Author: R.

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.

This is Weekly Challenge Number Two Hundred and Ninety-Three, 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 Cookie

And we’ve got stories by:

Tura Brezoianu
Thomas Pitre
Charlie White
Chris Munroe
Jeffrey Hite
Zackmann
Tom
Steven the Nuclear Man
Chris the Nuclear Kid
Danny
Norval Joe
Planet Z

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post.

The more people see this on Google Plus, Facebook, and Twitter – the more explaining you’ll have to do with your loved ones, coworkers, and parole officers.

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Tura

So I go online to order a Chinese, and there’s my own name already on
the web page, and, “How about your favorite Hot Singapore Noodles
tonight?” WTF? I fire an email saying “don’t you tell me what I want,
*I* tell *you*”. Dammit, the Singapore Noodles *are* my favorite but
I’m not giving them the satisfaction.

It’s the cookies. Can’t deal with anyone online without them sticking
cookies all over you, it’s the mark of Revelations without which no
man might buy nor sell, save that he accepted the cookie.

When does Revelations say the Cookie Monster shows up?

Thomas

She was a tough cookie. She had her hand on my thigh and an eye on my bank account. She did special favors for me, and would leave a plate of brownies or pie at my door, two times a week. She wanted to fatten me up, figuring my heart would explode and I would leave her a bundle in my will. She watched my weight and my health more than I did. She encouraged me to spend time reading and watching videos, figuring the sedentary lifestyle would aid my early demise. My will left everything to the Humane Society.

She only had one cookie, but it was enough for all of us. We all took turns taking a bite of her cookie. She only came through town on weekends, and we got in line, early on Saturday, knowing she’d be here a little after supper time. We had to eat supper at the café before we were allowed a bite of dessert. Her bodyguards were positioned close by to oversee the presentation. Each of us, in turn approached her, our hands behind our backs, as touching was not allowed, to take a polite and deliberate nibble of her cookie.

Charlie

That cookie looked good. I came in from a run hungry. It was just
sitting there. I knew it wasn’t mine, but I wanted it.

I pulled some stuff off of the table and let it fall to the floor.
Now, the dog should get blamed. I went over to her and scratched her
under her ears. I smiled at her.

I went back to the cookie. Still looked good, very tempting and the
stage was set. I reached for it when I heard the front door open.

“A dog almost got your cookie,” I yelled.

Munsi!

I brought cookies, though I know you’re about as likely to accept them as you are to accept my apology.

If I were in your position, I wouldn’t forgive me, so I suppose I can’t expect any different of you.

Why would you forgive me? You don’t owe me anything.

Plus, I’m a god-awful baker, I’m not sure the cookies are even edible.

But I had to do something. After what I did, I figure I owe you at least a gesture. Hence: The cookies.

I’ll leave them here, by the door. You can fetch them once I’m long gone…

Jeffrey

Dr. Wiley had spent this entire career getting to this point. He’d never felt so alive, well not since he had been a kid. When he was a kid, life had always been great. Every day filled with joy and happiness. That was until Clyde had moved to town, junior year. Clyde had taken everything, his girl his spot on the football team, his spot as valedictorian, everything. The last straw had been, well that didn’t matter. He set the time machine and got in.
He reached out to the startled boy in front of him.
“That is my cookie.”

Zackmann

Me, Cookie. Me, no original cookie that was on Television. Me big Cookie from toy store. One day Me see really big guy. He buy me and take me to his house. Guy called Big C. Big C does something called BearCrawling podcast http://bearcrawlingnation.com/ were he talks to people on Stickam. It have chat room. Big C read chat room and say “Really! Really? Dammit Zackmann, I am not a plushophile.“ then Big C pat me on head and say “Don’t worry Cookie, I don’t love you that way. I hate Yarn Burn.” Me sleep with eyes open.

Hugh was reading about solar power and saw an article about a way to warm hot dogs then thought if he make it bigger, he could make a house out of cookie dough and find a use for Costco sized quantities of baking goods. The neighborhood kids ate Hugh’s cookie house and autumn rains destroyed what they did not. Hugh remembered a news story a woman who made a house out of gingerbread and she got so mad that children kept eating her house that she started a rumor that she ate children to keep them away from her house.

Tom

Cookie Laroo was an exotic dance at

San José’s legendary Pink Poodle.

She did this thing with a stack of quarters

That would blow your mind

Ed Frovishor came in ever Sunday afternoon

After Sunday-school class to watch

Cookies do that cookie thing. He said he

Could feel the presence of god. His wife

Gladys was happy to get him out of the

House until the Pastor dropped by for

Sunday night dinner. Tuna casserole is

Some serious business in the Frovisher household

The pastor was never late cuss Ed and he

Would leave the Poodle together.

Praise the Lord.

Chris the Nuclear Kid

What did we do to deserve such cruelty? They burn us till we cannot
move. Being forced to wait for our doom. And they put us in round
upside-down domes where we sit there, unmoving, waiting for their
return, dreading what is to come. It happens all the time, and now, it
is my turn.

I sit in the dome thing and wait. There is a tall green triangle in
the corner with smaller square objects under it. Then, to my horror, I
see the gigantic red and white demon. A ravenous monster, a legend
among my kind.

“Santa Claus!”

Steven the Nuclear Man

”You’re ten,” Mom says. “Old enough to make the cookies for Santa.”

I look up and stop cleaning my hamster’s cage. “Am I old enough to get
an XStationCube4?”

Mom winces. “I’m sorry, honey. I think Santa ran out.”

My dad yells from the living room. “Dammit, Brenda, get me another beer.”

Mom winces again, and gets him another can. Our recycling bin is almost full.

She leaves me with the ingredients.

Later, I leave the cookies for Santa.

Mom smiles. “What kind did you make?”

“Chocolate chip,” I say, and head to bed with my hamster’s very clean cage.

Danny

Cookie was another high priced prostitute who lived in the shadow of the Nabisco factory, just off of route 208 in Fairlawn, New Jersey. Cookie was best friends with “Bubbles,” who was now somewhere in Holland with her boyfriend on some insane search for the Hollish. Cookie liked living up to her name, she ate cookies all the time, during work, during sex, plus during sex while at work. Cookies favorite morning was Tuesdays, when the Nabisco factory was making Nilla Wafers, so at least once a week, Cookie’s neighborhood no longer smelled like an oil refinery, it smelled like heaven.

Norval Joe

Kesso Fromage of the cheeze police was called to a crime scene in the wee hours one sunday morning. She tip-toed through the wrecked bakery and struggled to keep her previous evenings dinner down.

Cookies of all description and size were scattered indiscriminately across counters, work tables and the floor. Written on each, in cursive script, formed from softened American processed cheese, was the capitol letter ‘S’.

“Cheese belongs on crackers,” Kesso said and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. “This flagrant violation of the cheddar cheese protocol can only be the work of Sleezy Wheezer, the Easy Cheeze squeezer.”

Planet Z

I warned Billy not to eat cookies before dinner, but I caught him with his hand in the cookie jar again.

So, the cookies are in a lockbox on a high shelf in a locked pantry.

“Have a piece of fruit,” I tell him.

But he’s obsessed with getting a cookie.

“Make a healthy cookie from fruit,” whispered the muse, and I rushed to the kitchen to make a batch of fruit cookies.

I guarded them as they cooled, then put them in the old cookie jar.

Billy took one, bit into it, and vomited.

He’s back on heroin now.

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.com. I’m your host, Laurence Simon.

This is Weekly Challenge Number Two Hundred and Ninety-Two, 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 PICK TWO!

And we’ve got stories by:

Thomas Pitre
Tura Brezoianu
Tom
Chris Munroe
TJ
Zackmann
Steven the Nuclear Man
Chris the Nuclear Kid
Abernathy
Norval Joe
Danny
Planet Z

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post.

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Thomas

Theodore Eggabrotten and I went shopping for a nose. Theodore’s was almost gone. Excessive drinking and years of picking kiwis in the hot sun had taken its toll. The mall was open, and as we nosed around, we eventually found our way to the spare body parts store. We asked if there were any noses. The woman looked around and found the last one in a dark, mildewed corner under the counter. She dusted it off and burnished the tip on her apron. It was discolored, so it was marked down. He attached it with Velcro and some MJackson Adhesive.

Timmy’s dead, or was near death, as his body temperature dropped to 45 degrees. Tina had brought the spider with her, and urged the hungry, sepia-colored sac to crawl up Timmy’s nose as they toured the flea market. She almost got her Christmas wish, as Timmy’s life was now on the highway to the dangerzone because of Tina’s vehement compulsion to see him suffer–as she did, during their short, intense, but cruel relationship. The African Cheircanthium spider was stolen from the glass container at the college, and Tina knew the bug’s potential for resolving her “little problem” with Timmy.

Tura

On a Sunday it is pleasant to wander the Flohmarkt, especially among
the Christmas lights. I picked up a faded daguerrotype. It was of
the old Meyerplatz, from before the War. A bright spring morning,
draymen loading their horse-drawn carts, and in the middle, a young
man striding assuredly across the square, a bundle under his arm.

“What do you wish, sir?” asked the stallholder.

The carts rattled and jingled; one of the new trams slowly drew into
the square. And in the fresh cold air, I strode briskly on to my
bachelor lodgings, with bread fresh from the baker’s.

Tom

Jake Conroy had completed his doctorial paper but needed to test his final set of equations. So he walked up to the first people he saw on the corner of 4th and Drucker said “jack conroy sends this forward” and slapped the person on the cheek. Five years later Dr Conroy’s book 45 Degrees of Separation became required reading at Stanford’s Advance Mathematic Institute. Much to his surprise one day he opened his door and saw Mother Theresa standing there sporting a major black eye. “From his holiness to your nose” she said and layed out a brutal right cross

Chris

I made a Christmas wish, for peace on earth.

And there was peace.

So the next day I made another wish, for good will to all.

This too was granted. That’s when my problems began.

I wished every day after that. I couldn’t stop, helpless against the power of my wishes.

The least among us? Cared for.

Equality among all? Achieved.

The world became paradise, but I was in hell, trapped in endless wishing.

Finally, the next Christmas, I wished myself freedom from wishing, and for the previous year to’ve never happened.

So yeah. Sorry, world. Couldn’t handle the compulsion.

TJ

After a few jarring mishaps I’d had what seemed like a run of good luck with Sandra. She was funny and charming and our dates had gone so well I’d almost changed my mind about eMusicalChairs.com. It wasn’t until our third date I noticed how deliberate her exits were. Our fourth date she cut off so sharply I felt compelled to follow her home. Once there I saw through the window… Sandra dressed as a swan, with a beak for a nose. She answered the door. “There were… leftovers,” I said, hesitantly. “Thanks!” she said. “Put ’em on my bill!”

Zackmann

Did you see the Hunger Games last night, set in the Flea Market?
“Highway to the Danger Zone” is their theme song. Timmy should not have sliced Sophias face and taunted “I got your nose” She grabbed a lawn dart and now Timmy is dead. Too bad for Sophia with her compulsion to enter that Sepia colored Lexus. Lexus was likely on her Christmas list. It was 45 degrees. She was likely hoping for a heater not an explosion. I was so against blood sports on television until the reality show writers and producers were forced to became the contestants.

Steven the Nuclear Man

Roger left his office building, gingerly holding the box of leftovers.
His co-workers had left him passed out after the office party,
Post-It labels of “Scrooge” and “Humbug” on his forehead.

That didn’t matter. The ghosts had come. All three, just like
Dickens, though they’d talked about CDOs, short-selling and
unemployment. It wasn’t just numbers anymore – he’d seen the effect
of his trading.

The protesters were still there, despite the cold and snow.

“If you’re hungry, I’ve got food,” he said to the demonstrator laying
on a bench, clutching a crutch.

But he lay unmoving in the December cold.

Chris the Nuclear Kid

> I walk quickly, carefully, cautiously, fearfully. My hunger nagging me as I find a store with food. I stop suddenly and listen. I here groans and gunshots. Just as I turn to leave I here a high pitch scream catches my attention and I go inside.
>
> “Timmy, Sara?!” I exclaimed surprised to find my old friends. I ran to their side, zombies were everywhere.
>
> Timmy’s pouch of bullets fell forwards and he dove after them, right into a zombie that attacked him. The smell of blood attracting the other zombies. Moments later we saw Timmy’s body… and we run.

Abernathy and Sachy

Nora walked through the sea of snow boots and side pony-tails stuck at a Napoleon Dynamite themed party. Gulping down her Liger Martini and listing to Jamiroquai’s “Canned Heat”, she eyes the only other person not dressed like Pedro or a llama and sits down beside him. He turns towards her. “This is the coolest idea, huh? I mean, what could be more fun than a Napoleon Dynamite themed party?!” Finishing off her drink she says coldly. “Anything.” Putting her empty glass down, grabs her cell and sends a text to a friend. “Where the fuck are you?”

Norval Joe

“Why do you love me, William?” she asked.
“‘Do you love me?’ is the question you should be asking me,” he thought as he gazed into her vacant eyes. ” or maybe, ‘Why do you put up with me?'”
This wasn’t the first time she’d asked him that question. In fact, she had asked it every time they’d gone out these last two months.
He had the compulsion to tell her it was the size of her bust or the size of her father’s estate. Would she even get it?
“It’s your nose, Vickie,” he said. “I love your nose.”

Zackmann

Did you see the Hunger Games last night, set in the Flea Market?
“Highway to the Danger Zone” is their theme song. Timmy should not have sliced Sophias face and taunted “I got your nose” She grabbed a lawn dart and now Timmy is dead. Too bad for Sophia with her compulsion to enter that Sepia colored Lexus. Lexus was likely on her Christmas list. It was 45 degrees. She was likely hoping for a heater not an explosion. I was so against blood sports on television until the reality show writers and producers were forced to became the contestants.

Danny Dwyer

Oh my god, you killed Kenny! No, actually I killed Timmy, the lovable South Park character in a wheelchair that least deserved to die. I was fulfilling a Christmas wish to a boy dying from cancer in Jersey City, New Jersey, his name was Jimmy. He was an aspiring handicapped comedian, also on South Park before the cancer. He was supposed to go to Cesar Sinai hospital in NYC, but he didn’t have the health insurance to cover the expense. Instead, Jimmy was sent to a second rate hospital in Jersey City. My Christmas wish? Make health insurance a right.

Planet Z

I admit that whenever I have the need to measure or make a 45 degree angle, the first thing I think to do is ask to borrow your nose.

Sure, a protractor or an angle-guide is a lot more convenient, but your nose is much more convenient, and it’s not like you’d ever forget to bring it with you.

You know, like the tape measure. Or the epipien.

Of course, one must take precautions when making angles with a nose.

Now, I mark the wood with a pencil using your nose as a guide.

(Sorry about the circular saw slipping.)