “Quick! Where’s my Santa suit?” he boomed at the starting line like Moses wanting to part the Red Sea.

Ganges, India
No Santa suit for me. Instead a yogi-orange robe. I was living in a grass hut beside the Ganges, meditating, taking dips. After a swim, the locals thought me a bearded holy man with long wet hair. They touched my feet and left water melon offerings, I began to feel more and more fake. Inwardly my perverse mind was defeating tranquility each time I closed my eyes. I kept thinking of some imaginary girl in a sexy red Santa suit. Fortunately the pre-monsoonal storm saved me, flattening my hut, then sending me to Delhi Airport and home to you.

PLANET Z

We own a big shaggy white dog named Blank Canvas.

We’re not sure what breed he is, but he’s big, shaggy, and white.

It’s fun to give him baths, because he runs around and shakes off the water in large wide wet sheets.

Sometimes, we add easter egg dye to the water, which colors the dog blue… or green… or red…

Over time, we’ve gotten fancier with the colors.

Todays? Front dyed red and back dyed blue like a French flag.

It doesn’t matter. There’s a storm coming, and whatever dye we use will just wash off in the rain.