Author: R.

Welcome to the Ninety-Fifth 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 selected by Laieanna and Tom.
It’s Worst Job and Storage
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
VOTING

What were the best stories of Weekly Challenge #95?
	Elisson from blog d’Elisson
	John from A Work In Progress
	Guy David from Guy David.com
	Terry from Quiet Time
	Storm Thunders from Eye of the Storm
	Tom from Footnote
	Caleb from Black Tie Martini Club
	JD White
	Planet Z
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

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ELISSON

The worst job I ever had was manager of the U-Store-It unit out on the
Wharton Freeway.
It wasn”t the pay (which sucked), or Corporate (which really sucked).
It wasn”t even the clientele, although most of our customers weren”t
what you”d call Model Citizens.
No, it was the astonishing number of dead bodies that would appear in
the unrented units. Every couple days, we”d find another, chewed up
pretty bad. The cops were mystified, and it got to where I wasn”t
sleeping too well.
Then one night I saw them, and I understood. “Tekeli-li,” they moaned.
I never came back.

JOSH

Bologna again. Rick stared at the sandwich and its round edge of meat between the crusts before he took a grudging bite. A hero sub would be nice once in awhile. This tastes horrible and it’s so small, he thought as he stuffed the remainder of it into his mouth.
Rick grabbed the shovel leaning against the Cadillac’s bumper and dug a few more loads from the long shallow pit. His stomach growled. What he wouldn’t give for roast beef. He pulled the stained lumpy burlap sack from the trunk and dragged it into the hole.
Pastrami would be best.

TERRY

I have just returned from exploring parts of the wreckage after crash landing on Mars.
I have discovered that I am the lone survivor and have found several usable items in the closest part of the wreckage, along with solving a couple of problems.
My first problem being that the oxygen level in the atmosphere is about half the amount of Earth’s. The fix for this is an extraction pump that that was in the cargo bay, now all I need is a large tank for storage of the oxygen.
The second problem I found is that the living area of the craft is a total loss, burning up on impact; all that is left is a metal caucus along with the charred remains of my fellow crew members, may they rest in peace.
Without the living area section, the only toilet facilities are now in my command module. After the 2 month journey here, these have become completely filled and must be emptied, which maybe the worst job I have ever had to do.
This is Captain Josh Jones, Earth Space Command, signing off.

GUY DAVID

I must have the worst job in the world. I store broken dreams. I do this because that is my job. Not because I want to. I receive the dreams, confine then so they wouldn’t hurt anyone, so that people would be able to get on with their lives.
Last night, I run out of storage space, and all the broken dreams spilled out. Dreams of disappointments, of forgotten real life dreams, half forgotten memory dreams, all spilled over me. I had to inspect them one by one, put them back in place. Now I’m never going to dream again.

STORM THUNDERS

There’s always that awkward moment when you’re aware but before the shell’s done uploading. Then the shock as data starts pouring through the senses. The reassuring feel of filtering algorithms learning and adjusting – I’ve had those fail before, and lemmie tell you that’s a nightmare! Then the quick mental inventory of available tools and sensory inputs, and ransacking what’s stored in memory to determine the job that you’re here to do. It isn’t always obvious; part of why we’re sent is our ability to come up with creative solutions.
Even the worst job is better than being in storage

TOM

Worst Shmrst who”s to said one act is any less fitting in the services of the lord then another, but working shipping and receiving is that technically working in the field of the lord. I remember the August the antifreeze trucks arrived. The stuff was so dense it had to be perfectly loaded within the vehicle. We twowheelerd stacks of 6 cases down the aluminum ramp directly into back storage. Here by hand we stacked walls of antifreeze 8 cases high, deadlifting the last above our heads. Sweat dirt raw hands and backs all work is the work of the lord.

CALEB

They said it would be the job of a lifetime; go to sleep on earth and wake up some time later as the first ambassador to an as yet undiscovered alien world. But no alien world ever found me and cryogenic suspension doesn”t really stop the brain so much as slow it. A normal dream reflects upon the previous day”s activity but my last day was billions of years ago, long since forgotten in time. So now I float through space unable to move unable to wake, dreaming of nothing for eternity. I should”ve stayed in school” This job sucks.

JD WHITE

George’s job filled him with angst and anxiety.
Not really the job, you know, but the consequences of the job.
Each day of his existence George was tasked to move souls from the cold storage vault into the bodies of people that had lost, or just misplaced their soul.
This, if you have the right temperament, could be most fulfilling.
George did not have that temperament.
George was always stressed.
George always developed ulcers.
George always committed suicide.
And then Krishna or Vishnu or whoever would reincarnate him.
It was the best of jobs, it was the worst of jobs.

PLANET Z

The boys down in the warehouse always did the worst job of keeping things organized and secured.
You didn’t know what you’d find when you’d pry open a battered crate hauled out of storage. The manifests were hastily scribbled notes that had nothing to do with what was tossed willy-nilly into the box.
“Something Expensive Damaged Beyond Repair” was a good guess, I’d say.
The CEO got fed up with the damage and stormed into the warehouse office.
The boys down there didn’t take too kindly to getting fired, and they chopped him up.
We’re still finding bits and pieces of him.
Something expensive, indeed.

Welcome to the Ninety-Fourth 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 selected by Tom of Footnote.
It’s Pen and Ink
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
VOTING

Which stories were the best from Weekly Challenge #94
	Laieanna from Hodgepodge Point
	Tom from Footnote Podcast
	Storm Thunders from The Eye of the Storm
	Guy David from Guy David dot com
	Terry the Old Coot
	Houston Keys from Tater Tots For The Masses
	Elisson from blog d’Elisson
	Caleb from Black Tie Martini Club Oddcast
	Planet Z
Free polls from Pollhost.com

Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):

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LAIEANNA

The shopkeeper pulled a pen and inkwell from under the glass counter.
“Take this and use your favorite pad of paper to draw your dreams.”
The shopkeeper packed up the merchandise and handed it over to Fiona.
“Just remember the potency wears off within hours. Go home and
imagine.”
Fiona did just that, only to return to the shop minutes before
closing. The shopkeeper looked up at her strange new companion and
smiled. “How did it go?”
“Huge problem!” Fiona huffed, “He’s perfect except he’s purple! It
won’t wash off.”
“That’s what you get for drawing on frilly colored paper.”

TOM

The nuns said the uses of a ball point would ruin my penmanship that vessel sailed long before the world was burred in BICS. The ball of ADD Dyslexic contrails which is my brain never got the hang of laying pen to paper. I was never patient enough to master the Zen of pen and ink. It was always about whole body mechanics from the finger to shoulder. It was about a floating perpendicularity as precise as Marine Drill Sargent. But most important is was the feel for metal gently biting the surface of pulp a conscience contact with externality

STORM

I dream in colors
to the rhythm of the needle against their skin
Tapping
Trapping ink beneath the layers
Freeing secrets
The bells jingle. Usually they come asking for butterflies or skulls or lovers’ names. I look over to see another who’s heard the whispered rumors and come seeking. My inks mix with their blood, creating colors and lines showing the indelible marks within… Inner beauty, hidden scars, buried secrets… My pen flows, illuminating their truths.
This one I refuse. I speak her name aloud, shocking tears from him.
“I will not damn. Make amends before you face my needles.”

GUY DAVID

My pen is bleeding blue
Blue ink of pain pouring rain
Where does all this sadness come from
Time have sharpened the pencil
Wrote my life and laughed
And now my pen is bleeding red
A scream of anguish
The rage of time passing
And the stone wall
Unbreakable wall
My pen is bleeding blue
Blue ink of pain pouring rain
On wet paper
The wetness of tears
Maybe I could drown like Alice
Maybe disappear
But where would I go
Can’t run away from my past
So I stay in the present
Bleeding the blue blood of a pen

TERRY

Day 1 ” May 13, 2012
I have found myself alive and still breathing after crash landing on the planet Mars. I think the cause was a malfunction of the guidance system in the ship’s main computer.
The craft is a total wreck; it has spilt up into several sections with parts of it burning after spotting signs of smoke on the horizon.
My command module has sustained damage, but seems to be still pressurized and I have enough water and air for several days.
With the other wreckage burning, I have to assume that there is oxygen in the atmosphere, Now all I need to know is how much and how to extract it. I have tuned my radio, which looks as if it is still functioning; to S.O.S. But, only god knows if anyone will hear it.
My next chore is to suit up and explore the wreckage for usable equipment; I wish I only had pen and ink to set this record down on paper.
This is Captain Josh Jones, Earth Space Command, signing off.

HOUSTON

Hello my name is Stephen Hawking and Houston has asked me to resort to
pen and ink and recite some of my original poetry.
Her skin glistened in the moonlight,
My heartbeat quickened as I soaked in her beauty.
My wandering gaze moved from her lips,
To her plunging neckline,
To her”
Steve, Man, sorry, this just isn’t working.
What do you mean?
It just sounds, I don’t know” Creepy
FINE! JERK! The next time you need assistance with astrophysical
theory you may go elsewhere you small minded, cube dwelling, thick
browed technical support drone!
Uh. OK. Thanks anyway Steve.

ELISSON

A few cycles ago, I was glimming the morning Speedtext, where I saw the
most intriguing ad:
PORTABLE INFORMATION STORAGE SYSTEM
requires no batteries, stores images or alphanumeric characters with
equal ease. Data retrieval uses principle of SELECTIVE REFLECTION” in
conjunction with electromagnetic radiation source (not included). Access
any part of your database with simple manual operation! Available
preprogrammed with large variety of software.
Store below 451″F.
I had to have one! I scanned my credichip and waited for the transmuter
to zoop it.
It was a “book.” I was mesmerized. What primitive beauty!
The “pen” and “ink” come tomorrow.

CALEB

Hey Merle, come here! What”s all that ink doing in the pig pen?
That aint Ink, Jocephus, that”s oil!
Oil?
Black Gold, Texas Tea, Well the first thing you know ole Jed”s a Millionaire, OIL man!
Okay” So uh Merle, What”s all that oil doing in the pig pen?
Well either we struck oil and we”re going to be filthy rich and never have to work another day in our lives or one of the robotic pigs has blown a gasket. Now which do you think it is?
Aw Merle, those goddamn robotic pigs are more trouble than they”re worth.

PLANET Z

Back in the wild days of the Wordslingers, pens for hire would ride the range, silver pocket protectors in their button-down shirt pockets.
They’d square off on Main Street at high noon, standing there tall, staring each other down.
Their fingers twitching at their sides, ready to reach for their magnificent pens…
All around, the townspeople watched, the local newspaper’s literary critic measuring out column space for the loser.
They draw! Ink flies! Harsh words are exchanged!
One man goes down! Get this man an editor!
He arrives too late.
The victor bows his head, and writes the epitaph.