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 Funk.

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

• Jeffrey
• Serendipidy Haven
• Tom
• Munsi
• Lizzie
• Singh
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Zackmann
• Steven the Nuclear Man
• Bonchance and Sevi
• RedGoddess
• Norval Joe
• Planet Z

The next weekly challenge is on the topic of Chance.

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:

---

JEFFREY

Christmas
by Jeffrey Fischer

Marilyn invariably fell into a deep funk around Christmas. The stress of the season got to her, what with buying presents for ungrateful recipients, baking cookies for disdainful eaters, and having the same arguments every year with visiting family members.

This year she decided to cheer herself up. She mailed socks to everyone as gifts, baked nothing, and told her relatives she would be out of town for Christmas. Then she sat at home by herself, consuming a bottle of Wild Turkey and two pints of Cherry Garcia ice cream on Christmas Eve.

Despite the hangover, Marilyn deemed this the best Christmas ever.

TOM

Colorblind

I play trombone in Parliament, not the body the band. Julliard trained in oboe, I am sort of a musical shaman, one foot in hyper white, the other in hyper blue. Funk is the blues on Acid. Sorrow turned inside out. Where the blues lets it out, funk lets it go. My job is providing the hairpin turns when the Parliament train reaches full steam. I use to think George collected this circus parade to create a march of joy. Actually he was a music guerilla true to Che’s revolutionary vision. Funk is the driving beat of love. Be dangerous.

SERENDIPITY

Funk

– The Call –

High in the Himalayan peaks is an ancient monastery where sacred monks devoutly pursue the mastery of the discipline of funk.

Clad in colourful robes, flared trousers and the distinctive holy afro that designates the devotees of funk, the brothers live simple, ascetic lives on a strict diet of funky chicken, magic mushrooms and James Brown.

I have heard the call… my feet feel the beat of that funky music, it’s time to get on up, gather my funky stuff and pack my brand new bag, for higher ground.

Time to ditch my junk and become a monk of funk!

– The Disciple –

“My son, you’ve gotta give it up… and don’t stop ’till you get enough”

The monk’s words were wise, yet perplexing.

Again, I asked him… “When will I attain mastery?”

“Son – that’s the jive talking, you gotta be yourself… now, try again”

It seemed so simple: when I could perform the ritual moves of the sissy strut, without tearing the rice-paper beneath my feet, I would have attained enlightenment – a true funk master.

I failed again.

And again.

And again.

The monk demanded I try once more.

“More? – What is it good for?”

“Absolutely nothing!”, came the enigmatic reply.

– The Enlightened –

Is it really ten years since I ascended this mountain?

With each step, the path downwards brought me closer to civilisation. I pulled the sheepskin coat tighter, my afro bobbing in the wind.

Soon, the monastery was out of sight and I knew my journey was at an end when I found myself at the carwash – the town spread before me.

Eager to spread the word of funk, I headed for the clubs and dance floors…

But, what was this?

A new sound in town!

The funk monk had discovered punk!

High in the Himalayas, live the monks of punk..

MUNSI

Occupy Funk
By Chris Munroe

1% of this country controls 70% of its funk. And that’s not right.

I’m not criticizing the funky, plenty do their part, sharing funk with the world. Prince, for example, releases music every year, and we’re all better for it.

However, not everyone shares Prince’s decency. How long’s it been since Maurice Day and the Time released an album?

So we’re taking to the streets, the 99% of us who aren’t funky, and we won’t be silenced. Join me, let our voices be heard!

We want the funk.

Give us the funk.

We need the funk.

Gotta have that funk.

LIZZIE

“The end of the world… close call,” thought Lisa fearfully.

Bag? Check. Ticket? P28. It was time to leave the planet.

At the local flight-pod station, a sign said “No flights. The end is here.” What? Again? “Open this door right now,” she shouted in despair. When no one came, she kicked the door in, searched for P28, locked herself in it and clicked “Go”.

Where she went, no one knows. That pod model had been discontinued just the day before due to serious technical problems; it sort of disintegrated people. Well, apparently the end was here alright… for Lisa.

SINGH

Heard it Though the Pumpkinvine

By Chris Mooney-Singh/Singh Albatros

The Desert Bowl Festival was nearly over. An Australian singer-songwriter travelling America, I’d luckily scored this Phoenix gig. My Cockatoo Rock and Didgeridoo Hullabaloo (with local blues legends The Gila Monsters doing back up) brought the house down. Then, the Bad Cactus Brass Band played.

A negro gardener paused on his rake.

“Any good, Mate?” I asked. “Can white boys play New Orleans jazz?”

“Why sure. But dey needs to stank it up a whole lot more.”

“Me too?” I asked cheekily.

He reached for something. “Here!” Put dis seed in yo garden back home, son.”

He smiled, and was gone.

*

I really did not know the first step in growing things, but my Dad had a greenhouse, home in Melbourne, so he helped me strike the weird psychedelic-coloured pod. He was pleased. Finally, I was showing interest in his lifelong passion. I did the daily watering and found myself humming new tunes. Soon a frond appeared, and next, a pumpkin vine snaked from the big terracotta pot. I really got into the routine, excitedly seeing my plant develop and sprout first produce. But this was no ordinary vegetable: the weird-coloured fruit was elongated and resembled the horn of a tiny saxophone.

*

Other emerald nubs began to unfurl child-fists along the vine. They looked delicate and pretty. One morning opening the greenhouse door, I heard a riff coming from the psychedelic fruit. Then it stopped. Dad had gone fishing, but I got through on the mobile.

“You are imagining things, Son.” Like any parent, he was concerned about the gig scene and bad influences.

“I don’t do drugs, Dad” Offended, I hung up.

It was weird that the vegetable would not play in my presence. So, one evening I sneaked up, rushed in and caught it howling like a New Orleans jazz legend.

*

It couldn’t hide its funk from me now, blowing harder after each watering. The other pumpkins were already transforming into psychedelic trumpets, trombones, sousaphones and a fat tuba. I had read about the psycho-physical effects of music on plants, but this was ridiculous. What’s more, the funk pumpkin ensemble was turning me into a James Brown. I did the Boogaloo, the Mashed Potato and the Camel Walk –there on the greenhouse slab. Even weirder was that each audible vegetable was now growing Afro hair and side burns and upbeat jazz funk was on fire throughout the house and the garden.

*

I had never really got down with funk before, so I hunted for old collectible vinyls and CDs. I rescued James Brown’s Greatest Hits, loads of Marvin Gaye, Herbie Hancock, The Temptations, Stevie Wonder and Sly and the Family Stone doing their famous hits like ‘I Want to Take You Higher’. I collected more and more, while the funk pumpkins kept rioting like rutting elephants. Meanwhile, I thought of all the Aus-rock, pop ballads and Indy folk tunes I had written as a thing of the past and felt the distinct wiry pressure of tight curly hair pushing through my scalp.

*

Tran our Vietnamese neighbour peered over the fence. “Having a party?”

“Sure am.” I said. “Come over.”

I showed him the funk pumpkins and soon we were both dancing. The music reminded him of Saigon. A negro soldier was once going to marry his sister and he also gave Tran soul records.

“What happened?”

“Got killed,” Tran said. “ Then my sister got blown up in the street.

He passed me some fresh Pak Choy he had grown.

“All these pumpkin very ah..groovy,” he said pulling the word from his rebuilt past.

“Let’s have a real party. Call your friends, Tran.”

*

The whole Vietnamese Chinese neighbourhood were grooving from greenhouse to living room by the time Dad got home. I wore sunglasses, polo neck and striped pants and sporting a full afro, my black-skin transformation complete.

“Whasupp Daddyo? Gimme some skin!”

“What’s going on? Where’s my ratbag son?”

“I really dig dis old doghouse you got here, Big Daddy? Da joint is jumpin. Listen to da music!”

That was enough. “Ok, all of you — Out! Before I call the police!

“Hey man! No need for da fuzz’.

I grabbed my ghetto blaster and did the Funky Chicken out the front door.

*

It was a strange rebirth for an old soul brother from Motown, now downtown in Melbourne, Australia — funk busking with all the moves, plus the Robot, the Swim, and Soul Train steps, pumping to the music machine for thrown pieces of silver. Then, craving some home cookin’ I bought myself a chilly cheese wiener from American Hot Dogs franchise before dragging my black ass onto the St Kilda tram for some club action at the Tongue and Groove. There, I hit the dance floor creating a sensation that climaxed with me doing the splits worthy of ole’ James Brown himself.

*

Meanwhile, I wondered if the greenhouse effect had softened Dad at all. After sleeping on a park bench, I sneaked back the next day, only to find — funk was dead. The pumpkins were all sliced and diced waiting to become soup. Feeling cut off from my roots, I then had my brightest idea and rescued the seeds from the pumpkin guts tossed in the compost bin. I was saved! And started to do the Gospel side-step, marvelling what Almighty blessings come from weird desert travels. I’d become Johnny Pumpkinseed for the African-American funkinisation of Australia. The psychedelic seventies were back!

CLIFF

Casimir Funk was born in Warsaw back when it was part of the Russian Empire. A biochemist by training, he became intrigued by the idea that certain foods helped fight certain diseases and set out to isolate the elements responsible. In the end, he created the concept of vitamins. Every time you pop a Flintstones chewable, you should be thanking Casimir Funk. He died in 1967 in New York City. His work improved the health of millions and yet, it’s sad. He never once got to play his bass for an audience and truly be Casimir Funky, Master of Funk.

ZACKMANN

Every afternoon, I take the Grand Funk Railroad into Funky Town then stop at the Cornelia Funke Library and Playground. Orville and Wilbur play instrumentals and I say “Play that funky music Wright boys.”
I am often in a funk because as much as I want to rendezvous with my wife for a night of fun at Funky Town Dance Hall, I have to go to work making electricity at the funkiest place in funky town the Funky Town Sewage Treatment and Methane Plant. Our fair city may have been built on rock and roll but it runs on crap.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The stink rose from the dancer. The singer looked at the director. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Look,” the director said, putting an arm across the singer’s shoulders, “you want to make a splash with this video. To recreate your image, right?”

“Well, yeah…”

“Look, trust me. That guy may not smell the best, but he’s got some serious moves.” The director handed the red leather jacket to the singer. “He’s got… An old groove.”

The singer smiled. “The funk of forty thousand years?”

They watched a finger fall from the dancer’s hand.

“At least,” the director said. “At least.”

SEVI AND BONCHANCE

This Cold will be the Death of him!

Jack was a substantial bloke who loved to push people around. He didn’t give a damn about anybody!

He literally got away with murder.

His favourite past time was to glide down the street, bump people, daring them to make something of it.
Jack’s latest victim was robed in black. He hit him straight on and shockingly Jack fell on his ass.
They stared at each other. The cloaked darkness glared coldly and projected a deathly grin.

In a sepulchral voice he bellowed “No time for you today Jack Frost, but I have an opening next week….Oh and bring the funk!”

REDGODDESS

Hunger is not seasonal, and suffering is not a trend. Yet every Christmas, there is a surge about feeding the poor. The same working poor and homeless who are visible year round suddenly present a fantastic opportunity. Lola got in a funk when the hotel Manager launched a food drive. This is the same woman who treats her staff like slaves. The same woman who smiles when she calls the cops to remove homeless saying ‘come fast, they have drugs.’ Lola watches as wealthy clients place cans into boxes and thank her manager for caring so much. A disgusting funk!

NORVAL JOE

The company was safely through the thick oak door, though Spleen had to be dragged from within the slavering jaws of the water creature. The muffled roar of the creature could still be heard as it scratched at the unyeilding door in frustation.
A distant light down the tunnel raised everyone’s hopes, but Flindert’s. For some reason, the dwarf remained in a silent funk and only glared at the companions when they tried to cheer the unrecognized heir to the ancinet tunnels.
“An eternal flame lights the dwarven throne room,” Shareeka said. “I beleive we’ll find the princess just ahead.”

When Hosmer heard the musical question, “Are you funk enough?” he had to answer no.
He’d watched Soul Train every week and spent hours practicing the popular dance moves.
He didn’t have enough hair to get a perm, so he bought a large blonde afro wig. Tight Angel Flight pants, a wet look nylon shirt, three inch platform shoes, a gold chain and he still couldn’t get a girl to dance with him at the local disco.
Dispondent, he gave his wiener dog a mohawk, pushed a safety pin through his ear and waited for punk rock to catch on.

PLANET Z

The phone rang.
The police technician nodded his head.
So, I picked up the phone.

“Hello?” I said.
“We’ve got the funk,” said a voice.
“Let me hear it”

Telephones don’t have the best audio fidelity, but what I heard was funky.

“What do you want?”
“We want the funk. But we really want the soul.”

I looked at the briefcase that the police had brought.

“Do you have it?”

I dialed the combination on the latches… six six six.

One peek.

Bright light.

“Yeah,” I said, closing the briefcase.

They had the fink. But without soul, it was worthless.

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.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 Pudding.

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

• Secret Rage
• Vincent
• Jeffrey
• Rosi Vinson
• Serendipidy Haven
• Lizzie
• Tom
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Munsi
• Zackmann
• Singh
• Bonchance and Sevi
• RedGoddess
• Steven the Nuclear Man
• Norval Joe
• Tura
• Planet Z

The next weekly challenge is on the topic of Funk.

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:

---

SECRET RAGE

She walked to the pantry…lifted the small box from the shelf and prepared it just as directed. As it cooled, she noted both its consistency (thickening nicely) and color (is vanilla a color?) and thought that without tasting or smelling it…how would a person know what it was? it could be anything! and if its origin was unknown…and IF she named it something else~either mundane or exotic…would it matter? would that make it more or less likely to be consumed? then names it paste~just to see…

VINCENT

The proof is in the pudding

Bradley Davidson stood with his back against the wall wielding a black pudding in the shape of a truncheon in his raised hand. “You bastards,” he shouted. “You’ll not fucking put me back.”

Prosecutor Richardson kept silent. He could see the guy had backed himself into a corner with nowhere to go.

“Mr Bradley,” the judge said, “put down the weapon.”

Richardson, beginning to look over at the judge turned to face Davidson. The dumb fuck. He could see Davidson was going to throw the black pudding across the courtroom. Then what…? Richardson guessed he hadn’t figured that part out.

JEFFREY

Dinner Time
by Jeffrey Fischer

For people of a certain age, Jell-O pudding means Bill Cosby, eating the smooth concoction and pretending it’s the best thing in the world, delivering the ad copy in his Cliff Huxtable schtick.

Others might be reminded of childhood, when Mom didn’t feel like making a real dessert, and instead reached for Mother’s Little Helper – not the pills the Rolling Stones sang about, but the cheap and convenient little box on the shelf that could make whiny children quiet for a short time.

For me, though, Jell-O pudding is hospitals – the smell of sickness and bleach, elderly relatives sitting up in bed, fear written on their faces that this time, this hospital stay, may be the last.

I hate Jell-O pudding.

ROSI VINSON

I hated London. I mean, it’s never actually done anything to me. It just seemed so big, so impersonal, so noisy. Isolating. Hostile, almost. Anyway, I had to travel there for work, convinced I would be mugged, or worse.

I survived, almost unscathed. The worst thing that happened to me was having a fancy restaurant’s waiter spill the teensiest dribble of coffee on my sleeve. He brought me – gratis – the most amazing crème brulee, by way of apology. When I looked up, surprised, he only smiled at me and said: “Pudding on The Ritz.”

London’s not so bad after all.

SARAH W

Daisy wasn’t a great cook, but she always tried hard at Christmas – last year, she excelled herself.

Last minute grocery shopping was a mistake – unable to find ingredients, she improvised…

Substituting baby food and food colouring for cranberry sauce wasn’t her best idea; neither was the improvised turkey stuffing of crushed biscuits and banana, but where she really triumphed was the pudding.

The size of a basketball, it defied all attempts to light it, and with hindsight, resorting to lighter fluid was rather foolish, as was the brandy-soaked paper money she’d hidden inside…

Our eyebrows grew back by Easter!

LIZZIE

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It tastes bad.”

“You haven’t tried it.”

“I have.”

“Not this one.”

“Is it any different?”

“No.”

“Well…”

“I’ll eat it.”

“Be my guest.”

Fast-forward to an hour later.

“How is he doing, doctor?”

“Stable. But we are very concerned. Tell me, what did he eat?”

“Pudding.”

“It must have been bad already…”

“No.”

“No…?”

“No. I added some arsenic to it.”

“Why would you do that,” asked the doctor alarmed running back into the ER.

I told him to buy sweet rice so many times, he thought.

It was 8pm. Great, the supermarket is still open.

TOM

Take the Chair.

I am candidate for the Lucasian Chair but my work of late has taken on a tacit fuzziness that may well be my undoing. As I drop through this last ring of mathematic molasses I remembered what my dear old mum uses to say, “The proof is in the pudding.” And as fate would have it, it was indeed while watching a Bill Cosby JELLO commercial that the final tumbler in the galactic clockwork clicked and the central proof tumbled out. The solution to fourth degree equations is in fact approximately the surface of a Jello pudding pop. Thanks mum

CLIFF

I signed up for a class called “Cooking to the Oldies”. We learned to make several desserts inspired by song titles. There was Warrant’s Cherry Pie, The Beatle’s Savoy Truffle, and some non-alcoholic Watermelon wine inspired by Tom T. Hall. Our final test was to devise our own musically inspired dessert. I’ve always loved how salty and sweet flavors complement each other and taste so good, so I whipped up a batch of butterscotch pudding and dropped a dollop of it on a couple dozen crackers. The instructor just rolled her eyes when I presented my Pudding on The Ritz.

MUNSI

Pudding Cups

By Chris Munroe

Look, none of this is complicated.

I recently received a frequent-shopper gift coupon in the mail, offering double air miles, and regular double air miles day was only a few days off.

So that’s quadruple, right?

Right. So I went to Safeway and found something that both a) was on sale, and b) offered 100 bonus air miles per unit.

In this case, pudding cups. Three for two dollars.

And now I’m going to Vegas. Hundred ten bucks for a week there, hotel included.

It’s going to be a blast!

Anyway: Do you want seventy pounds of pudding, or not?

ZACKMANN

“Are you done pudding Mister Wilson in the van?“
“Say Guido, didn’t the boss say boil him in pudding?”
“How much eggnog did you drink tonight? That was from the Christmas movie we watched, our boss isn’t such a Scrooge.”
“Don’t worry, since you are my favorite cousin I did as you directed”
Guido steps into the van. A man is sitting in a big plastic tub neck deep in pudding
“You have some information you will give us or Nunzio fills this above your head. Tell us, forget us, and live or become the corpses know as Pudd’nhead Wilson”

SINGH

Dinner Party Wars

Chris Mooney-Singh/Singh Albatros

Take five strangers, ask each to throw a dinner party, mix things up with some secret scoring for a E1,000 prize and you have a recipe for disaster. Yes, it’s been a week of cat poo in Debra’s kitty litter stinking out the dining room, Grandma Sheila’s weird robotic after-dinner dancing, a scary encounter with Timothy’s pet python, crawling across the table only to defecate chicken curry on the crisp linen, and sleazy comments by Javier, the alpha male of the bunch saying things like: ”you’ve such beautiful come-to-bed eyes” which Ruby has finally succumbed to. Welcome to Dinner Party Wars.

*

This week’s four strangers had battled hard, but there wasn’t protection for tomorrow’s hostess – Ruby, from frontrunner Javier, as both coupled on his drunken couch. The cameras and everyone had departed.

Arriving early next evening, Javier soon spread-eagled the lady on her kitchen table. Ruby grunted. “You delicious man!” And then left to shower.

Seeing his chance, Javier stirred something into her pudding-mix.

“Ruby, I am starting your steamer.”

“Thankyou. You’re such a darling,” she yelled underwater, thinking of money and her new boyfriend.

Her buttock-prints in the sprinkled flour made him smile before rubbing out their evidence with his hand.

*

The camera crew was surprised to see Javier on the living room couch. He greeted them and tried to make conversation. “I realize you have a lot on your plate, filming and producing these TV shows, night after night.”

“You’re right there Guv,” said the guy with headphones, waving about his boom-pole. “We get in a lot of hot and bother by Friday. Five bloody tapings. Had to come in earlier we did, you know — to fix the hidden cameras.”

The pot-bellied saboteur got that sinking feeling in the pit of his middle-aged paunch. How exactly wouls this turn out?

*

Eyeing the prize, Ruby thought a movie character theme would give her the fun edge. Debra was a chubby fairy godmother. Timothy came as a skinny Tarzan in leopard briefs and python around his neck. Grandma Sheila dressed as a geriatric Michael Jackson right down to fedora, socks and sequinned glove. Javier was Zorro with mask and cape, while Ruby emerged from the cocoon of her bedroom as a bulging-plum version of Maryli n Monroe. She’d tarted up her place with lit candles and forced wine and canapés upon each guest as they came through the door, her secret of power hosting.

*

According to the show format, a good portion was spent in the kitchen, turning home cooks into celebrity chefs. The cameras zoomed in on each step of her entrée — Oysters Kilpatrick, each plated with its little bacon curl on top. Then they cut to the dinner guest’s reactions. “Wow! These are so yummy!” Then back to the kitchen for the main course, which was Roast Cape Goose with Apple Sauce and Thai Rice Stuffing. This last episode of Dinner Party Wars was proving to be everything the producer had hoped for, but none were quite ready for what was coming.

*

Feeling confident and smelling victory, Ruby played perfect hostess all night. Then portly Debra, the low scorer from Monday giggled: “Being overweight is something that sorta snacks up on you, doesn’t it,” tucking straight into more goose-meat.

Ruby took this as her cue to tell the joke she had earlier researched online: “What are the four food groups?”

After much guessing, she fed them the answer: “Pizza, Coffee, Chocolate and…Sex.”

They exploded into paroxysms of tipsy laughter, while she looked knowingly at Javier sharing their secret moment, unaware he was smiling for another reason. Yes, the time for dessert had come.

*

Once bowls, spoons and jugs of cream were set, and lights doused for dramatic effect, Ruby brought in the plum pudding on a platter, placed it centre, pouring on the brandy. It was her pièce de résistance. Then, she lit it. The thing flambéed perfectly, giving off luminous flames worthy of St Elmo’s fire. They applauded as she set her fork and spoon into the pudding’s heart; but as she lifted, up came the special surprise. Everyone shrieked, except Javier. Dangling offensively was his used condom knotted at one end.

Seeing a huge spike in ratings, the producer kept on filming.

BONCHANCE and SEVI

Hero!

Good gracious! Mistress has been captured by the evil savages! Who knows what wicked intentions they have in store for her!
Lambchop to the rescue! Lamby rides his gigantic daunting terrorsaurace, Puddin, into the savages village scaring them away. Lamby slides down his back and releases Mistress from her bonds.
He beckons his flying peterrorsaurus with his secret call. Sauri glides down to them, as puddin keeps the savages at bay with his scary screams. Quickly, Lamby and Mistress jump on to peterrorsaurus and fly away!
Sevi smiled as she watched her lamby sleep, his hooves waving as he dreamed.

Coffee and Tea

I have made a life altering change. For the past few months I made the switch from drinkin a mug of coffee to a cuppa tea.
It’s awesome to sit back with a chalice of the good ole black stuff and reflect. Yah the memories just unfold as you slurp and sip.
How do I take it? With just a drizzle of honey to mellow the bitter edge. I don’t like it too sickly sweet.
Come to think of it now, I guess my tea and also memories have a propensity toward the bittersweet. Maybe I’ll just switch to pudding.

Pudding

Pablo had grounded Pepe after the misunderstanding with the Chairman. He was only allowed to roam within 100 feet of the house. His leash was attached to the chain link fence.
It seemed impossible to break free. Pepe racked his brain trying to find a way out of his predicament. Andre the armorer who made chainmail fetish clothing, lived across the road.
He could use this strong chain and make a mint.
Andre had a weird obsession and Pepe knew how to get him over to negotiate. Pepe put a bowl of lemon pudding out on the lawn and waited.

REDGODDESS

It’s been a while since Lola has seen her special guy. She’s not ready to take their relationship to the next level. For now, he’s just “the guy” who makes her re-think her needs vs. wants. How do you avoid someone who sends you romantic notes with vintage white roses? The latest card reads “one rose for every day I’m deprived of your beauty.” Lola is touched but hides her emotions well. She has no time to deal with her angst when she’s swamped with planning a fancy birthday bash for the hotel owner. She has to import his wife’s favorite French pudding among other exotic delicacies. This is the kind of opportunity that can jeopardize her livelihood or gives her leverage for a promotion. When you live paycheck to paycheck, any sneaky life event can hang you at the edge of the economic cliff.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

His heart slipped with every beat, sliding in his chest, tripping over ribs like they were coated in ice.

She slid one fingernail through the tape, glanced up at him.

Beat. Slip.

She folded the paper back. His heart slid with a disturbing liquidity, trading places with his stomach as she exposed the small velvet-covered box. She glanced up again.

It was the worst idea, worst present ever. He knew it, knew it, finally knew it but the box was open.

She looked at the ring, at him.

He tried to ask, heart flopping sliding inside, throat tightening.

She answered.

NORVAL JOE

Shareeka cast her dim light toward the water creature. Half way to the monster the ball hung in the air, flaring into brilliance. With a putrid hiss, it reared back and clawed at its eyes. Shaking its head back and forth it bellowed in pain.
Owen backed up to where Flindert worked at the lock and Spleen fell to hte cavern floor and quivered like a bowl of pudding.
The elf prince took something from a pouch at his belt and asked Flindert, “May I have a try?”
Inserting a green, glowing, pin into the lock, the latch fell away.

When Gilbert first met Millicent he thought her Brittish accent was sexy and her expressions were cute. They dated and quickly married.
Some characteristics were annoying. She called any kind of dessert, pudding.
“Pudding is warm and brown and squishy,” he ranted at her.
To top it off she had named her dim witted wiener dog ‘Pudding’, because that’s all he ever ate.
When Millicent finally left Gilbert, she left the wiener dog, with him.
He knew that Pudding hated him for it, because every night the wiener dog would leave Gilbert a little pile of pudding, on his bed.

TURA

You vampires try to keep a low profile these days. World’s too crowded to just kill someone every time you get hungry. Animal blood’s even harder to get. So what’s the answer? Black pudding, right? It’s pig scab, with fat mixed in to keep it soft.

I’m a butcher, see, and I noticed you buy a lot. Not feeling too well, are you? I made some special ones just for you, with silver salts cooked in. Found out where you lived, waited till you got poorly. This silver cleaver will have your head off and heart out in no time.

PLANET Z

There are four ways to buy pudding at the grocery store:

Individual servings in cups from the refrigerated section.

Boxes of instant powder mix that you can shake or stir up.

Boxes of powder to mix on the stove.

And cans of pre-made pudding.

I put them all in bowls, blindfolded my friend Steve, and asked him which kind tastes the best.

“Wait until you’ve had them all before responding,” I said.

After tasting all four, he said they all tasted awful.

“They’re all butterscotch,” he said. “I hate butterscotch.”

I grumbled and went back to the store for chocolate.