Welcome to the forty-eighth 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 Chris from Platypus Society, and it’s Sandwiches.
Eleven stories were submitted this week.
A rookie team joined in… yes!
And, once again, some disturbing madness from Planet Z.
Go ahead and listen to them by clicking on the grammophone thingy there in the left column and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):
WE GOTS PRIZES:
I will be sending the winner a prize… it’s a packet containing at least 1 refrigerator magnet and a CD with the archive of the entire 100 word stories podcast. (Well, minus promos and junk)
It is your voting that determines who wins. So listen, vote, and tune in next week to find out who won!
The full text of each story:
O’CHRIS
Lucky sat down, a pint of Guinness in one hand, a corned beef sandwich in the other. He kicked his feet up and sighed.
“Another long day,” he said. “Those kids, always after me Lucky Charms.”
He had just put the pint to his lips when the front door kicked open.
A dirty, half-naked man entered, eyes crazy with rage!
He threw Lucky down and started kicking him.
“TWENTY SEVEN YEARS! I FINALLY GOT YOU!”
The man grabbed the coveted box of cereal.
“Cereal’s shit,” the man said, dumping the box on Lucky’s bloodied face. “But I’ll take the sandwich.”
O’MARK and O’TINA
Running late to the game, Dad moved franticly about the kitchen, preparing water-bottles, snacks and the like (all while eating lunch AND holding the baby). Suddenly a stray bit of food went down the wrong pipe. His eyes watered. Clutching the child, he dropped the snacks and clawed at the paper-towel roll, letting out a great sneeze. Convulsing, he raised a handful of towels to his nose and sneezed again.
And then total silence…
Relieved he cleared the tears from his eyes and looked down at the baby. She was covered in little moist wholewheat bits of sandwich.
CALEB O’BULLEN
As the 4th Earl of Sandwich pondered his creation, he smiled. For he knew that despite a lifetime of public service as Secretary of State and Postmaster General this one act, oft-repeated, would carry his name throughout the ages.
Of course he had had help. He couldn’t have done it at all without his lovely Irish cook, Molly or his good friend Robert.
As he helped Molly refasten her dress and Robert snored on the divan where he had finished, the Earl thought to himself, “I wonder if something like this could be done with bread and meat as well?”
MacTERRENCE LEAN
Raoul had not been to a wedding in long time, he just was not the type that you invited. He was shocked when the invitation arrived from his cousin. The ceremony was traditional, but he was fairly sure that in most weddings, when they talked about being in the presence of God, they didn’t mean literally; but there he was, sitting in the second row; on the opposite side from Raoul and his brothers. Thing were going well, until dinner was served. You would think that with the almighty on the invite list they would serve something other than sandwiches.
ERIN GO LAIEANNA
Ralph slathered mayo onto the hoagie, then sprinkled it with shredded lettuce. Tomato slices were placed end to end and from three large jars he gathered ham, turkey, and chicken slices, draping them onto his creation. Swiss and provolone were overlapped onto the meat. Last he topped the sandwich with a secret ingredient. He closed his masterpiece then sliced it into serving sizes for the waiter to pass around the bar.
The manager inspected one closely, “What’s this?”
“It’s called Luck of the Irish Club. The meats were marinated in Guinness and the sandwich is topped with Lucky Charms marshmallows.”
O’TABITHA
Myboyfriend races himself around the apartment. He finds this amusing, especially at 2 AM when I’m trying to sleep. I groan, but keep my eyes closed. “Stupid cat.”
Next he finds a paper bag to scratch on, the feline equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. Since I’m still in bed, he yells until I wake up. I glare at him. He doesn’t blink, staring down at me as if to say, “While you’re up, why don’t you make us some sandwiches?”
Once I’m awake and out of bed, he curls up and falls asleep.
McK-NINE
I still see it happening when I close my eyes. It’s
like one of those old super 8 home movies… You know,
all grainy and the colors don’t seem quite right. I
even seem to hear that rattling, flipping noise of the
old projectors.
I didn’t mean for it to happen that way. I just
wanted to change shirts. I had dripped mustard on
mine, so I swung by my house on the way back to work.
When that closet door popped open instinct took over.
I’d change it if I could.
The bologna sandwiches in prison sure are lousy.
SEAN O’ELISSON
Dougie shambled into the cafeteria and took a seat at the end of the table, far away from his fourth-grade classmates.
Oh, how he envied them. He watched as they opened their sack lunches, digging into their peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches, their salami-on-ryes.
For him, it was an endless parade of sardines on cream cheese, of tuna salad. Weird, fishy sandwiches, the aroma of which clung to him all afternoon. Other kids avoided him, calling him “Fish-Boy.”
It wasn’t easy being the son of the Gorton’s Fisherman.
And the fins growing out of his head and back were no damn help.
TED (NOT KENNEDY)
All my life, I have been on a quest. A search for perfection, that has taken me through numerous countries and continents.
After Years of searching, I have no need to go on. I have found life’s perfection…. Sandwiches..
They will never leave you for another man or woman. They wouldn’t dream of litigation regarding child support. You get what you put into the relationship. They just love you back.
Oh, and sandwiches have integrity. Think about it. Have you ever seen a used sandwich shop? Or a sandwich repair shop?
I rest my case..
Come here, you beautiful Dagwood…
PATTY O’PATTI
I’ve come to recognize many of the homeless people in the city where I live, even privately nicknamed some of them: Talking Tim, Meridian Mary. I begin to worry when I haven’t seen them for awhile.
Take Talking Tim, for instance. I usually see him in the afternoons on my way home from work, but he’d been absent from his usual turf for weeks. I finally spotted him today, walking alone and talking, as usual. But something was different: sandwiched between his right hand and ear was a cell phone.
I’m still wondering if anyone was on the other end.
T O’FOUREM
His body filled the room. All nine Hundred ten pounds. Bob hadn’t
seen the outside of his room for five years. It was sandwich time and
I told him he could get his own if he wanted it. Bob’s eyes got big.
His face was red. Then he arched back and his whole head seemed to
come off. Then a four foot snake like creature came out of his neck,
shot across the room within inches of my nose and bellowed IT’S
SANDWICH TIME NOW! And retreated back into Bob’s body. Always bring
the sandwiches always bring the sandwiches…
AN IRISH VERSION OF MANATA
In 2066, they celebrated their seventieth wedding anniversary. Their “Generation X” marriage had been like very marriage throughout history. Each of them knew how the other took their coffee. Each of them knew the other’s favorite movie, song, and television program. And, like members of countless generations before them, they continued to listen to the music, talk like the movie stars, and act like the celebrities of those from their youth. This is why, on their special day, Jordan said to Courtney, “‘Sup, bitch? I be hungry like mad crazy, yo! Gets ya ass up and makes me a sandwich!”
PLANET O’Z
The Billionaire would look at the social parasites that showed up to his parties and recognize very few of them.
The few he did, they disgusted him.
“You people sicken me,” he muttered.
So, for his next party, he told the caterer to make all the food using human waste.
From the dip to the finger sandwiches, it was all shit.
The champagne? It was yellowish, and marked “previously consumed.”
“How do you like it?” The Billionaire asked.
He enjoyed each moment of horror and how long it took each face to return to its mask of vapid, obsequious delight.
Thanks to everyone for sending in their stories, and I look forward to what you’ve got to write (and say) next week.
The theme for next week’s Weekly Challenge will be posted shortly.
(In case you’re interested, the new theme music is by Guy David)