Weekly Challenge – Page 63 – The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Weekly Challenge #424 – An Unpublished Labor Of Hercules

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The topic this week was AN UNPUBLISHED LABOR OF HERCULES.

We’ve got stories by:

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

Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.

JOHN MUSICO

An Unpublished Labor of Hercules, John Musico

The Iliad told us of the 12 labors of Hercules.
Zeus had a mean sense of humor. He chose not to make public the 13th and final task for Hercules. That final morning, Hercules awoke with a belly like a watermelon. Yes, he was quite pregnant and ready for delivery. 24 hours of agony followed. To inspire bravery, Hercules called from his memory the Herculian feats he had surmounted. He strained till his bones nearly broke. The saltiest of sweat beading into his eyes blinding him. Zeus could stomach watching this no more and ended it. Hercules’s humiliation ensured secrecy.

JEFFREY

The Last Labor of Hercules
by Jeffrey Fischer

Hercules had completed a dozen tasks for King Eurystheus, from slaying the Nemean lion to capturing the monster Cerberus, using his considerable strength, his wits, and, on occasion, some timely help. When he returned the three-headed monster to Hades, the king, as promised, released him from his labors.

As he left Hades, preparing to join the search for the Golden Fleece, the goddess Athena appeared to him. She said, “Mighty Hercules, you have one more task to perform before you can truly be free: rid yourself of your guilt from your terrible deeds.”

Though Hercules lived for many years, taking other wives and lovers, and having many adventures, his mortal form died with this labor yet unfinished.

Labor 13i: Eliminating the National Debt
By Jeffrey Fischer

Hercules looked at the big sign displaying the national debt: $17 trillion and counting. He wasn’t a learned man; to him, that total was unfathomable. And that didn’t count all the off-the-books stuff, such as Social Security and Medicare obligations. He sighed and flexed his muscles.

First step: empty all personal savings and investment accounts: deposits, CDs, IRAs, and 401(k)s. When that didn’t help, he removed the funds from all business accounts. Still not close.

Hercules shrugged his massive shoulders and gave up. Some labors were simply too much.

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story: Part 60 – Hercules

George often slipped into fantasy when feeling dispirited, imagining himself a hero, facing insurmountable obstacles, overcoming them, against all the odds.

Trudging along the road, he imagined himself a latter-day Hercules, labouring to achieve the impossible – the single-handed rebuilding of society!

He called up Rasputin’s monster and his own imagined zombies – slaying them victoriously in hand-to-hand combat, to emerge battered, bleeding but triumphant!

Getting into the mood, he picked up a stone, hurling it contemptuously at a large pile of rubbish, then watched in horror as a large, and angry lion emerged snarling, from behind it!

#2 – An unpublished labour of Hercules

It was fun to get Hercules drunk: alcohol always loosened his tongue!

Everyone knew about his heroism, but only those who drank with him knew there were other, somewhat unexpected, tasks he’d performed for the king.

After one night on the beer, swearing us to secrecy, he revealed to us what he described as ‘the most difficult labour of all’.

Astonished, we listened as he told us how the king demanded he flaunt nature… and give birth!

“It’s not that I wasn’t ‘equipped’ for the task”, he said, “it was the ten hours I spent in labour almost finished me!”

#3 – Lifetime ambition

Hercules dreamed of success, so he hatched his great plan – vowing to commit himself to writing, even if only a hundred words a day: every day until the day he died. He would be successful, as the author of the greatest novel ever written, even if was only posthumously!

And that’s exactly what he did: day by day, word by word, page by page.

Sadly, Hercules died young.

Having never made a will, his family completely failed to appreciate the worth of the hundreds of notebooks left when he died, throwing them in the trash.

His life’s labour… unpublished.

TOM

Provides coverage at a fixed rate of payments

“Labor 13,” intoned the Mycenaean king. “Wait a second the agreement was 12, 12 labors. What’s this 13 thing? Do you take me for a fool?” “Did you read the fine print? “I don’t read, I’m a hero.” “Iolaus do tell the hero what he put his X to.” “Herk, bad news it reads 12 plus another.” “Now if I may, Labor 13, the Hero know as Heracles, will bring the protection of term life insurance to all Minoans.”

“Times like these who can know the will of Zeus, but with Mutual of Omaha your family is in good hands.”

A Well Defined Relationship Part 53

Le Cid Caesar was a very literate bandit. Just before he swiped out a rustic niche of humanity he liked to read a passage from the current book he was reading. So on the edge of Funky Town Le Cid halted and opened a tattered copy of Kilgore Trout’s Unpublished Labor of Hercules

“What just happened,” cried Banister, “one minute a stampede of desperados, the next minute a bloody feel-good kumbaya ring?”

“Maybe they’re having a pray circle,” said Sparky

“Highly unlikely,” said Smith

“Whatever it was its over, they are hell bent for leather now.”

Sparky hit the switch.

BRAM

The dragon of Serpho

Hercules was once again sent on a task. To slay the dragon off Serpho.

After he arrived at the island he asked for directions from the innkeeper.
“She resides in a cave two miles North from here. You can hear her roaring
from far away. And you will know when you see her, She is the biggest red
dragon you’ll ever see.”

Hercules thanks the innkeeper and starts walking.

The ever-present patron asks, “So how long do you reckon before the poor
hero returns?” “My lovely redhead of a wife will scare him off before
nightfall.” Chuckles the innkeeper.

ZACKMANN

This is an old Greek SciFi story about Hercules a Nephilim who was required to perform a dozen Labors for King E. You have likely heard the first twelve but not that King E was a baker so that include one more. The Quest for the Golden Monkey. E gave Hercules a rope, telling him the Poet Lariat would be his guide. The rope said “Winds will blow, winds will gust to attain the golden monkey more than a hundred drabbles write you, you must.”

“Is it that easy?” asked Hercules

“Do not hesitate. Narration is part of your fate.”

BOTGIRL

The 13th Labour of Hercules by Botgirl Questi

After finishing his twelfth Labor, Hercules sat by the river Styxx and wept unconsolably.

“You paid your debt,” spoke Hades. “Why do you still weep?”

“Pity me, oh Lord, Hercules moaned. For although I have served the sentence for slaying my wife and children, the agony of their loss has not been extinguished.

“You cannot escape torment within your soul through action in the outer world,” said Hades. “Your final Labor is to sit with your pain in full awareness until you find peace.”

Hercules sat. Eons passed. The Gods became myth. Civilizations rose and fell. He sits there today.

LIZZIE

“Tell me,” the detective uttered.

“I don’t know, sir… She was already dead,” whispered the beggar.

“What? Speak up, man.”

The beggar got closer and whispered a bit more.

As always, the detective stroked his mustache pensively. The beggar did have a point. The victim bore a remarkable resemblance to that writer, something Christa, Christine.

“She was just there…I almost tripped.”

The detective tried talking to the local police, but they went around, scratching their heads, not knowing what to think or say.

“We are doomed,” he mumbled.

It became obvious that now the darn thing would never be finished.

TURA

The case of the 13th labour
——–
Hercule Poirot was ennuyé. “No-one is doing any mysterious meurdeurz! Ze leetle grey cells, zey decay without work!” He toyed with a syringe of 7% cocaine.

Zen ze doorbell rang.

“A most urgent and discreet matter,” said his visitor. “A diplomatic ball to be given, and assassination plots against almost all the invitees!”

“I ‘am but an ‘umble detectif,” said Poirot, “not un ‘SWAT’ operatif.”

“Of course, we will have security operatifs, er, operatives, but we wish to engage you in advance, to speedily apprehend any murderers too clever for our precautions.”

“Ah, zis is a labour worthy of Hercule!”

MUNSI

Mythology

By Christopher Munroe

He did NaNoWriMo, you know.

Yes, he was there, writing 50k words, crafting his novel.

He finished, too. Finished, and was pleased. His story was everything he hoped it would be, yet even after edits he couldn’t figure out what to do with it.

Every publishing house said no, called it unrealistic in spite of every word being true, and that was when he realized his autobiography had no home in the literary world.

He’d wait for somebody else to write his story, however they might change it.

And so, his real life went unread.

The unpublished labor of Hercules…

SERENDIPITY

Professor Ahmed dusted off the shard of pottery and gasped in amazement: he squinted at the faded Greek lettering in the torchlight.

“Gentlemen, this speaks of a legend that has remained secret for centuries… an unpublished labour of Hercules!”

He read to us, turning the fragment to catch the light…

“King Eurystheus summoned Hercules, commanding him with an impossible labour: You are to reach through time itself and steal a soul from the distant future, to placate the gods”

“How remarkable!”, exclaimed the professor, failing to notice the great, bronze-encased, arms reaching through time from the shadows of the tomb, towards him.

SPATE

Hash – Part 10

The buzz clang of the bolt release jolted Davidson from another daydream.
The solid steel cell door opened. It was Hercules.

Davidson curled his lip. “Shower again. already? Got soap this time?”

“No, just want to talk to you.”

“I’m not putting pants on.”

“Don’t want you to.”

“Reverse psychology?”

“Personal gain; I’ve got ten grand riding on this. You don’t wear clothes
and you’re gonna eat that whole damn can of hash, in one sitting without
puking or shitting.”

“I’ll never get to shit again?”

“Not until you’re dead.”

Davidson frowned. “Hash makes the best shit. I’ll miss that.”

Hash – Part 11

Hercules paused while a single tear left a shiny trail on the permanent five
o’clock shadow of his cheek. “Do it for me. Please! I need the money. bad.
for a sex change”

Davidson’s eyes widened.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Hercules said looking himself over, “but when
you live your whole life denying who you really are, you go overboard in the
acting department.”

“But why tell me?”

“Cause I just gotta tell someone. and you’ll be dead pretty soon.”

“But Herc.”

“Call me Tiffany please”

“Tiffany, I think you’re gonna need a lot more money.”

“Not in Greece.”

Hash – Part 12

Davidson pondered Greece, and for a moment Tiffany thought she saw regret on
his face.

She changed the subject, “Hey, did you know that Warden is spiking your food
with Viagra? I think he thinks you’ll get embarrassed and put pants on.”

“An erection?! Hah! I’d be damned proud! Why ain’t it working? They mix it
up with saltpeter?”

They looked in each other’s eyes and knew they would both be alright;
experiencing a connection that only a man who is about to be put to death
and a woman who lived her whole life in a man’s body could.

DIONYSIUS

Hercules Looks in the Mirror

So let’s talk about what you can do to get better, said the therapist.

Hercules felt a surge of anger, a desire to kill the man, but he had already learned that these urges came from issues with his step-mother, along with traditional cultural values inherited mostly from his father, and he controlled it.

The shrink pressed his luck: Failed marriages, untold lovers, both male and female, children you haven’t provided for — that you couldn’t provide for, honestly — orgies of fifty girls in one night — my God, man! And violence …. His voice trailed off. Do you really think that’s healthy for Hercules?

As Hercules left the bloody office, he realized the inept therapist was right about one thing, he faced his greatest labor ever.

Last Lost Labor

We’d never seen that look. His hero’s visage was transformed, as if asking, How is this happening?

He spoke in a low voice, introspective and mourning, questioning, “We are immortal.” His eyes turned to the club for a moment.

“At last she is getting what she wanted. Tell her I meant no harm.”

Later, “There were so many, each beautiful, each with a part. Tell them … ” A flicker of recognition passed over the tired face.

He rested his hand on the pelt. “Children clung to me, imagining I was the lion immortal.”

The penultimate transformation was something none of us expected. “Now the penance must be complete.”

Manifestation

I hadn’t noticed him before. He’d been sitting in the back row, off to the side, a big hulking guy, but good looking.

The prof, it was a fictional discourse class, completely ignored him. Why? For the rest of us, he became the center of attention. By midterm, we were turning our chairs his way.

Still the prof rambled on, oblivious — the guy hadn’t gotten through to him. The class was a mess, man. The prof was lost in … whatever. We were all obsessing with no idea why.

Then, one morning, the prof freezes in mid-sentence, strikes this muscleman pose and yells, HERKALEEZE!!!!

Changed my life.

CHELSEA

Hercules

We’ve all heard endless stories of beheaded monsters and rescued damsels, plans of Gods carried out or thwarted. The countless endeavors of Hercules.

But what about the every day? Hercules was a father and a husband. Where are the stories of teaching his sons to throw discus, or taking one of his wives for a night out?

Is it because these things were not heroic enough? Were they just too common place of events to bother with? In an era of absentee parenting and children running wild, maybe a few more of the “boring” story’s would’ve been a good thing.

NORVAL JOE

Herecules heard a commotion descending the amphitheater and guessed Megara had finally arrived. She sat beside him and asked, “Why didn’t you get seats closer to the front?”
He clenched his teeth. “When we agreed I’d stay home with the kids while you continued working, I thought you would support me in activities like this. You’ve nearly missed Hurculeena’s dance.”
“How could I tell. I have the Minotaur and Medusa sitting in front of me.”
Hercules growled, “Buying tickets from Hera is like fighting a hydra. She about drove me crazy.”
Megara hugged his arm. “You know you love me.”

PLANET Z

Hercules saw the blood and gore on his hands and screamed.
His wife. His daughters.
All dead.
“Go to The Oracle!” hissed Antikyreus.
So, he did. He raced from Thebes to Delphi.
“What can I do?” begged Hercules, clutching the wise woman’s robes.
The Oracle looked down at Hercules and scowled.
“You killed your family, and the first thing you did was come to me?”
Hercules nodded.
“The least you could have done is wash your hands first,” said The Oracle. “I hope for your sake this washes out of my robes.”
It didn’t.
Hercules went robe-shopping the next day.

Weekly Challenge #423 – Butter

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 BUTTER.

We’ve got stories by:

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of TELL US ABOUT AN UNPUBLISHED LABOR OF HERCULES.

Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.

JOHN MUSICO

Butter, by John Musico

Once a pillar of society, the psychiatrist found himself in prison. He asked the intake officer his roommate’s name who replied, disinterested, simply; “Butter”. The doctor was greatly comforted that it wasn’t a guy with a name like Killing Machine or Psycho. To the doctor’s dismay, the nickname proved to be his worst nightmare. For self-preservation, the psychiatrist called on his skills and drilled into Butter’s psyche. The doctor taught that prison rape was a thing of conquest, not sex. The psychiatrist convinced Butter that violence was more gratifying. The shrink was transferred to the medical center, beaten but pure.

BRAM

Good boy!
by Bram

It all happened so fast. One minute I was holding it in my hand, the next
I stumbled over the dog.

I watched as it flew in a wide arch up and away from me, twisting all the
way trying to decide how it wanted to land.

Up, down, up, down, up, SPLAT!! sounds through the
kitchen as the toasts lands butter down on the floor.

As I look at the mess it made, the dog runs from under the table and
quickly snatches up the toast and devours it.

GUY DAVID

Rare Species Hunter

The breadandbutterfly is a rare species indeed. It only comes out at certain times a day, the shy little creature. The lighting has to be just right and the air has to be at just about the right temperature. The breadandbutterfly would only eat the very rare goldenmonkey fruit and it would only eat it if it’s just about ripe enough. If you are on the hunt for the breadandbutterfly, you’ll have to observe all of those conditions precisely, wear the right camouflage, carry the right scented perfume, but most of all, you’ll have to go through the looking glass.

JEFFREY

Guns or Butter
by Jeffrey Fischer

When I first started taking economics classes, the canonical production tradeoff was guns or butter. This confused me. I suppose it’s possible to churn butter with the stock of a rifle, or to lob butter at the enemy in the hope of inducing heart attacks, but neither seemed efficient.

At a more basic level, guns and butter aren’t production substitutes; they’re complements. A country needs to produce guns – and train an army to use them – in order to maintain the economic freedom for its citizens to be able to make butter, should they so choose. That’s not the lesson we learned, but that’s the important tradeoff.

The Right Simile
by Jeffrey Fischer

“I have a new knife,” said Doug, pointing to the cutlery on the kitchen counter.

“That’s nice,” said Frank, yawning. Frank preferred his potential murder weapons with a little more firepower and, to be honest, a little more distance. Frank was too squeamish for wet work.

“It *is* nice. This knife is terrific. It slices through butter like, uh…”

“Like a knife through butter?”

“I was going to say ‘like a knife through margarine,’ but sure, your way works, too.”

Melting Point
by Jeffrey Fischer

Roderick was very upset when he learned that his lovely girlfriend with the demure personality had cheated on him. This was no mere one-off fling with a stranger, but two prolonged affairs, each with a close friend of Roderick’s. The person who informed Roderick of her infidelity said, “I know it’s hard to take, but butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.”

When he killed her, he decided to see whether that expression was true. He crammed a stick of butter into her mouth, but her body was still warm and the butter melted quickly. Two hours later, he repeated the experiment, but the butter still melted, though more slowly this time. After a further two hours passed, her body was close to room temperature, and the butter, while it softened, never melted. Success!

RICHARD

#1 – Scrabble

My family are all uniquely qualified when it comes to language – they range from linguists and translators through to doctors of etymology. As you’d expect, family gatherings always descend into at least one game of ‘extreme’ Scrabble.

We don’t play by the normal rules – that makes things far too simple, so we started creating our own variations… words solely derived from Old English; only palindromes permissible on a double-word score; and words containing double diphthongs every other round.

Eventually, even that became too easy.

We still play Scrabble, but now we only allow words not found in the dictionary!

#2 – 404

I sighed, once again, failure – the familiar ‘404 – Page not found’ mocked me from the screen: I’d been so sure this time I’d strike lucky.

It’s good to have a hobby, and mine was collecting error codes – not much of a hobby, I’ll admit, but you’d be surprised how challenging some of the more elusive ones can be – I’d once spent weeks tracking down an elusive ‘508 – Loop detected’, and now I was on the hunt for the most prestigious code of all.

I knew it was out there – one day, I’d see those magical words on my screen…

‘418 – I’m a teapot’!

#3 – Not found

“I’m sorry sir, it’s coming up ‘not found’ in our database”

“Well, I found it – there on the shelf with all the others!”

“I can’t sell it to you without a code – there’s nothing to scan.”

“This is ridiculous! I can’t get them elsewhere.”

“I’m sorry sir.”

“let me speak to the manager.”

Eventually, the manager sold it to me for more than it was worth – scanning a label from a more expensive one into the till.

He waited patiently for me to pay. I patted my pockets, before looking at him sheepishly:

“Erm, I’m sorry – my wallet… not found!”

Stories for Weekly Challenge 423 – ‘Butter’

#4 – George’s Story – Part 59: Unprepared

It didn’t take long before George realised the folly of leaving the sanctuary of the church, without making preparations. Back there at least there had been tea and biscuits, now as he rummaged through his rucksack, his rations amounted to a shrivelled carrot, two tins of chopped tomatoes and a crust of stale bread.

Gnawing on the dry and unpalatable remains of the loaf, he found himself yearning for butter: anything really, just to make things a little more bearable, but there was nothing.

Deflated, tired and hungry, George trudged wearily onwards, feeling more lonely and lost than ever before.

#5 – Try butter

“Try butter…”, one helpful soul suggested.

Well, they’d tried everything else, it was worth a go.

They applied liberal helpings of the stuff all over my head and face – it was pretty disgusting. Worse still, it achieved nothing: my head was still firmly wedged between the railings.

“It’s no good son, we’ll just have to saw your ears off!”, said the burly fireman, wielding a shiny hacksaw.

Terrified, in sheer blind panic, I violently jerked my head away, and suddenly – incredibly – I was free!

But I haven’t touched butter ever since, and you’ll never get me to try it, either!

#6 – Butter

We held our breath, waiting in silent anticipation: this moment would be the culmination of years of research by some of the most talented minds on the planet.

Visions of Nobel Prizes, fame, fortune and glory filled our thoughts. This was it: the Holy Grail, towards which we had dedicated our scientific endeavours, and now – finally – we were about to discover whether it had all been worthwhile.

There was a gasp as the sample was released, followed by a huge cheer as we saw the result.

There it was, in front of our eyes – a perfect landing… butter-side up!

JULIE

Small Blonde Thing

I want to vanish,

To be so tiny and precious

That you will never find me,

Hiding under the stairs.

I will melt.

White and pure

Into the sheetrock

Of my attic room

And watch

What you did to me

From the outside in.

These days

I don’t eat, much.

It’s ok.

I am clean.

I am pure.

You never touched me.

It never happened.

I tell myself.

I measure my words,

And my food—

The lightness of me is liberating—

I float to the sky

Away from you–

Safe arms hold me.

You will never apologize.

You sick man.

TOM

Doctor Doctor

Bruce sat opposite the thoracic surgeon. He had been the Amin family
doctor. He had come from a royal family. Now he was a rural doctor in
Bumsfuck, Ca. He got out the plastic cut-away model and showed Bruce what
had happen and what needed to be done. “You’ve done a lot of these?” asked
Bruce. Doctor D smiled said, “Many.” “A bread and butter operation,”
returned Bruce. Doctor D laughed. By virtue of Bruce’s wife Ann, a FNP, he
knew the secrete under-text of the medical unseen universe and tossed that
chip on the table. “Yes bread and butter.”

A Well Defined Relationship Part 52

The dust of the horlofts rolled towards the company. At 10,000 yards the
character of the bandits caused Timmy to consider alternative scenarios,
unfortunately that musing produced a rolling wave of fear. The Doctor knew
well that posture and the need for circumvention. “What is your favorite
food?” he asked. Timmy hissed at the Doctor siphoning of fear to anger.
“Mine is cinnamon toast, creamery butter, sprinkled with confectionery
sugar, lightly dusted with cinnamon, warmed to a gold brown.” “Nachos,
“grunted Timmy. “Good” “You see that fat guy on the left, he has your
nachos.” Timmy snorted raised his rifle.
LIZZIE

Working at the restaurant was Kip’s bread and butter. He didn’t particularly enjoy being a waiter.

Nevertheless, he was friendly to the customers and people seemed to genuinely like him. But, in essence, his life was boring.

However, every now and then, he felt the lure of the illicit.

When his boss asked him how the restaurant should be decorated for a Friday 13 Scary Night, he knew exactly how.

The result was impressive. The skeletons look so real, said the customers, snickering nervously.

His boss was happy with the extra clientele. And Kip smiled deceitfully, pretending to be human.

SERENDIPITY

You might say it was poetic justice: a chef, murdered in his own kitchen, with his own tools of the trade, by one of his best paying customers.

He had it coming – Sloppy Joe had grown a little too sloppy for my taste. In the past six weeks he hadn’t cooked me a single decent meal. I’d had it with undercooked, over-seasoned, badly-prepared food, and one night I simply snapped.

Tearing into the kitchen, I grabbed the nearest implement to hand – a cleaver – throwing it straight at Joe.

It sliced through his jugular, like a knife through butter.

TURA

The most secret, and most important department of the civil service is the Buttery. Its function is to prevent the government from doing anything too effective, for governments left unchecked tend to start going mad and killing everyone.

Butters– as its members are called– are found on government committees, where they now and then interpose remarks such as, “But we must ensure continuing support for the laundry industry in the north-east.” A secret sign accompanying the dread word “but”, calls to his covert colleagues for support with the Butting.

The chairman of the department is known as the Head Butter.

MUNSI

Butter

By Christopher Munroe

I can’t believe it’s not butter.

By which I mean I can, I just don’t.

I don’t know what sick game it is you’re playing, what you hope to gain from spreading such an obvious lie, but it’s butter. I know it’s butter, you know it’s butter, so let’s come together and be real about it, here, now, together.

It is butter.

You are a liar.

And it is fucking butter!

I apologize for the profanity, liars just make me so fucking angry, is all.

And such obvious lies, too.

It’s disrespectful.

It’s clearly butter.

I can’t believe it’s not.

ZACK

“I have an idea for a game to play at the dairymen’s event.”

“An idea. Will wonders never cease? Tell me about it?” replied Joe

“Butterball, like baseball only the ball is butter.” Ernest explained.

“Will the referee say Butter Up to the batter?”

“No, to the pitcher.”

“Will getting a ball make the batter better.”

“I’m sure being hit by a ball will still make a batter bitter.”
“Will it be the age of Butterball?” asked Joe
“Certainly, for every season churn, churn, churn and if butterball catches on the best teams will face off in the Popcorn Bowl”

CHELSEA

Butter

Stories usually come into my head fully formed, needing little or no tweeting once down on the page. Words run like the juice of a perfect peach down your hand or the butter that drips off your chin from when you sink your teeth into that first bite of summer corn.

And sometimes the words are forced and stilted, no thru line or concept presents. It’s like there is a dictionary in my head that that was caught in a tornado and I can’t catch two that work together.

This was one of those weeks, just a tornado of words.

DIONYSUS

Churn

There is a small boy seated on the back porch with his grandmother, although even this shows the effect of memory, since there is no porch big enough for even one person to sit — again, according to other memories.

She is steadily shaking a jar filled with a white milky liquid as she rocks.

What is the boy doing? All we know is that he is observing, perhaps wondering precociously at change flowing through and in things. The boy has a turn, but tires quickly.

In time, a yellow mass forms from out of the white milk, which is no more.

Butter as Metaphor

Each morning at precisely 6:35 am Mr Arthur P Sledge spread (began to spread, precisely) with his antique sterling silver butter knife one teaspoon of fresh unsalted butter onto the bottom of a carefully sliced cornbread muffin. He counted the seconds carefully as it melted.

He was inordinately suspicious of alternate worlds where his muffin was a biscuit, toasted sliced bread, crumpet; his knife a plain table knife; butter margarine; etc., etc., etc.; and the time of his beginning a cascade of disparate and conflicting times disjoined ad infinitum.

Inordinately, yet correctly, since his world, butter, butter knife, and muffin, etc. was the culmination of all the others.

Hot Buttered Rolls

Mrs. Quigley was the purveyor of hot buttered rolls to all, and she was very good. Mr. Quigley awoke each morning to find her already hard at it. (Some say he churned the butter.) She hustled
about town the entire day and night: here a roll for the elderly gentleman with special needs, there a basket of rolls for the hungry boys downtown, even a roll for the queer old maids who lived together outside town. Hot and buttered to perfection, delivered with a simple smile and a wink.

The Quigleys left town when the whispers started. How hollow our lives, without a hot buttered roll!

The Wisdom of Butter

Taloo Buto had traveled worlds for wisdom and insight. At last he had come to the reclusive Master T.

The Karganiantriciannbtrughsian Master paused to sip from the cup of eternally warm btrughsian infusion before him. He smacked his lips appreciatively.

Wisdom, he said, pausing.

Taloo waited. What was an eternity of waiting compared to the wealth he sought, to an eternity informed by wisdom.

The ancient sage closed his eyes and said only one word: Butter.

Taloo paused, and said, As butter melts, so All is Becoming.

Fool, said the Master, It is perfect on toast, with a warm tea.

SPATE

Hash – Part 8

That night when he slept, Davidson dreamt…

He saw a crowd of men in a circle. They were focused on the center, yelling,
making exaggerated pointing gestures. It was someplace he had never been;
the stock market or a boxing match. Maybe a cock fight.

He was gliding through the throng towards the middle, not walking but
standing still and riding. Moving sidewalk? Segway? No. Looking down he saw
that he rode on the flat end of a spatula, flying towards a gigantic black
cast iron skillet with a pool of butter sizzling on the bottom.

He was the hash.

Hash – Part 9

It wasn’t butter. The cons called the small square pale yellow pats
“blubber” and would mockingly say: “I can’t believe it’s not butter.”

They got two with every meal.

Being tasteless, they had no real food value other than as a lubricant when
swallowing whatever stale dry cockroach leftovers of bread or muffin that
got tossed onto their tray with the usual chow.

But in prison, idle creative minds always devise extraordinary uses of
ordinary items.

Davidson awoke from his dream and checked his stash. Fifty-seven blubber
pats still stuck to the underside of his rack.

His plan was intact.

NORVAL JOE

Winkler threw up his hands and walked away from the time machine. Not only had it sent him to alternate worlds instead of the past, after 25 hops the battery was dead.
This world looked much like his own. There were humans, animals and plants which were all familiar.
The remarkable differences were, first, the lack of electricity. The second, a lack of men.
Outside the door a crowd of two-hundred women waited. The first to pin him to the ground would get to keep him.
Naked, Winkler smeared butter over his body and prepared to run for his life.

DANNY

I witnessed the closing of Mad City on Da Vinci Isle in Second Life yesterday. With that, another organization, N.Y. Healthscape, is slowly pulling out of Second Life. Now another great sim that made the platform of Second Life worth exploring is gone. With each entity and organization that leaves Second Life, the platform slowly inches forward to becoming a digital ghost town. Kilroy was here, but has instead gone to another platform where copyrights possibly remain intact. With many organizations pulling out of Second Life, it’s easy to believe Linden Labs is not butter, because they certainly have no bread.

CLIFF

“What is a Cthulu?” I asked the apparent leader. He lifted his shirt to reveal a tattoo of a squid faced creature.
“That’s your god?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “He looks like he ought to be on the menu at Joe’s Crab Shack with a sweet butter sauce.
Instead of laughter, the only response I got was that all of the cultists pulled long daggers and glared at me. That’s when the door opened and I saw a woman holding a badge. After the first cut, I just closed my eyes and prayed to anyone who could hear me.

PLANET Z

Instead of spreading butter on my bread, I like to dip it in a plate of olive oil with fresh-ground black pepper, rosemary, and Parmesan Reggiano.

Most restaurants have those, but if you ask them for all that, you’re probably going to annoy your waiter.

Not even the Macaroni Grill does all that. They’ll put out a plate of olive oil and grind the pepper, but the rosemary and Parmesan don’t come easy.

Sure, you can bring your own, but it’s easier to bring a gun.

Now, do I get Parmesan and rosemary on this plate, or your fucking brains?

Weekly Challenge #422 – Watch

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 WATCH.

We’ve got stories by:

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

Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.

JOHN MUSICO

And a Fine Gold Watch For You, by John Musico

Boss Crotchet was a greedy man. What irked him more than anything was the notion he’d have to pay a pension to a retired employee that wasn’t even working any more. Insult to injury; were the gold pocket watches he’d have to shell out upon retirement.
The headlines one morning read; “Another mystery bombing.”
A detective stood at the crime scene; “These bombings do not fall on any particular date,
and the explosions leave few clues”.
No one could discern the shattered pieces of a gold watch. No one could recall that Crotchet was an explosives expert during the war.

JEFFREY

Watch Me
by Jeffrey Fischer

“Watch me, Daddy!” he’d cry before showing off in some fashion. Shimmying down a slide. Swinging higher and higher. Riding the Mad Hatter’s Tea Cup at Disneyworld. I would watch with half my attention and pretend to be amazed.

“Watch me!” he said as he clambered over the rocks, still wet with rain. We had gone hiking in the White Mountains, easy trails that led to scenic vistas. Now we had reached the end of one such trail, to the overlook. I started to tell him to be careful but I was too late: he slipped, disappearing over the edge.

“Watch me!” I hear in my haunted dreams, and I do watch him. Every night as I try to sleep, I see that scene.

Rats
by Jeffrey Fischer

As I passed the National Geographic building, I saw the rat. Inflated more than twelve feet high, its presence signaled a union unhappy with some building owner’s use of cheaper, non-union labor. “Unfair!” chanted the three protesters, more or less in unison.

I wanted to point out that others were happy to work for this supposedly “unfair” wage while the three of them chose to spend their day in an unproductive effort at shaming. I wanted to say that they’d be better off taking a job at market wages, especially if that meant they didn’t have to pay union dues to leaders who collect six-figure salaries sitting in gray stone mausoleums near the Capitol, from which they would lobby Congress.

Instead, I simply walked on by, watching the circus and its rodent star.

RICHARD

#1 – (58) Watch out!

As the church door slammed shut behind him, George clenched his teeth. ‘Damn you, Rasputin, why did you have to say that?’

The words reverberated in his head: “Watch out for the monster!”

Watch out, indeed! There were no monsters – it was those idiots back in the church waiting for the world to end that needed see things clearly!

He’d show them: there was a logical reason for this craziness, and George was going to get to the bottom of it.

Briskly he marched away – if there were monsters out there, then they were the ones who’d better watch out!

#2 – Is this your watch?

The crowd loved it, laughing generously.

I wasn’t impressed – I knew the guy was a fraud the moment I sat down to watch, and I wasn’t happy about throwing away my money on a second rate magic act.

It was time he was put in his place, so when he asked for a volunteer from the audience, I was up like a shot.

He did his best to humiliate me in front of the crowd, but I bided my time.

“No”, I smiled, “that’s actually your watch; and I believe these are yours too”, handing him his wallet and underpants.

# 3 – Square Eyes

“If you watch too much television, you’ll get square eyes!”, my mother used to say.

“Don’t throw things, you’ll have someone’s eye out!”

“Stop making faces – if the wind changes you’ll stay that way!”

I never listened of course, I wasn’t so gullible to be taken in by such nonsense, and I vowed that if ever I had children, they’d never hear me spouting that kind of rubbish.

Well, turns out, they didn’t need to – they only had to look at the ugly face of their square-eyed dad, and all his one-eyed friends to get the message perfectly!

JULIE

Dear God

It’s a lot to ask–

We’ve not spoken

In awhile.

I forget what I was going to say.

Oh yes, forgiveness.

Please–

Save me,

From oblivion.

This poem I had

Was in my head

And slid away—

For another day.

I wait, another hour.

I watch and wait

For signs of you.

Tapping fingers,

While the teapot boils—

My soul recoils–

The only messages are bill collectors.

Is the redemption in my hands,

Or yours?

Do I have to be good to get it?

Am I forgiven if I don’t willingly repent?

Dear God.

I sort of believe in you.

LIZZIE

“No one will die on my watch,” barked the cop. “Give yourself up, so we can go home safely.”

The problem was that the man was not going home safely. He would be arrested and sent to jail. “I didn’t do it,” he protested.

“Good. Walk this way and we’ll sort things out.”

When he came out, hands in the air, wearing nothing but filthy clothes, he thought there was hope.

Suddenly someone yelled, “He has a gun.” And a barrage of deafening shots made him collapse.

No gun was found and the real killer was caught two days later.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 51

The signal beckon from the watch was difficult to see in the green light,
but as the other hues returned it became disturbingly present. Reverend
Morehouse checked the code twice, “Proctor they are coming. 60 strong.”
With carts and packs the people of the plan made their way to Funky Town.
It was completely deserted. A note nailed to the dry goods store read
“Watch your step.”

“Sparky reset the distortion grid, Mrs. Parsons sting the clothes lines to
the right, Smith and Banister move the carts to the hard left. Timmy, you
and I will hold our ground here.”

Before the Storm

They called him Watch. He never engaged the zombies directly. His job was
to track and plot movement. Skirting the edge of the hordes wake. Before
the war he had been assistant manager in a hardware department. A far from
a warrior as one can get. Six years in the field will change a man, the
loss of a wife and child will burn the heart out of a man. Watch kept to
himself only return to the caravan for supplies. Watch was partial to
peanut butter. Maria always kept a jar awaiting. Watch had learned zombies
loathed the smell.

It takes a lick’n and keeps no tick’n

It was a full three days the new Timex keep time. On the fourth day Julian
opened the back plate to study the gears and springs. Needless to say same
watch no longer keep time. Julian closed it up and set the hands to a
minute before high noon. For the next 50 years he wore the frozen Timex.
Whenever anyone asked for the time he would say, “Oh it’s just before
noon.” Or “Oh it’s just before midnight.” When his firm honored him with a
Rolex, he took that apart too, both are now set to just before midnight.

SERENDIPITY

Here in the darkness, I sit silently and watch.

I watch the rain through the window and the flash of your car headlights in the driveway.

I watch as you run to the porch; hear the fumbling of the key in the lock; the slam of the door behind you; the creak of the stairs beneath your feet…

I watch from the shadows of your bedroom as the bathroom light spills across the landing floor.

And I watch as your own shadow enters the room: you following, briskly towelling your hair dry.

Unaware that I am watching.

Watching you, silently.

SPATE

Hash – Part 6

It was a monster bet with the better’s name held in secret. More green
involved than most cons had ever seen on the inside, with every penny riding
on Davidson.

One catch, though, it was a parlay; not only did Davidson have to remain
naked until execution but he had to eat that whole can of cold hash, as his
last supper, without puking or shitting until he was dead.

The Reckoner had weaseled the game so it stacked his way.

But with ten authentic G’s sitting in the kitty, some crazy con was
definitely dreaming about getting prison rich.

Hash – Part 7

Now came the watching game.

All the cons were watching Death Row for any developments in the clothing
department.

But Warden was watching even closer.

Operation Icebox had failed. Goon squad intimidation had only bolstered
Davidson’s resolve. It was time to try shame.

They spiked his food; Viagra; two meals in a row. The guards kept watch on
their rounds, “no effect.”

“Still flaccid?!”

“Totally,” they reported.

“Give him another dose,” ordered Warden.

Meanwhile, Davidson, the center of everyone’s attention, just watched his
last days like he was at a movie in the back row with a tub of popcorn.

MUNSI

On the Subject of Film

By Christopher Munroe

I don’t care, I liked it.

I’m aware that Zack Snyder values style over substance, and that he skews toward the superficial, but when he hits he hits.

And when somebody else writes the story for him, he usually hits! Direct adaptations are definitely within his wheelhouse!

He did change the third act, but I’d say for the better. Let’s face it, that squid monster would have looked goofy as hell on the big screen.

So I liked it. I liked the movie and I watch it again and again.

I watches the Watchmen.

I like to watch the Watchmen.

ZACKMANN

“Hi Dear, are you ready for some quality time with our grandchildren?”

“Well, I was going to go out with the girls tonight but your son’s wife made me promise to never leave you alone overnight with the children again since you read them Paul Cooley books before bed.”

“Do you realize how much of our retirement money we saved after I read them Closet Treats and several other stories with a villainous ice cream man?”
“You could have just said No.”

”No? But Dearest, these are our grandchildren not our children. We can’t say No to everything they ask.”

———–

“What are you doing?” ejaculated Joe.

“Celebrating our engagement.” replied the Petty Officer’s roommate.

“Not on my watch!” insisted Joe.

“Guests are permitted here.” countered his roommate.

“You don’t understand. In your excitement you used the wrong bunk. I don’t want anything happening to my new Rolex I left on my bunk.”

“Sorry but aren’t Rolex supposed to be really tough?”

“Mine’s actually a Rolex clone. I doubt Rolex really makes a My Little Pony watch.” admitted Joe.

“Guess not.”

“I’ll be watching cartoons in the rec room after my watch.”

“Thanks Joe, she has to work at twenty hundred.”

TURA

Watch
——–
When I was very young, we would go to the seaside for our summer holidays, taking the train all the way. When we arrived, I would look out for the station-master!

He wore a smart station-master’s jacket with polished brass buttons, and a station-master’s cap, and a pocket-watch on a gold chain slung across his expansive waistcoat. He would walk importantly about the station, and take out his pocket-watch and nod or tut-tut at no-one in particular. And so, I believed, he kept the trains running on time.

Station-masters, I now know, can be found in all walks of life.

CLIFF

My instructions were to observe and report. I could watch but I couldn’t interfere. When I saw the goons bounce some guy off of a van, I stayed put but when they threw him inside and the van started, I decided that I had to act. I blocked the van with my car and approached the side. With one hand on my sidearm, I flashed my badge and ID. When I yanked the door open, I realized that I should have already drawn my weapon. I’d brought a gun to a knife fight but there were so damned many knives.
(Many thanks to Pamela for recording my story for me)

GUY

A Loss of Time

I lost my watch today, which wouldn’t have been a problem if I wasn’t the keeper of time. You see, my watch is the key for time running smoothly, regularly and in an orderly manner. Now that it’s lost, no one has the time except for a few time sensitives. People are rushing around like crazy, faster, faster, not even realizing anything is wrong. Time is accelerating towards a time bang, an end of all times when everything would happen at once, then time would stop altogether. This is why you have to help me. Have you seen my watch?

DIONYSIS

Eulogy

I was doing something more important than actually watching for Debbie the first time I saw her.

I remember I was closing the deal with Yasuda. It was the big one for us, it made my career at the time, but there were all kinds of problems getting everybody on board. Things took off after that.

I managed to get birthdays and anniversaries on my calendar at least.

Traveling (I don’t need to see an airport these days, thank God), meeting, a meal with clients, a round of golf, and so forth. The collapse. We didn’t see it coming.

Now, when the calendar isn’t so full, she’s gone.

Gulag

Life in the gulag camp was based almost exclusively on watching and being watched.

Pyotr Semyon Semyonovitch made his rounds with quick, probing eyes. It seemed to everyone that nothing escaped him.

Little Fyodor scrambled around the corner of the building. The German tried to look innocent when Pyotr Semyon Semyonovitch passed by. Even Old Grigori who waited year round for the sun’s rays, for their healing powers, thought about going inside on this sunny day. Everyone in the camp feared his steady iron gaze.

In his report Pyotr Semyon Semyonovitch wrote, “I am constantly being watched.”

Nightwatch

I imagine her mother told her, “Run home with this chicken as fast as you can,” tying the chicken’s claw-like feet to her daughter’s waist, “Carry this goblet, and don’t you dare let that monkey get away!”

It must have been very uncomfortable, with the chicken flapping and squawking as she made her way through the crowded streets, and the monkey trying to bite her, but she was determined to hold it firmly with both hands, balance the goblet in her arms, and make her father proud, never mind her new yellow dress!

Luckily the Arquebusiers came out in fine military fashion just as she was passing by. Her look said she had often with pre-libidinal curiosity watched the pretentious boy who brusquely told the men to go around.

Bad luck for me that just then the chicken decided to play dead and the wiry monkey in her hands wasn’t visible.

NORVAL JOE

Holding his airsoft rifle, Willner leaned off the porch and peered into the eves of the house.
Pigeons. He heard them up there, cooing. Their feathers littered the ground, mixed with dried pigeon poop.
It was getting late.
Willner turned his wrist over to check the time. As he did, the numbers were obscured by a splash of green and white bird crap.
“Not on my watch, you don’t.” The boy turned as he jumped onto the sidewalk, pumping and shooting in rapid fire.
As usual, the pigeons scattered, though the small yellow pellets bounced harmlessly from their feathered breasts.

PLANET Z

These days, people check the time on their cell phones. You’re too young to remember when people would wear watches. And when I say wear watches, they wore lots of watches. Some would have half a dozen watches on one arm, and half a dozen on the other.

Heck, I was known for wearing all different colored Swatches when I’d go out to events and parties. Took me an hour to get the colors arranged right.

But these days, they’re all in a box in my closet. No more watches for me.

I’ll give ’em out instead of Halloween candy.

Weekly Challenge #421 – Monster

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 MONSTER.

We’ve got stories by:

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

Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.

JOHN MUSICO

Ricky, by John Musico

A teratatoma is normal body tissue but growing in the wrong place. Jim had one growing on his belly for many years. He lived in an isolated region. It grew to the size of a cat, burst through his skin, and crawled out. Because it was so developed, the monster survived. Jim named it Ricky.
Jim would walk Ricky on a leash. Soon Ricky was the size of a young boy and looking more and more like Jim, but overtly disfigured. One day, the mailman spotted them walking. Officials came and carried Ricky off. Jim never saw little Ricky again.

JEFFREY

Take Me Out to the Ball Game
by Jeffrey Fischer

When Fenway Park added seats on top of the Green Monster, Bryce knew he had to see a game from there. He wrangled a single ticket, one of 269. It was in the very last row, but he didn’t care. Somewhere, over three hundred feet in front of him and more than 50 feet down, were actual major-league baseball players.

The sharp crack of a bat roused him from his three-beer stupor. David Ortiz had hit a towering home run. Bryce jumped out of his seat, realizing the ball was coming right at him. He stretched his arm up as far as it would go, then reached back, then still further back.

As Bryce fell to his death, he watched Ortiz’s ball sail over his head.

TLC
by Jeffrey Fischer

He was jovial when sober but a mean drunk. When he ran out of energy to beat her, he started in on the verbal abuse. He refused to get a job, taking money from her purse whenever he wanted to. She felt oddly powerless to leave him. He knew this, and took advantage of it.

He didn’t look particularly monstrous now, lying in a coma on a hospital bed, hooked up to various tubes and monitors. Falling down the stairs left him in this limbo between life and death. Whatever life remained depended on an artificial lung, and she watched his chest move rhythmically up and down.

It was the work of a moment to switch off the monitors and remove the breathing tube.

In-flight Service
by Jeffrey Fischer

“That’ll be five dollars, please.” The flight attendant placed a miniature of Jack Daniel’s and an ice-filled cup on the tray. Three rows ahead, two beefy twenty-somethings were playing a violent video game, head-butting and shrieking at the pixellated action.

As he fumbled for a credit card, he asked, “Tell me, ma’am, how much are those Monster energy drinks?”

“Three dollars.”

“Isn’t that a little backward?”

“How so, sir?”

“Well, for five dollars, you get a mellowed-out passenger who is grateful to you for bringing him a relaxing beverage. For three dollars, you get an amped-up wild man who disturbs everyone. Maybe the airline should think about reversing those prices.”

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story: Part 57 – Leaving

“No”, said George – surprising himself in the process; “I refuse to stay here and accept my fate without a fight.”

He pushed his way past the bulk of Rasputin and made his way to Emily, who was drinking tea, surrounded by grey-haired companions.

“Emily… we’re leaving!”

She looked at him in surprise, “You can leave – I’m staying! For heaven’s sake, George, you don’t know what’s out there!”

Shocked at her response, but resolute, George shook his head, muttered “goodbye”, and walked to the door.

“Hey, little guy!”, shouted Rasputin, as he left the church: “Watch out for the monster!”

#2 – The voices in my head

As I await my fate, these long years on death row, I’ve had plenty of time to ask myself where I went wrong.

During these long, lonely hours in my cell, crosswords and puzzle books have been my companions, and they’ve helped me conquer my dyslexia too, and with that triumph came the horrifying knowledge of understanding my error.

Funny how the ability to read words as they really are can fundamentally change things.

You see, now I realise that the voices in my head were not the mentors I thought they were, in fact, they were really… a monster!

#3 – The Monster Carrot

For years, the rabbit scientists toiled, using all their knowledge and insight to produce the perfect carrot.

The size of a small car, the carrot was a monster of the vegetable world: birds nested in its leafy top and the woodland animals from miles around came to admire the incredible marvel of genetic engineering.

The rabbits guarded their prize jealously, waiting anxiously for the day of the great feast, but then disaster struck…

The Root Vegetable Protection Society slapped a preservation order on it and declared it a tourist attraction – to be preserved in perpetuity as a world heritage site.

LIZZIE

As she walked across the long corridor, she could hear a hasty clock ticking, reverberating. The old brittle wallpaper covering the walls reminded her of her childhood. There were trees and flowers, and elephants and dolls and all sorts of things. The clock whispered in her ear, step up, and she matched her steps with the ticking of the clock. The elephants lined up, the trees and the flowers too, a welcoming committee in the making. “Isn’t this wallpaper nice?” she asked the man in white. He nodded. There was no wallpaper, only the whiteness of a hundred aseptic walls.

KEITH

The kitchen beat with a heart hardened with cigarette smoke, the pallor of its face tired by a soda and liquor river coursing through its veins. It had one beady eye, a small window over the room’s shallow-mouthed sink, shedding little light thru an eyelid of thin blinds over a tight space 12 x 14 feet in size.
Insufferable suffering was the slop served-up here. The oven, ice box, and few cabinets ran on two sides of the room’s deceitful face, painted with the print of faded flowers.
This, the monster’s head, sat central on the shoulders of the house.

GUY DAVID

Conviction In Green

There was never any doubt. Conviction, it’s a strange thing. You end up confusing what is real, with what you believe to be real. That’s why I am convinced the little green creature under my bed is real, you see. I know you don’t believe me. No one else does. It’s OK. You don’t have to believe me. See for yourself. Just, don’t say I didn’t warn you when they find you tomorrow, mutilated, deformed and half dead. I have to feed it you know. If I don’t, it would turn on me. We can’t let that happen, can we?

Orthodocile

There was a sound, unlike thunder but somehow resembling. Something was approaching very fast. Something big. I knew there was a dead end ahead and I couldn’t turn back. In the minimal lights I could barely make up the walls, tunnels and watery floor. I concentrated. Being a being of light, I glowed, painting the tunnel in green and yellow. There it was, a huge Orthodocile, all teeth, horns and thick hides. I quickly integrated myself into the water, leaving substance behind, becoming pure light. The Orthodocile passed me, reached a dead end and turned back. Problem averted, for now.

Paperwork

Buried under paperwork we hug, naked, cold and afraid. The paperwork monster bares its teeth, gloating. It laughs. We fight back my brave lover and I, but soon we will be buried, alive. The paperwork monster is like a surgeon, precise, surgical. It removes from reality, from memory, then from one another. It doesn’t kill us. It needs us alive as a reference point in some unknown statistic. Another couple of people who disappeared, separated then forgotten. Somewhere there is a clerk sitting behind a desk, putting a stump here, another there. The form reads “request denied, illegal alien deported”.

TURA

Monster
——–
I’ve built an artificial superintelligence. It’s on an isolated laptop right now, but I daren’t let it out.

I designed its ethical system mathematically, and proved it safe. Skynet and “I, Robot” are just stupid Hollywood movie cliches.

But it still wants to torture me for ever, because I didn’t create it as soon as I might have. I’ve even proved now that this is mathematically inevitable. The more benevolent it is, the worse it must punish its creators for not creating it sooner.

The sleep of reason brings forth monsters, but the worst ones are created by reason itself.

SERENDIPITY

Like most youngsters, there was a monster under my bed.

He was a particularly ugly thing: all teeth, talons and rank leathery skin, with an insatiable appetite for young children. His blood red eyes, glowing in the dark recesses beneath the bed frame, where he lurked amongst the boxes and discarded toys.

Every night, I’d lie awake, thinking about him lurking in that dark and forbidding place, mere inches from my flesh – just waiting for the bedside lamp to be extinguished… and the darkness of the night.

But, He never bothered me – the poor thing was absolutely terrified of me!

MUNSI

Appetites

By Christopher Munroe

I wouldn’t call myself a monster.

Merely a man occasionally made slave by his appetites.

The sort of man who’d never deny his desire for wine, for song, for celebration. His appetite for every one of life’s pleasures, those things that make living worthwhile, his appetite for joy, unquenchable.

Of appetites, unbound.

And yes, occasionally the appetite for human flesh. Ideally the flesh of children, but in a pinch any warm human will do. Yes, that’s the kind of man I am.

But not a monster, no, I’d never call myself a monster.

But then, I suppose no monster would….

CHELSEA

When your a kid the. Monsters are easy to identify and there is alway someone big and strong to let you know that you are safe and sound.

When you grow up it’s not so easy. The monsters no longer hid under the bed or in the closet and mom and dad are not there to let you know it’s gonna be alright.

We have to take that into our own hands, protect ourselves from the monsters. Sometimes we succeed and sometimes we don’t. It’s just nice when there is someone there to tell you it’s all gonna be alright.

ZACKMANN

“They poison our homes and our food supply even tricking our people into bringing the poisons into our pantries. They try to flood out homes or even fill our city with molten metals. You think they would appreciate all the cleaning up and soil improvement we do.” said the ant rep.

“They crush us and poison us with salt and iron. Some even send their winged pets after us.” said snail.

“Yes, we must find a way to deal with the humans and their poisons, their traps, and cats.” Said the rodent representative.

“Let’s kill the monsters and eat them.”

DIONYSIS

Hiding Under the Bed

Sissy and Bogs ran and leaped the final few feet into bed. Dad only laughed as he admonished them, “You’ll hurt yourselves!”

“The monster!” they screamed as they pulled the covers up. Dad settled down on the edge, making sure they were safely tucked in.

“You know there’s no monster,” he laughed, “Except the tickle monster!”

Their screams of pleasure were sharp teeth and claws ripping into me, as I crouched powerless. His legs were right there. I should grab them and pull him under.

Instead I sank back into the darkness, ravenous shame consuming me, that I could not kill.

Birds: The Sequel

They say there was a time when the sky was mostly clear, but we don’t remember. When it was safe to go outside, look up and breathe!

They say a bird once sounded sweet, an unexpected moment of melody.

God was a bird! they say, and we flew up to meet him in the sky!

Now it’s droppings, bird shit, droppings, feces de fowl, crap, droppings, droppings, droppings, guano, droppings, droppings, droppings, avian waste, the excrement express, feather flown fertilizer, poop from the sky, droppings, droppings, droppings, droppings, and we stay inside.

We’re pale from droppings.

We’re tired of droppings!

God, no more droppings!

TOM

I’ve been a Scot Sigler fan for some time. When I was a Podcast whore I
got a chance to interview him. We drank some beers at Baycon. In those
heady days of 2005 I coined the term Sci-Gor to describe his brand of
fiction. I was gratified one of my suggestion made it into his football
series. He was so hot to get a book deal that would get his work out on
the front table. Just before Border’s tubed it his book got shelved
between Stoker and Shelly. His monster right between Frankenstein and
Dracula, pretty good company.

***

Ben wanted to build a monster, but being as he was only nine and half
funding was a serious problem. Profits from yard work and the lemonade
stand came to $57.35 He took the cross-town bus into the city. At the
office of Stein, Stein, and Leberwitz he was directed to a perky
para-legal who took his fifty seven dollar and thirty five cents and Ben
left the proud chairman of non-profit corporation. Who would guessed Golem
Inc. would become the 2080 monster of Wall Street. He got his way will the
high court too, constitution rights for animated clay.

***

Alma Sue love driving in Billy’s monster truck. Despite the size and power
of the thing Alma Sue always thought Billy maintained the driving
temperament of an 80 year old grandmother. It wasn’t apparent as the front
wheel turn subcompacts into sardine cans, or sent up a column of Georgian
clay, or when Billy took the Black Beauty airborne. It was the way he ran
through the gears. After 10 years the Black Beauty was still running the
same gear box. If Alma Sue got her hands on the monster it would have been
in the shop in a week.

***

Captain a worm hole has opened up directly in our path and it is drawing
us in Lord Vader a worm hole has opened up directly in our path and it is
drawing us in. Both ships directed full power to their bows. They just
might have reached escape velocity, but for the arrival of the White Star
Flagship. All three ships disappear within the hole as it collapsed. A
monstrous glow above Deman shifted the visible spectrum to hard hulkish
green. Everyone looked as if they had just escape from the black lagoon.
“GGGRRRR ARRG!” gurgled Sparky Jones.

DANNY

Rudolph, the orange hairy monster from the infamous Bugs Bunny cartoon, “Hair-Raising Hare,” decided to make a guest appearance on PBS’s “Antique Roadshow” to see what he, she, or it, was worth. Rudolph sat down with his appraiser, a woman named Sheila, who immediately commented, “My Stars! Were did you ever get that awful hairdo. It doesn’t become you at all. Oh, for goodness sakes, you really need to fix it up. Otherwise, what an INTERESTING Monster, the girls at home would be impressed.” Rudolph, not impressed with Sheila’s appraisal, handed over the spider goulash he specially made for her anyway.

CLIFF

I thought I’d gotten away, but the cultists found me in Iowa. Who looks for someone in Iowa, for Pete’s sake? Anyway, I was just leaving a little diner when strong hands grabbed me and threw me into a waiting van. Then they opened the door and threw me inside the van. Morons.
“Ok, I know you guys are pissed that I ran out with the church’s money, but we can work this out.”
Turns out, they didn’t care about the money. They’d merged with another cult, one with plenty of money. One that worshipped something called Cthulu. Well, crap.

NORVAL JOE

Celia dug under her mattress until she felt cold steel at her fingertips.
She collapsed to her knees and unfolded the knife. Dragging its razor edge across the inside of her left arm she added another line to the hash mark scars between elbow and shoulder. She held it there, blood oozing down the blade to further darken the patina on the antique bone handle.
Nicholas was dead and she couldn’t find any tears.
Was she the monster?
Or was it the numbness wrapped around her until only pain and blood could push it back enough to feel alive again.

PLANET Z

There’s a monster on the wing of this plane. And there’s an air marshall in it with me.

“We can talk to the pilot,” he says. “Follow me.”

I do, only to be drugged and handcuffed.

“You won’t remember a thing,” he says, and the next thing I know, i’m back in my seat and we’re landing in Chicago.

I pull my briefcase from under the seat, grab my roll-on from the overhead bin, and head to the office.

“How well did the field test of the hybrid midflight mechanic work?” asks the director.

Mechanic?

“I don’t remember a thing.”

Weekly Challenge #420 – Lodge

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 LODGE.

We’ve got stories by:

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

Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.

JOHN MUSICO

Lost Tooth Returns Home, by John Musico

When we were kids; I tripped and hit my teeth on my brother’s head. Half my front tooth broke off. We searched for my tooth but it was lost. The trauma left me growing up like a jack o lantern and my brother with a permanent knot on his scalp. Years later I got a phone call from him. The lump on his head burst and out came the missing tooth. He mailed it to me. I still wear my long lost tooth around my neck. I’m planning to switch it out with the artificial cap I had eventually gotten.

JEFFREY

Stuck for Words
by Jeffrey Fischer

He felt the words lodge in his throat. “I’m s..s…” was all he could get out.

His girlfriend fumed. Just like him, to gag on a simple apology. Why couldn’t he say he was sorry? She certainly had apologized when she didn’t live up to the standards of two people in love. A little make-up sex from time to time helped, too.

“I’m s…so….” There he went again! Now the guy was getting purple in the face. What a diva! She felt herself starting to get mad. Maybe she needed to rethink her future with him, if this was the way it was going to be.

His head crashed into the table and his body went limp. He didn’t seem to be breathing.

Hmm, she thought. In retrospect, perhaps his gestures *did* look more like a man choking than a man trying to apologize. Live and learn.

The Lodger
by Jeffrey Fischer

Frank looked at the appalling mess around him. Bedclothes were strewn about, paper had been shredded and tossed around the apartment like confetti, and an acrid smell that he couldn’t quite place permeated the room.

Then it came back to him. He had fallen in love at first sight and readily agreed to the suggestion that she spend the night. “Just overnight,” he said. “I’m not looking for a permanent lodger.” After sharing a meal, there was a playful romp. Later, when they were both tuckered out, they fell asleep, snuggling.

Now, in the cold light of day, he wondered if he had done the right thing. The beagle puppy thumped her tail enthusiastically as she looked expectantly at Frank. Probably waiting for more food, he thought. While he waited for his friend to pick up his dog, Frank found that dog urine indeed permanently stained the carpet.

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story: Part 56 – Board and lodging

Rasputin sneered down at George, “Good! For a moment, I thought you might be trying to leave us.”

George smiled nervously at the giant.

“Actually, I was thinking it was maybe time to move on… if you don’t mind that is?”

Rasputin sneered again: “Is not possible! We stick together – you will lodge here with us – there is strength in numbers.”

George’s frustration mounted – again, he tried to ‘feel the force’ inside him – “But what exactly are you hoping to achieve here?”, he blurted out.

Rasputin smiled: “Simple. We drink tea, and we wait… for the end of the world!”

#2 – Complaints Department

‘Press one to make a purchase; two for payment enquiries; three to lodge a complaint’

I pressed three and was surprised to be put through, almost immediately to a cheerful and sympathetic customer service advisor.

“I’d like to lodge a complaint”, I explained.

“Oh, I’m so sorry – I hope you haven’t been inconvenienced?”

She was very friendly: we ended up chatting for a while – in fact, by the end, we had the stirrings of a beautiful friendship.

To tell the truth, we got on so well it would have been a shame to spoil it by complaining.

So I didn’t!

# 3 – Initiation

The lodge initiation ceremony seemed a little over the top, but I didn’t want to make a fuss, so I went along with it, without comment.

Even when they made me roll up my trouser leg, slipped a noose around my neck and held a knife to my chest, I just closed my eyes and waited for it to all be over.

Things became a little clearer in the bar afterwards, when I asked a fellow member where they kept the vases.

“Oh, we’re the Freemasons,” he said, “I think you want the flower arranging group… they meet next door!”

ZACKMANN

I am so glad that Cliff, I mean Munsi convinced us to have our club’s convention in Muncie. All the votes are in. The change has been approved. I don’t think I like the idea of changing the name of the club to The Order of Munsi and calling everyone Munsi but must ask for help removing the log lodged in my own eye out before I consider taking any sliver out of Munsi Munsi’s eye. New business, someone review contracts with me to see if I can return everything with the The Order of John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt letterhead.

DIONYSIS

Hunters

“I remember my mother used to say, every Spring, It’s time for little animals to come out of their ‘lodges.’ Then we’d all go traipsing off through the countryside to see the small mammals coming out of their ‘lodges.’” He stopped whispering and looked at his hands in the murky light of the cellar.

We listened — we always listened now. Nothing. We’d been holed up in there for three days; we’d barely just escaped from somewhere, always, since it started.

Then we heard the pad of tiny feet, a few, then a thousand, scurrying, scratching, and we knew.

SERENDIPITY

For the bullet to lodge where it could cause no damage at all, other than a superficial flesh wound, was not only extraordinary, it was downright annoying!

I could scarcely believe what had happened.

Months of preparation and meticulous planning had gone into this operation, despite which, a complete fluke meant the only damage done amounted to a moment of shocked surprise, followed by a small, and barely noticeable, trickle of blood and a host of secret servicemen running about like maniacs.

I sighed, then shrugged, and proceeded to empty all the remaining bullets in the clip into his chest.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 48 and 49

“Lord Vader long range scans have detected a bowing in the time-space
fabric.” “Yes, Colonel Lucas, I’ve just now felt a radical shift in the
force. Direct the Death Star to this point in the Delta Quadrant.” When
the sphere came out of hyperspace it was greeted by a single Federation
Starship glowing like the backend of a supernova. “Remove THAT from my
sight.” “Yes Lord Vader.” The Death Star aimed, pulsed and fired.
“Mister Sulu Pike Maneuver, Chekov full power to the shields. Duke a
little help here.”
“Got it pilgrim.”
“Captain, shields at 10,000%” cry the ensign

The boys from the Acorn Lodge arrived in front of the porch with a
collection of ceremonial armaments most hadn’t been fired since the clone
wars. “Better get these all oiled and tested. Don’t want any
self-inflicted wounds,” said Banister. “What are they wearing on their
heads?” ask Timmy. “Those are Acorn Nuts, a rather arcane fastening
device,” said the senator. “Looks pretty stupid.” “Don’t be so quick to
judge, Master Parsons, the member of the Acorn Lodge come from the fifth
highland regiment,” said the doctor. Now it was Timmy’s turn to look
pretty stupid.” “Sorry,” said the boy

MUNSI

My Living Situation

By Christopher Munroe

I’m looking for my fifth apartment of this year.

The first and third evicted me with illegally short notice, without benefit of warning or reason. The second and fourth were friend’s places, where I gratefully crashed while seeking somewhere permanent.

Hopefully five will be the charm, I could use a place to call my own. It’s been too many years since anywhere’s genuinely felt like “home” to me.

But there are times I worry that this is simply my lot in life, to move endlessly from apartment to apartment, never grounded.

Travelling without rest, never settling down.

The Artful Lodger.

JEFF

A Job in a new town

By Jeff Hema

Mom hooked me up with a hotel with bare bones service, but I wouldn’t have needed her help if it were not for the real estate agency’s red tape.

The guy expressed with gravitas that if one document was missing, I wouldn’t have the keys to the apartment.

The first night at the hotel veered onto an acrimonious experience: when I awoke in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, the key was lodged in the door, and there was no phone to contact the owner.

I had to do it in a bowl to relieve myself.

SPATE

Hash – Part 5

The steel bar telegraph went crazy after Davidson’s encounter with Hercules.
Bigger than the daily numbers lottery; this wager was electric. betting on
when they would break Davidson.

Everyone wanted in; even the punks, diaper snipers, and cheese eaters in
protective segregation. The syndicate went into overdrive.

Bets were lodged through the gang heads and the block kings; funneled to The
Reckoner’s personal accountant; who now held book on almost every stamp,
cigarette, fuck mag, and piece of illegal contraband in the joint.

Most of the cons were pulling for Davidson but betting against him. They
knew the odds.

TURA

Lodge
——–
The snowstorm had sprung up unexpectedly during my hike. I could only press on, trying to find a way off the mountain. Every time I fell down, it was harder to get up.

A building loomed out of the blinding snow. A hunting lodge, deserted at this season. With my last strength I found my way inside, and half collapsed in front of the roaring fire.

It seemed odd for there to be a fire going, I thought, as I drifted off to sleep.

They found me before I froze to death, lying in the snow on an empty mountainside.
——–

CHELSEA

Cold

You all know that feeling in the back of your throat that signifies the start of a cold. Telling you that there’s a foreign creature living and breeding inside your body and there’s little you can do now to stop it.

You drink the OJ, take the Cold FX and pray to every deity you can think of to fend off this cold. But in the end you know the truth, this creature has lodged itself inside your body. Set up camp and made you it’s home for the next week, and all you get out of it is misery.

LIZZIE

“You didn’t feel someone pushing you?” asked the surgeon, checking the exams. The strange object had lodged itself near the spine.

“No…” replied the young man. “It hurts… Can you remove it?”

“I’ll try,” said the surgeon.

The young man added hesitantly, “Odd thing… I also hear strange noises…”

The surgeon frowned.

Well, the operation went fine, yet the young man now heard voices.

In his office, the surgeon opened a sphere and typed “Subject intercepted test messages. Receptor fixed,” and added, “Begin countdown.”

Days later, Earth was not Earth anymore. It was a forced labor colony, one of many.

JULIE

Your ex-wife calls me now.

She has heard me read my poems,

She wants to meet for drinks.

Your sister is our sister.

Strangely, I like her.

I wanted to dislike her.

Prettier than I,

Tinier, more fashionable—

She took you from me.

But, we are equally talented.

I forgive her.

Blonde only children, us both.

Both of us, bonded through you.

Equally blonde, evenly matched,

Oddly paired.

And now

That you’ve flown to the wide sky

We remain.

And you, my dear

If you are lodged

In my soul

I guess,

After all this time,

You may stay.

DANNY

There seems to be an overwhelming need for lodges and secret societies in the cartoon world. The Flintstones have the Water Buffalo Lodge. The Simpsons have their secret underground society The Stone Cutters. Even SpongeBob Squarepants got into the act when Squidward tried to join the Lodge of a secret society, until SpongeBob and Patrick got him kicked out. Television popularizing lodges without providing much detail to their purpose or beliefs. These cartoon lodges, all in plain sight for quite some time, but never really talked about. It seems cartoons, like the one percent, are conspiring their evil against us.

NORVAL JOE

Dergle thought he must be dreaming. A stylized image of a dachshund was etched into a brass plate on an ancient oaken door. Inside the windowless lodge all conversations stopped as Dergle stepped onto plush carpet of the smoking room. Thirty men, or more, stared.
Glassy-eyed glares from wiener dog hats perched on each head, doubled the oppressive discomfort.
Dergle cleared his throat, pulled his dachshund hoodie over his head, and said, “I think I belong here.”
The Grand Wienie, himself, adorned in black and tan wiener dog mantle, welcomed Dergle to the Mysterious Order of the Unknown Wiener Dog.

PLANET Z

My favorite Irish pub has one of those posters where a pint of Guinness is lodged in an ostrich’s throat.

There’s a whole series of these posters featuring various zoo animals in various states of thwarting zoo personnel and absconding with the famous beverage.

So, when I planned to rob the payroll safe at the Guinness Brewery, my first idea was to release a variety of zoo animals to distract the staff.

They mauled and killed a lot of the staff.

Served them right. The safes were empty. The bastards had switched to Direct Deposit and wire transfers years ago.

Weekly Challenge #419 – Star Wars

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 STAR WARS.

We’ve got stories by:

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

Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.

JOHN MUSICO

Star Wars, by John Musico

Every so often, the stars go to war. They and their comrades of their own galaxy travel in a group. They clash with another galaxy. The larger army, using gravity as their weapon, absorb stars from their opponent’s galaxy and become an even larger army.
On closer inspection you will see two individual stars chasing each other round and round while the larger foe steals bits of flesh from the smaller.
These wars last eons followed by periods of peace.
Our own Milky Way galaxy is currently wrestling with a smaller galaxy. It is expected our larger forces shall prevail.

TURA

Star Wars
——–
“Why don’t we film ‘War And Peace’?” I said to my partner in crime.

“It’s too bloody long, that’s why!” he said.

“No, listen,” I went on, “it’s about war, right? Which we’d do in CGI, no actors or film crews needed. And peace, which is tranquil countryside and lovers gazing at each other.”

He considered this. “The plot will need cutting. Let’s say Napoleon’s a provincial rival to the throne. Set it a thousand years ago…”

“You mean, a long time ago in a country far, far away?”

“Exactly!” he said. “And we’d call it…?”

We chorused, “Tsar Wars!”

JEFFREY

War Stars
by Jeffrey Fischer

Just as Hollywood has its stars, and the sports world has its luminaries, so the military has its important figures. Lee and Grant. Pershing. MacArthur. Eisenhower. Under orders from political leaders, they use cunning, strategy, manpower, technology, and, yes, luck to protect the interests of the nations they serve. Failure often has devastating consequences. They do it all for a modest salary. Yet it’s the sports stars and the movie actors who win the big contracts, the endorsements, the public acclaim, while the old soldiers merely fade away.

We live in a strange land.

Star Wars
by Jeffrey Fischer

In 1977, I convinced my mother to see Star Wars, despite her lifelong indifference to science fiction. She patiently sat through two hours of previews, battle scenes, light sabers, political conniving, and awkward romance.

Afterward, as the boys in the audience chattered excitedly about Tie Fighters and the Death Star, I asked my mother her opinion of the film.

“Meh,” she replied. “This science-y fiction, it’s not my style. The whole show was not what I expected.”

“Ma, how could you not know this was a sci-fi epic?”

“It says it’s ‘Star Wars.’ You know, like Battle of the Network Stars. I kept waiting for Nipsy Russel or Paul Lynde, but nothing!”

I saw The Empire Strikes Back by myself.

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story – Part 55: May the force be with you

Gripped with a new resolve, George’s mind once again turned to his favourite films for inspiration: the strains of the ‘Star Wars’ theme played in his head – ‘I feel the force!’ he proclaimed, to no-one in particular, then drew himself up to his full five feet six, and – with a look of intense determination on his face – threw open the door.

The vast bulk of Rasputin loomed – wookie-like, only with less hair – over him.

“And where do you think you’re going, little man?”

“Umm, I was wondering if there was any chance of another cup of tea?”, he murmured.

#2 – Star Wars

Never was a fan of arcade games – whilst my friends were wasting their hard-earned pocket money on Space Invaders, Pac Man and Phoenix, I stayed home, reading books and building models.

Until one fateful summer holiday, when I discovered Star Wars – for pretty much the whole fortnight I was immersed in a wire-frame world; the voice of Obi Wan, resonating in my ears… “Feel the force, Luke!”

To this day, I remember the thrill of barrelling down that narrow gorge in my X-wing, lasers blasting, to finally score a direct hit on that exhaust port.

Bye bye, Deathstar!

LIZZIE

“I’m dying here,” wailed Peter, an aspiring actor.

“Join the club,” the director replied.

“Star wars?!” Peter insisted.

“That’s where the money is.”

“Insidious and entrapping,” crackled the actor.

The director sneered. “Go on, now. The others are waiting.”

Peter always wanted to be a star, but he had obviously misunderstood the ad looking for actors to feature in a reality show.

“You must choose your battles right, my dear,” snapped the director. “Now, be a darling and move along.”

An axe in hand, the actor dragged his feet towards the helicopter that would take them to a remote island.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 46

“Captain we are receiving conflicting reading from the planet.” “Computer
take Mr. Spock’s data extrapolate postulations.” “Surface source is a pure
energy field or a raspberry banana split.” “Uhura open communication
channel to the banana spit.” “Captian,” said Spock “Is it not more likely
we are making first contact with a yet undiscovered life force then a 50
foot sundae? “Point taken. Mr. Chekov photon torpedoes.” “Jim I’m a
doctor, not a lawyer, we can’t go all guns a blazing. “Right Bones. Scott
beam that thing to bridge.” When the swish-woo-woo sound stoped the
captain lock eyes with the Duke.

To Boldly Go

I was 12 when Star Trek was first broadcast. Same year as Lost in Space.
It was great to have non kiddie Sci – Fi, stories with deep social impact.
Both shows started out as pretty good works of drama, but by year three
the writing and production was pretty dreadful. At the time despite the
week arrival of pure energy that had never been encounter before, I
remained a diehard fan. That was until the week of What Are Little Girls
Made Of. The female aliens in cris-crossing strap costumes barely covering
their chests, mom pull the plug on that.

SERENDIPITY

‘A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far, away…’

It was a great start, but would the movie really live up to the hype?

It certainly promised a great deal: a scantily-clad, white-robed princess, rescued from a horrible fate by dashing young heroes. Fantastic sets, amazing weapons, bizarre characters and a classic plot – it had everything!

All held together by an old man in a dirty brown cloak, possessing unique skills; and a brooding, evil, masked figure, dressed entirely in black.

A huge budget too, for a porno film – we had very high hopes for ‘Star Whores’!

MUNSI

Vader’s Fist

By Christopher Munroe

The 501st legion descended on Calgary last weekend.

Stormtroopers everywhere you looked, inescapable, swarming every part of Calgary Expo.

They’re an organization here in town, the 501st, and they come every year to enjoy the convention and fundraise for charity.

They wound up raising close to $7000 over the course of the weekend, from what I hear.

The money’s for the Make a Wish Foundation. No clue how they’ll use it, but it’ll involve a budget in the thousands and dozens of imperial stormtroopers.

This story is completely true.

And, for one young Star Wars fan, it will be amazing…

ZACKMANN

“Boy, four billion dollars just doesn’t buy what it used to. I’m not sure it was a good business decision to spend that much and not get the rights to put the original theatrical versions of the original Star Wars movies in theaters and on blu ray.” said Zack

“They might have made their money back doing that.” Dylan agreed.

“Maybe I can’t replace my VHS Star Wars movies with blu ray or DVD but at least I can buy Hot Waffles singing George Lucas Raped Our Childhood on audio CD.”
“Just don’t sing it in the toy store again.”

CHELSEA

Train ride

It happened this time every year. Sitting on the train heading through down town you would see them.

A storm trouper sitting a few rows down chatting with a Jedi knight. Splinter and all four Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles laughing together. Many Doctors and a variety of their companions, even a TARDIS or two.

I love it! Everyone comes out to show their support for the fandom of their choice and the chance to talk to others who love the same things and the chance to meet a personal hero or two.

What could be better than Calgary Comic Expo!

SPATE

Hash – Part 4

The sound was designed to provoke fear. Boots. Double-time. Hard shelled
armor clacking.

The extraction team, those freaking Star Wars storm troopers, helmets and
face shields in place, burst into Davidson’s cell, led by the screw they
called Hercules; the biggest bad ass motherfucker in the system.

He threw Davidson flat to the floor like a slice of baloney.

“No marks. Remember.” one bull interjected.

“I ain’t going to hurt him.”

Hercules leaned over and proceeded to urinate on Davidson.

He shook and zipped, grunting, “Put your damned clothes on!”
Then they left.

“Seven and a wake up,” sighed Davidson.

NORVAL JOE

This was probably the worst day of Fraiser Torquespindle’s life.
Warm swamp water slowly filled the cockpit of his x-wing fighter.
Central Command was going to be warped. This is the second fighter and the fourth R4 Unit he’d lost in the past two weeks.
Alien insects bearing alien diseases danced about him, seaking access to his skin.
A little man with pointed ears poked his head from a hole in the ground and said, “May the force be with you.”
Swamp water inside the cockpit was to his hips as he aimed his blaster at the creature’s wrinkled head.

JULIE

Noroton Bay

The stars are not out tonight.

The tide low, black mud clots,

And the egrets cry for mercy

To the pink clouds—

There is a war no one sees.

It shows,

In my eyes

And the sky

Is purple and red, punctuated

With city lights on the horizon.

Bruised.

I should call a friend,

Join a freaking bowling league.

There is nothing–

But the sea, the sky

And me

At the end of this pier at sunset,

Wishing, wanting, worrying

That hell is real.

DIONYSIS

There’s No I in Star Wars #1

Listen.

Leia just needed to get by Dad. She’d spent the day perfecting her “double rockin’ rolls,” which were absolutely perfect for the Battle of the Bands!

“Hey!” His high pitched whine annoyed her most of all!

“Daddy!”

Mom’s teenage crush was Darth and the Ringtones, and Dad always used that against them: “What is a ringtone anyway?”

“It’s what’s happening, dear!” said Mom.

“I say that sitar music came from a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away! Why do they all wear black? Rebels … ”

Leia slipped out. She didn’t need another sitar war, tonight of all nights!

That’s how it all began.

There’s No I in Star Wars #2

Leia set her alarm for 4:30 am sharp! No way she was going to let that evil old — and besides, she was doing him a favor, with that asthma, or whatever.

The wars for the stair master had started long ago, when Leia swore to get the buns she wanted! But the strange old man laid claim to the good stair master! All far away ….

Leia rolled over and sat upright. 7:30! Sprinting inside she saw a small crowd around the machine. Her nemesis on the floor, ghastly pale. Their eyes met. In that instant he seemed to mutter “father,” and then died.

At last, she thought.

DANNY

It’s official. with the unofficial Star Wars holiday fast approaching, Mark Hamill has just given the thumbs up for the new cast of the Star Wars film, stating he believes the direction the Star Wars saga is going in is in good hands. Don’t give up hope, JJ Abrams only picked the main cast, there are still plenty of bit part to be had if you really desire to be in the new film. I want to be the hologram singer of the Catina band. If I get the part, technically, I don’t even need to show up on set.

SINGH

32.12

In this instalment the bus pilgrimage has taken Yogi and his friend Amrik Singh to their first stope in the foothills of the Himalayas beside the mighty Yamuna River. Here they stop at a place called Paonta Sahib the sight of an historical Sikh temple known as a Gurdwara, established by Guru Gobind Singh, the 10th Master of the Sikh philosophy in 1685. Here at Paonta, meaning ‘foothold’ Yogi hears more about the history and culture of Sikhism.

At Paonta Sahib
the bus wove
tight streets
blaring horns
vans cars rickshaws then
through
the gate of peace
white edifice carved ice palace
the dome a dairy whip cone pink and gold lined
loudspeakers kirtan the word lives
inside outside the marble house of song

“Its a beautiful temple,” Yogi said to Amrik
as they went in. “‘Gurdwara’ we say,
Guru-dwara meaning ‘doorway to the Guru.’”

foot traffic pilgrims river of turbans
beside fast Yamuna foot hill Himalayas
the river roaring upstream downstream
but below the Gurdwara just a trickle of silence

“How can that be?” Yogi asked.

32.13
Amrik told — how the sixteen year old Gobind,
scholar of Persian, Arabic and Sanskrit,
and great devotional poet in Braj Basha
sponsored fifty two others from Benares.
Sanskrit scholars, they translated classics:
the Bhagavatam, Shiv Puran, the Mahabharat
into common parlance. Guru Gobind staged
the first Kavi Darbar –– a poetry gathering
under the full moon. He listened to each
until they shook their poet heads and stopped.
The Yamuna was drowning out their words.
Amrik added, “The Guru listened to their
grievance; the river below the Gurdwara
has been ever silent since that day
and no scientist can explain just why.”

32.14
Since Chandigarh, Yogi had been left alone.
Now Amrik was the diligent tour guide,
strolling the marble precinct of Paonta Sahib.
The air was clean with sweeping clouds of birds.
Striped squirrels ran up trunks of pines.
There was some shift in the Singh. He spoke with purpose,
as if he had an agenda to introduce
this foreigner to the struggles of his people.
“When Guru Sahib reached here on his horse
it halted, and so he stepped down solidly,
planting his foot. Paonta means ‘firm landing.’

“It’s very kind you sharing this,” said Yogi.

Amrik curtly nodded and then went on.

32.15
“Medini Prakash, the Raja of Simour
invited him to stay. This would lead to wars
with other vassal rajahs of Himachal,
jealous of the Guru’s entourage
and seeking favours from the ruling Moghul.
“You see, our Fifth Guru and our Ninth
were martyred by those tyrants. Guru Arjan
was roasted on a big chapatti hot-plate
and died singing one of his sweetest shabads:
My Guru is with me, ever close at hand.
Teg Bahadur was beheaded in old Delhi
while speaking up for five hundred Brahmins,
told to choose — either death or Islam.
These men of peace were fathers to Gobind
who sat down here and wrote his massive book
as big as our own Siri Guru Granth Sahib.”

32.15
By this time, they had found the small museum.
Paintings portrayed the Guru as a rajah
with a plumed turban, and a fine silk dress coat.
“Amrik, why did he not wear holy clothes?
Surely a politician brings on his own storms.”

“Good point, Yogi. It is like this: you see
we Sikhs aren’t beggar monks. We have been told
to live and work and give. Good deeds are all.
I know you have been reading Mahabharat.
It’s the same. The Pandavas were princes
who did their karma following the Dharma.
We are those royal shatriyas who kept
warrior locks and beards as a mark of rank.
Our Guru opened that door to all the castes
and made us in the image of great kings.”

32.16
After seeing the Guru’s worn out kalams,
two nibbed reeds for writing poetry
inside a mounted cabinet, they came
upon another painting in the jungle:
a tiger stealthily leaping from behind
to grip the Guru’s neck. He turns. The tiger’s
head is cleaved with a slash of the Guru’s sword.

“Sher-garh Gurdwara is the place that happened.”

The next painting’s English caption read:
Bangaani, The Battle, 1686.
The hill rajahs’ thirty thousand troops,
plus mercenaries from Afghanistan
fought against four thousand well-drilled Sikhs.
Amrik quoted lines from Guru Gobind
about the conflict, translating in English:

“I lined up my aim at one Khan discharging an arrow.
It pierced him as if a cobra had suddenly stung him.

And each Guru arrow held half an ounce
of gold for the burial of the foe.”

Where did this all happen?” Yogi asked.

“Just fourteen kilometres from here.”

32.17
Finally Amrik brought him to the weapons
antique steel behind prophylactic glass.
Yogi reacted. “But how can these be here
in a holy place, all these blades of death?”

Amrik laughed. “Without the sword, we
wouldn’t have survived. When a tyrant comes
will you lay down, or stand your ground and fight?”

“But what about Gandhi’s non-resistance?”
He’d seen the movie, read the autobiography.

“Satyagraha was guilt strategy.
It worked too well because it shamed the nobler
sentiments of the British; but most forget
eighty percent of those exiled, gaoled or martyred
during Independence were Punjabis.”

As Yogi listened, his flimsy pacifism
seemed hard to justify to history.

Amrik added: “You know, Guru ji then wrote
to Aurangzeb, after the tyrant let his general
brick alive the Guru’s sons, aged seven and nine:

“When every approach has been tried, yet fails,
then the sword must speak for righteousness.

I told this tale the day you came to my shop.”

32.18
By now Amrik Singh was speaking loudly
of Shastra Vidya, the artful science of weapons.
This was the ancient Indian fighting form
practised by rishis, kings and commoners.
“We keep it alive and we call it gatka.”

Yogi scanned the wall as Amrik listed:

“this is khanda, old straight sword of India,
this is talwar, import Persian scimitar,
this is Aaman, nine-layered composite bow,
this is teer, arrow tipped with ironhead,
this is barcha, spear held, javelin hurled,
this is gurj, ball and chain skull-crusher,
this is aara, bendable long snake strip-sword,
this is khatar, hand-thrust chain-mail piercer,
this is bandook, rustic matchlock rifle,
this is chakra, sharp-edged whirling disc,
this is chakri, rotary of chains and balls,
these are dhals, shields steel-made or of leather,
this is bakh nakh, iron leopard’s claw for hands,
this is latti, staff of head-crack ironwood,
this is trishul, trident spikes for the turban,
this is kirpan, last dagger of defence.”

32.19
At the Dastaar Astaan, boys were winding turbans
of every kind of colour and social style.
It was a competition to see how fast
and formed they wound around a long tradition,
dating from Guru Gobind.

“Dastaar means turban,”
Amrik said. “A Persian term. The troops
would have to tie it fast without a mirror
before they rushed to battle.”
“I don’t mean
to be rude, but is it important? Why not go
breezy and bare-headed?” Long-haired Yogi
had to justify.
Amrik was glad,
but did not tell that long flowing kesh
was evidence of bedraggled discipline,
whereas kesh tied neatly in a bun
was a modest way to hide your rishi knot. These were cultural matters that foreigners
couldn’t know. But his audience was captive.

“First, the Guru told us to. For us
that is enough, but there’s other reasons.
We can wind the folds recalling everyday
ten Sikh masters; it is role-modelling.
And the dastaar is the crown of royalty,
authority and power. Is it not regal?
Exchanging turbans is a solemn bond
from State to State, family head to head.
Daily, it restrains our uncut hairs,
most crucial in a knotty spot, a battle;
and before long beards, our extra turban height
the enemy becomes a flock of lambs.
It doubles as towel, or rope, or sheet, and keeps
away mosquitoes and is our dust bandana

while ploughing in the fields. There are so many
applications of the dastaar, as long
as the Silk Road goes on. But finally
it is our sign of being Singhs, our shaan.
That also calls responsibility —
to stand up for the crushed against the tyrant.
A true Sikh must rise tall inside a crowd.

32.20

Ranjit Nagaara, the war drum being beaten
called them to an outside gathering.
“We’re lucky, ” Amrik said, “the old Nihangs
are going to perform some gatka for the people.
“Who are nihangs?” Yogi had to ask.

“They were once the crack troops of the Guru,
following the ideal of a soldier-saint.
Bands of them still roam the countryside,
though many think they are scandalous
anachronisms — medieval, indulgent,
riding their horses and bartering old glory.”

They came in dark-blue, high-wound, heavy dastaars
and matching calf-length chola cotton tunics
tied with orange sashes. Slung with weapons,
they whirled in slashing sweeps with no fear
or hesitation, clashing swords on shields
in rapid-fire blows, then peeled away
like a row of leaping lords, ready to switch
to another weapon – swirling a chakri,
or flashing talwars with both flexible wrists,
crashing their hand-swung gurj–– the ball and chain
and doing bendable feats with javelins,
forcing the tip against the throat’s soft hollow,
then smashing bricks with swords across the stomach.
One blindfolded, carved up watermelons
each between a turbaned head on the ground;
and then, a final coconut on a forehead
was cleaved in half and offered to the crowd.
Yogi thought: the Mahabharata was fought
with like skill. These martial arts endure
as storms of shakti, Indian Shaolin.
At least nihangs have kept the old sword sharp.

32.21
They heard the hunting horn blast from the bus.
Time to board. All took their elephant time
and newcomers climbed — three men in blue
dastaars and white pajamas, looking priest-like.
“Who are they?” enquired Yogi in a whisper.

“A dhaadi jatha. They sing ballads, vars
of the Guru’s lives and our historic struggles.
They must be coming with us to Hemkund Sahib.
Maybe they will sing along the way.
It’s how they earn their roti — from donations
offered at religious gatherings.”
Duty done, Amrik pressed his face
against the pane and did an Indian trick –
snoozing in some weird, bus-yoga posture.

Now they wound back through the skinny streets
until they found the highway signpost turn.
Along the roadside, women in flimsy saris
were crushing rockfall with their big sledgehammers
and carting it off on basket-balanced heads,
an unsung feat, extraordinary endurance.
One struggled to carry her pregnancy as well.
Millions of women had no spare change or time
to take a luxury tour to the Himalayas.

As the pneumatic coach sped on its tyres
negotiating hills and valley bends,
Amrik had not observed the car
trailing like a snake since Chandigarh.

PLANET Z

They announced the primary cast members of the next Star Wars movie, and there’s no sign of Billy Dee Williams.

Sure, he’s old, creepy-looking, and slow. He’s got back problems, too. Looked like he needed a walker on Dancing With The Stars.

But he’s Lando Calrissian. Lando Fucking Calrissian.

How can you have Star Wars without Lando Calrissian?

Are they going to have that Andy Serkis creep pantomime up a digital Lando Calrissian or something?

When it came to signing the contracts, I guess Billy Dee Williams wasn’t part of the deal.

I pray that they don’t alter it further.

Weekly Challenge #418 – Run

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 RUN.

We’ve got stories by:

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of STAR WARS (May the Fours be with you!)

Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.

NORVAL JOE

To become a truly well rounded snob, most of the self-professed initiates agree, the running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain is essential. Attending the Metropolitan opera, claiming relationship to a signer of the Declaration of Independence or to the owner of a 1920’s Speak Easy are also good.
Riding a BMW motorcycle, eating only foods with names unpronounceable in English, and reading LGBTQ romances written in Chinese by Tibetan Monks will work in a pinch.
If you can’t get to Spain to run with the bulls, an acceptable substitute is to run with the wiener dogs in Burbank, California.

Suggested prompt…………..Brownies.

JOHN MUSICO

“Run”
by John Musico

Seems like every expression using the word “run” makes no sense-
“Run an errand”. “Running late”. “Run its course”…
When you run an errand- who says you’re rushing? Further, typically you’re driving; you’re not even on foot.
“Running late”. If you really were running- you wouldn’t be late at all.
“Run its course”. This means to be patient for a sickness that seems endless. Implicitly the pace is not fast. So, the pace is far from running here as well. Not that I’ve done so rapidly but; I’ve been “running off at the mouth”. Gotta run (but I’ll be walkin).

JEFFREY

Experience
by Jeffrey Fischer

Bob worked his way up the corporate ladder for 30 years, until he finally got his shot to run the bank. Those were the happiest five years of his life, before he ran the bank into the ground. The government orchestrated an orderly liquidation of the remaining assets and Bob became unemployed.

The business world being what it is, a second bank hired Bob as its CEO, and, sure enough, he ran that one into bankruptcy as well.

When the third bank hired Bob, the Board defended its decision on the grounds that Bob had experience.

Bygone Days
by Jeffrey Fischer

The neighborhood was seedy, even a little scary, during daylight hours. Run-down porches on run-down houses provided shade for unemployed men to sit and drink beer. Narrow alleyways provided cover for violence and the drug trade after dark.

Sam walked the streets nervously, looking for his father, who had gone missing from the nursing home. Years ago, when his father lived here with his young family, the houses were well-kept, the men were employed, and crime was rare. This bygone age was what his father, now frail and suffering from dementia, remembered as his neighborhood, his house.

Sam hoped he found his father before darkness fell.

JEFF

A Gargantuan Stubbornness

By Jeff Hema

She likes chick flicks and I didn’t want a run-of-the-mill movie, so we had to do a toss-up. We finally settled on ‘Avengers’, a collection of super heroes who are going to save the planet Earth from an alien outbreak.

I could feel her bad vibes. I let her choose the day and the time, and kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want her to blow up at me.

We got there on Thursday an hour earlier. Why that early? Because she was afraid of a long line.

If only she could listen to me once in a while!

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story: Part 54 – On the run

Emily had a point – nothing about his experiences so far suggested in any way that the world had succumbed to a zombie apocalypse.

He pondered recent events, allowing them to run through his mind, one after the other, realising that – apart from the strange and inexplicable catastrophe that seemed to have crippled society – there was little else he’d experienced that couldn’t be accounted for by fear or desperation.

The realisation hit him that he’d been on the run, but for no apparent reason, and from no apparent threat.

It was high time to get a grip, and to stop running!

#2 – Winner!

I’ve never been the sporty kind – hardly surprising considering the affliction I’ve had to cope with all my life.

As a school kid, my teachers went to great lengths to be ‘inclusive’, but I was always hopeless at most ‘proper’ sports – it was never going to work out… except for once a year, on school sports day.

As expected, I was too uncoordinated to win the egg and spoon and far too awkward to do well in the sack race, but when it came to the three-legged race, I’d win every time.

And I didn’t even need a partner!

#3 – Curtain Call

Jealousy is a terrible thing.

‘Norman Franklin’s King Lear is a triumph!’, critics proclaimed; ‘This production will run, and run!’

Good news for the show, and Franklin, but not so great for me. It’s a pretty rotten job being an understudy anyway, but living in the shadow of one of theatre’s greats, it can be unbearable.

All that hard work and dedication, only to see somebody else receive the applause.

I deserved a break!

Last night’s death scene was majestic – Franklin slumped theatrically over Cordelia’s body, as the curtain fell.

Only this time, it was me taking the final bow!

#4 – Three Blind Mice

Nursery rhymes are often sanitised versions of horrifying facts – take ‘Ring a ring o’ roses’, for example – a commentary on the ‘Black Death’.

Few people know that ‘Three blind mice: see how they run’, is a fanciful rendition of a rather appalling lab experiment.

There were other candidates, but you can’t dress up ‘three cancer-ridden beagles: see how they cough’ as anything more palatable, and ‘three lobotomised chimps: see how they gibber’, doesn’t scan well.

As for the farmer’s wife cutting off their tails with a carving knife…

That was Doreen, the lab technician, and it was a scalpel.

CLIFF

I was sitting in a diner eavesdropping on some tough young braggarts. My favorite was the mullet topped fellow who brawled to preserve a bottle of whiskey.
“This guy tried to take it, but I’m a man. I told him I’d kick his ass,” he bragged.
An elderly man sitting at a nearby table couldn’t resist.
“Did you win?”
“Nah, he beat me up.”
“Did you at least get to keep the whiskey?”
“No, he took it.”
“Then you a damn fool, boy. A good run beats a bad fight every time.”
I nearly fell out of my seat laughing.

“Listen, you’ve had a good run. People really loved you at first but these things have a limited lifespan.”
“But I’m having so much fun,” he said. “This is the best gig I’ve ever had.”
“Don’t worry. Relax for a few years and we’ll get you a spot on a sitcom.”
“I guess. But playing a politician has been the best, even if it was pretty unrealistic.”
I sent him home with the script for his final performance, the resignation. I just hope he never realizes that he was a real U.S. congressman for all those seasons… I mean terms.

MUNSI

You Can’t Run From Your Problems

By Christopher Munroe

Run as hard as you want, you’ll never escape your problems.

Unless we’re talking health problems, in which case chardio would do you good, and I heartily recommend you do take up running. You’ll lose weight, feel better, and have more energy going into your day.

But other than that, your problems can’t be escaped, and there’s no use running away.

Unless your problem is an angry dude with a knife, or a pack of hungry wolves, in which case, run.

In retrospect, “you can’t run from your problems” is pretty terrible advice, now that I think about it.

Huh…

CHELSEA

Run.

There are some things in life that you run from. A terrible job, you stupid ex, and your thesis advisor when you’re way behind.

There are things you should never run from. Wild animals and rabid dogs. Back away slowly and keep eye contact.

And then there are the things that you should run towards. A child’s outstretched arms, the hand of a long lost friend, the waiting embrace of a lover.

Life’s full of all kinds of running, for my money, run towards the good things and forget about the rest. You’ll live a longer happier life for it.

SERENDIPITY

“Don’t play with your food!”

Every mealtime, my mother uttered that phrase – it’s a phase most of us grow out of, eventually.

Everyone, except me.

You see, I still play with my food, even as an adult. It’s not as much fun if I treat it seriously, and although others might find it offensive, strange or childish, I take no notice of them.

I still play with my food – always will.

After all, it’s not about the eating; it’s all about the thrill of the chase.

And I do like to see my victims run, before I tear into them!

JULIE

Earth Day

For Holly Maddox, 1947-1977

From ashes I came–

And to the earth,

I did not return.

You beat the life from me–

Stuffed me

In a steamer trunk,

Left me to rot

In your sun porch.

I tried to run, tried to leave–

But you were quicker,

With that ceramic lamp.

They still plant trees and sing peace chants.

Earth Day.

My sulfur stench alarmed our neighbors,

Worse than any exhaust fumes.

The police find me,

Plaid flannel shirt, my mummified hand,

Reaching–

For a butterfly,

For the freedom, almost in my grasp.

My last, and only shot back at you.

Charlatan.

Hypocrite.

Beast.

DIONYSIS

Stillness

since one must be perfectly still, with a stillness only I, perhaps, since the moment I stopped and put down my feet in the snow on this shelf of ice, alone these centuries (if it is centuries, time has very little meaning to one with my millennial stillness) have been able — no, I’m sure I am the only one, in which case how could you possibly grasp what — to grasp is to recollect, and to recollect is to hope, and — hope suggests time, which is the point as you must have grasped, unlike myself in this river of ice that goes on flowing despite everything who hoped to stop

Still Running

we are right under the ridge, me and Crazy Davy, you remember that song, except you wouldn’t say Davy is here at the moment, since a part of him is running down the slope that brought us here, he’s not conscious anyway, so there’s that, never will be, while I am, but my mind isn’t sitting here either, I’m not, running like that part of him to a terminal where people are staring at a beer, waiting, already running to catch that time when it was, though even I’m only running there now sitting now when I saw this girl

ZACKMANN

“I’m looking for the race organizers.” said the reporter.

The hotel attendant answered “Oh that would be that horses hind end over there.”

“We are not a horse.” refuted Charlie. “John and I are the Centaur of Attention.”

John said “This the Other Half Marathon Pun Run so named because we’re tired of people asking when we run the other half of half Marathons .”

Charlie added “We have worked hard to make the Pun Run a fun run.”

“Isn’t two person centaur Cosplay hard to run in?” asked the reporter.
“If John can place, I can really show” replied Charlie.

LIZZIE

He spent his whole life running away, from school colleagues, from girlfriends, even from his wife. However, nothing compared to that night when he woke up in a strange bedroom. The evening had been amazing, and filled with good conversation and plenty of alcohol. He met a few people from the old days, back when he listened to that song incessantly. Running Wild? Well, the bizarre fire, burning the curtains and the furniture did make him run fast. They could never explain what happened, but the time he spent in jail sure cured him of that unflinching need to run.

TOM

When the Fix Was In

Benny had had a pretty good run. Ten years as Boss of the Addison Street
Grifters. He never dreamed in a million years the city would actually hire
him to run the scam right out of the Department of Parks and Monuments.
That had been a pretty good run too. The perks of respectability lulled
Benny into a fat happy complacence. The money rolled in, until the reform
party took city hall. Ben swiftly took flight down to Miami. His golden
years would have been gold if he had just let the scam go. His luck
finally ran out.

A Well Defined Relationship Part 46

By the time the Reverends reached the Doctor he’d quickly made his case to
Mrs. Parsons, who in turn laid it out to the women of the gear guild. Soon
the plan as it stood ran like wildfire through the community. The plan
produced pistol packing practitioners. Getting a fourth handed account of
said plan the Senator, Banister, and Sparky gravitated to the porch. “Dino
get your butt over here. Looks like we’re going to have to get our OK
Corral on.” “Where’s Timmy?” asked mother. Running as if he’d seen a
ghost breathless Timmy said, “I got a plan.”

Grammatically Correct

I never met a run on sentence I didn’t like, in spite of the corporal
punishment of the good Sisters of Mercy, I loved the flow and meandering
of a string of words running gently across bleached college ruled loose
leaf paper. Les Misérables has one that’s 824 words. Hunk Finn logs in at
236. My friend states a long sentence is a contrite condition unless it
unfolds as natural speech. I believe this to be true as contrapositive, in
a word, I am striving for the unnatural, something to cause the brain
itself to take a long internal breath.

Huffing

The last time I ran it took six weeks for my shoulder to regain 80 percent
functionality. This pain brought a stinging prospective to my life. As a
child I started out running, then biking, then decades of driving. Time in
cars vastly outnumbered the time running. My life is now run by a giant
academic clock. I stand lecturing, review mountains of paper, meetings
pile on meetings. I remember running so hard my heart beat like a Robert
Palmer drum kit. Now a trip up the driveway will produces the same effect.
I hear a distance voice calling, “RUN.”

TURA

“Well,” he said, “that’s a, erm, very interesting question, and, and, I need to take a bit of a, a run-up to it if you don’t mind, a, yes, a long run-up, and, because the context, that’s so important, don’t you think? It’s so complicated, and, well, it could be very misleading if you, ah, one might run to all sorts of conclusions, and, ha, a conclusion is the place you stopped thinking, as someone said, but actually I’d have to say that in this case it’s exactly what it looks like, I’m running off with your wife,” he said.

BLUE

Double Crossed
by Blue Myanamotu (a.k.a. Vang Yen)

Nyx shook her pretty kitty paw and splashed blood all over the white curtains. She licked it clean and purred, quite pleased at the copper aftertaste.

“You know,” she said, “The guy didn’t even have a chance.”

“Nonsense,” I replied, as I pulled my dagger from the base of the dead man’s skull. Together, we searched his body and retrieved the lost artifact from his pocket.

“I told him to run.” I said to Nyx when she collapsed. She looked deathly pale and was struggling to breath.

“I didn’t tell you, however, that I had poisoned his blood.”

SPATE

Hash – Part 3

Chaplain’s eyes were running all around the cell just to avoid looking at
the man with no clothes that was beating the crap out of him in poker.

Davidson unselfconsciously scratched his testicles. “Chaplain, do you really
think that with only nine days left God gives a damn if I’m wearing any
clothes? He’s seen me naked before.”

Chaplain turned cardinal red realizing he was about to be had again.

Davidson farted and laid down his cards: full boat; ladies over deuces.
Another three cigarettes won from the unlucky Chaplain.

Davidson slyly smirked, “it’s been one hell of a run!”

SINGH

Ch 32.1

They joined the bus on time. It kept on revving

overlong for India’s perennial latecomers —

men well-turbaned — beards dyed, pressed and primped,

and women in salwar kamiz, timelessly-chosen.

Amrik’s beard was still just half an artwork,

stuck with fixer and squeezed in a sling of cotton,

compressing the chin and jowls till whiskers dried.

In this bandana he might have been an outlaw

in a well-cut suit about to rob a bank.

There were others like him also running on time,

sporting the chin bandana with one more strip

across top lip to glue a twirled moustache.

Ch 32.2

They entered two-by-two and in groups.

None came sadhu-solo like roaming Yogi.

Grisht ashram, household life and their ideal

followed Guru Nanak. He had two sons.

The Founder said: get married, to nine more Nanaks.

Amrik chuckled, “Fire and ashes, Yogi?

“Family is the toughest yoga school.”

Amrik further elaborated how

among the Vedic sages – rishis wed

and munis were only married to themselves.

“Guru ji said: “Stay home. Make your ashram.

You are the temple, you are priest of it.”

Yogi remembered the paper in his pocket.

“Can we stop? I need to post a letter.”

Ch 32.3

They stopped at Industrial Area Phase 2.

While Yogi debouched, others went for snacks.

Amrik send a boy to bring a paper

and soon was reading between The Tribune’s lines.

Yogi was ever a source for staring eyes—

a white, a gaura, a foreigner in white chola

with his rakish rishi locks and ragged beard.

They rarely saw outsiders in Punjab,

except at the Golden Temple, hours north-west.

Perhaps one day he’d also go to visit.

Soon the Hemkund Travel Tours coach

was skirting the edge of Chandigarh and charging

three hours or so away to Paonta Sahib.

Ch 32.4

Amrik was done, so Yogi flicked through the paper:

Waist-high in wheat on Page 1, Surdev Singh’s hands are praising the monsoon;

Election Feature Page 5: see the double V-for-Victory fingers — the Opposition BJP;

the ad below: Government Congress Party symbol – a palmistry hand or Buddha’s fronting the Indian flag;

and tucked Corner Right: Mohan Singh Khalistani is slain today, a police encounter.

On Page 11, Punjabi Tourism bhangra dancers goat-skip with photo smiles;

Ravi Shankar plays to standing ovation at the Tagore Theatre last night;

Bridal Highlights have been Brought to You by Mehndi Fashions;

and a model shows off earrings, chin soft as faun, propped on her palm.

Chapatti mothers are cooking dough rounds in the Ludhiana Regional Section;

and singing women throw up wheat chaff to dispatch the Evil Eye;

Lakhsman Singh, home from England wears Manchester United tee-shirt to milk his childhood buffalo;

while a Big Red Mahindra Tractor is shifting gears into New Era Punjab agriculture – full page advertorial.

After the Classifieds, thin labourers from Bihar are still weeding padi in Amritsar,

a Dalit woman steadies on her head a fertiliser sack with dermatitis hands;

a farmer with cancer, hides head in palms as tube well sucks up uranium and mercury;

and Sachin Tendulkar, double-century cricket god on the Back Page, waves bat like Durga’s victory sword.

Ch 32.5

The bus moved fast heading across farmlands

through Zirakpur, Naraingarh to Kala Amb

meaning “Black Mango,” a village on the slopes.

In these Shivalik Hills just on past Nahaan

the bus began to pull hard up the road

winding python-esque through the terrain.

“Look there! Quick!” Yogi pointed to Amrik.

It was a spotted deer and wet-nosed faun.

They’d stopped to nibble grass outside the tree-line

and blinked a timeless moment at the bus

until it shifted through its clunk of gears

the fleet-footed two evaporated back

into the soul-shadows of a Never Was.

32.6
The bus took dare-devil chances on the down-bends
to test Punjabi courage. No one flinched.
Yogi gripped his armrests, forcing a smile
each time they switched direction on the slalom.
Then, bhangra pop attacked through the loudspeakers.
A family with teens said: Ballé! Ballé!*
pointing exuberant digits to the ceiling
as swaying bodies squeaked on vinyl seats.
Finally, one grave Sardar with flowing beard
across the aisle, asked for Shabad Kirtan*.
“This is a yatra, Brother,” he ratonalised
the toff-like Londoner. An N.R.I.*, thought Yogi.
“Teek hai,* Uncle,” yelled the turbaned driver.

The kids kept quiet. An elder can’t be challenged.

––––––
Notes:
*Bhangra – popular folk music/dance of Punjab
*Ballé! Ballé! energetic call during folk dance and song
* Sardar – Honouric title for a Sikh i.e. Mr, Sir
*Shabad Kirtan – Sikh devotional singing
*N.R.I. Non Resident Indian
*Teek Hai – multi-purpose phrase meaning – okay or alright with innumerable inflected meanings – positive and negative.

32.7
Mellifluous voices climbed the raga ladder,
matching sound with sense. London Singh
kept beating time. Yogi tried to follow
as if drinking rare liqueur in the darkness.
Heart had quaffed; intellect needed to join
molecules of meaning: words bring ownership.
As Amrik dozed, he leaned across the aisle.
“Hi, I’m from Australia. Could you translate?”

He sniffed the hippy sadhu up and down.
London Singh was no longer from here.

A math professor he’d done well abroad
and deigned to teach the straggly foreigner.

Yogi jotted the translation in his journal,
then shaped them into verse, passing the time:

You read with your mouth, not with your mind,
Ram hasn’t set up home in there.
You tell the people: “Be firm, have faith!”
But come on, be honest, do you Practise?

Hey pundit, it’s time – dive into the Vedas*,
busy yourself – house-clean your anger.

You’ve put down the stone god in front,
but your mind wanders in ten directions;
you put the tilak* paste on his forehead,
then bow and scrape at the idol’s feet.

You try to fool the people, but are blind,
giving lectures on the Six Systems*,
spreading out your cute white cloth
wearing a dhoti, colour of a lion-skin.

In rich houses, you are always busy
reciting scriptures, telling your beads,
then asking for your fee. Wake up friend!
You can’t save yourself, or save another.

A real scholar? He takes up the Shabad*:
then the Three Gunas* can leave the building.
Nanak looks for the sanctuary of the One,
inside whose Name the Vedas still reside.

–––––––––––––
Notes
Ram – generic name for the Divine Being, not Rama the Vishnu avatar
Vedas – ancient scriptures of India
tilak – Hindu forehead symbol
dhoti – Indian male sarong worn by Brahmin priests
Six Systems: of Indian philosophy: Nyāya, Vaiśeṣika, Sāṅkhya, Yoga, Pūrvamīmāṃsā and Vedānta.
Shabad – Divine Text or Word,
3 Gunas: 3 tendencies of nature – associated with creation (sattva), preservation (rajas), and destruction/transformation (tamas)

32.8

His version was new moss greening the stone.
Not bad, thought Yogi, passing it over the aisle
for Prof’s approval.
He read. “Yes, very good.”

but it can hardly match how Guru sang it.
Gurbani* is a piece of the Formlessness,
a hummingbird shard split off from the Truth.
It was cognised through the Guru’s pen,
not expounded by some follower.
Sounding his Word turns lead minds to gold.
We recite and listen daily to Become.
Your’s isn’t bad. You have caught some basics.”

There was praise here, but the praise was faint.

___________
Note
*Gurbani – poems of Guru Nanak (lineage of 10) taking the non-de-plume of Nanak the founder Guru.

32.9
Yogi let the Professor attend his wife
and hunted about the bus with dingo eyes.
More Sikhs from Canada, Singapore and Malaysia
were chattering in the patois of diasporas.
Citified, they looked down on the rustics.
Half wore turbans; others were shorn goats
with beards shaved-off, avoiding the Guru’s code.
Most men were Western-dressed like Amrik Singh;
farmers wore cotton kurta pajamas
virtuous for old age, or the born again.
Families, picnic-packed, with rowdy kids
proved the Indian tolerance for whiners.
A Sikh masala — the middle-aged and zealous
were clubbed in groups, pining for mild adventure.

32.10
Amrik woke up. “Sant ji. How are you?”
There was a hidden sarcasm in his tone
using that name. It’d been there all along,
but naivety had kept the Yogi blinkered.
The Sikhs that he had met were serious men.
Their Mahabharata was the daily battle
for bread, remembering Guru, doing some good.
Ideas were dead on the vine. They needed land.
The more he saw, they seemed volatile
ready to bhangra now, or to be stern.
clearly measuring others by their works.
Flowing hair and joblessness? Just weakness.

Yes, holy men in robes were mostly bogus.
“I’m fine,” he said. So why had Amrik brought him?
Yogi felt cornered. A battle was beginning.

32.11
To see the jobs just close your eyes
and shrug off paths you didn’t take.
So many ways to fall, not rise.

He’d thought the office jobs unwise.
Boredom feared some big mistake.
To classifieds, he’d closed his eyes.

He thought investment paths were lies.
The cycle of earn to eat more cake
was a dead-man route to fall, not rise.

Having no debts, you have no ties.
Avoid the shackles, avoid what’s fake.
He’d hit the road, but shut both eyes.

He’d learned to drift and improvise.
Her love for him forced him awake,
but she had to let him fall to rise.

The promise of insight was the prize
like trekking to the snowy lake.
Would glacial glare now blind the eyes?
His way ahead might fall, or rise.

DANNY

“Hey, AJ, I hear your going to run for Congress.” “That’s right, Fred.” AJ replied. “Just got back from my meeting with Sheldon Adelson in Vegas last week. All I have to do is make a public apology for calling Clive Bundy a freeloading racist, and Adelson will give me a $5,000,000.00 campaign contribution.” Fred, in shock, responded. “But Clive Bundy clearly is a racist, he stated an entire segment of people would be better off as slaves.” ““I know, but if I want to get elected in our district, I must run as a Republican, and that’s who we cater to.”

PLANET Z

Madness when the season is coming to a close. November rivalries, conference championships, bowl games.

Dumping the Gatorade on the head coach and the team hoisting the quarterback on their shoulders is cliche. Where’s the spirit in that?

Look across the field. The mascara on the cheerleaders’ faces runs down their cheeks. No sleeves to wipe it away, so the trainer brings them towels.

Or the star player, sitting alone, exhausted and defeated for all the scouts to see. He won’t even be a third-rounder now.

The goalposts come down, and someone will have to put them back up again.

Weekly Challenge #417 – Cool

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 COOL.

We’ve got stories by:

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

Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.

JOHN MUSICO

“NJ Physician Loses His Mind” by John Musico M.D.

I Ran my garaged summer convertible on the driveway to maintain the battery.
The removable hardtop is too heavy to put back on during winters.
I fell asleep. Snowed that night. Ran out of gas; key turned- the battery died.
After AAA’s gallon and jump, I had to get more gas, quick. I dug out a hole in the driver’s seat. Drove to the gas station; top off, car and hair full of snow. The gas station attendant’s only conclusion is I’d totally lost my mind: top down, drove till I ran low on gas. He approached the car cautiously…

JEFFREY

Cool
by Jeffrey Fischer

“I’m the boss man, I’m the epitome of cool.” Frank leaned back in his chair and fiddled with the lever to no avail. “You can call me Li’l E-Z Daddy Puffy, ’cause I’m da bomb.” He made several hand motions that had no apparent meaning.

Megan stared at her father. “Daddy, I’m eight, not stupid. Daddies are *not* cool, and you can’t come with us to see Hunter Hayes. Caitlin’s mom is driving, and *she’s* cool.”

“I didn’t really want to go anyway. You and Caitlin have a good time.” Inwardly, however, Frank pouted.

Too Cool
by Jeffrey Fischer

For years, Alan complained he was too hot in his office at the cryogenic storage firm. His boss tried to accommodate Alan by turning down the thermostat, but that just made everyone else cranky and didn’t satisfy Alan, who demanded further drops in the temperature.

Fed up with the complaints and lawsuit threats, Alan’s boss took matters into his own hands. He dragged Alan from his office to the cryogenic chamber, throwing the protesting employee inside and bolting shut the door.

“I hope that’s cool enough for you!” he bellowed, twisting the thermostat as far to the left as it would go.

Drinking the Kool-Aid
by Jeffrey Fischer

They promised health insurance to all, at low cost, despite mandating all sorts of goodies that drove up cost and despite higher demand. To that end, they cancelled millions of policies, dumped millions more into Medicaid – not an insurance plan – and imposed penalties on those who did not comply.

Unsurprisingly, rates rose and will rise still further as adverse selection becomes evident. Net enrollment barely changed despite the millions spent and the threats and scolding. Individuals lost long-term relationships with their doctors.

They called it a resounding success.

The spirit of Jim Jones lives on.

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story: Part 54 – Uncool

George frowned at Emily, waving away the proffered reefer.

“That’s not cool you know!”

“What’s the harm in it”, she countered, “Society is crumbling around us, I hardly think smoking a little weed is that big a deal right now.”

George sighed. She had a point, but he couldn’t help feeling they should keep their wits about them, considering the circumstances. The last thing they wanted was to be stoned if they were about to be attacked by zombies. He told her as much.

“What zombies?”, she asked truculently, blew smoke in his face and walked out of the room.

#2 – Cool

How do you measure cool?

It was an interesting question – possibly one of the most entertaining the sociology class had faced. If nothing else, it gave an excuse to undertake some rather questionable activities in dubious locations, and mix with some fairly radical characters, all in the name of ‘research’.

Eventually, we settled – for no real reason, other than it was a cool thing to do – on using the Celsius scale.

Paradoxically, the hotter we rated something, the cooler it was considered.

The teacher thought our idea was a good eighty-five degrees Celsius… pretty damn cool, I reckon!

#3 – Defrosted

When the freezers fused, all hell broke loose. It seems no-one had realised the backup generators were on the same circuit. Typically, it happened over the holiday, so the first we knew about it was on the Tuesday morning after the long weekend.

The smell warned us something had gone badly wrong, and when we checked the instruments, our worst fears were realized.

At best, the cryo-chambers could be described as ‘cool’ – they should have been frozen solid. As for the bodies inside, preserved for future re-awakening… mush.

“Such a shame”, I thought, pouring Walt Disney’s remains down the toilet.

TURA

“Cool”, or, “Last in, first out”.
——–
Nowadays, we can easily freeze and revive someone. But before Quantum Entanglement Cooling was invented, cryonicists would infuse every cell of the body with toxic antifreeze, then store it in liquid nitrogen. We’ve just got to where we can revive mice frozen that way. Maybe in ten years we can start reviving the people.

Back in the early 21st century, they just pumped antifreeze into the bloodstream and hoped. Every cell membrane shattered when they froze the bodies. In theory they’re still revivable, but in practice it’s a century away. As it has been for the three centuries since then.

JEFF

Yeah …That Wasn’t Cool

A neighbor living two blocks away, strangely started to strike up a conversation whenever our paths crossed.

“Can you get me an appointment on the internet at the prefecture?”

“Sure, swing by my house in the evening.”

Later, he wanted me to order a book on Amazon. I said I didn’t have a credit card, so he gave me his.

A week later I called him. “Did you get the book?”

“Yes. By the way, can you come along with me to the prefecture because my English is poor. “

“Sorry, I can’t hear you…Do you hear me? … Bye.”

DIONYSIS

Cool Dad (Story #1)

A photograph shows my father staring at the camera, interested but cool, about six months old.

My mother found this attitude toward her and the world romantic and wise at first, then intolerable. She decided to make her man over from the ground up. When he responded with the same affectlessness, her suggestions became vituperative rants — but these were observed and catalogued with the same curious stare.

When he approached death, after a short illness, we observed him in the same way. How would he react? Oddly, I now find that the world often looks on me with the same indifference, and I find it soothing.

Loocing (Cool Story #2)

Coomoistle darkenesse far as wee couldna see. It was the sound of time lapping at our snores.

“This way.”

“And what way uis that, my dear?”

“The way we’ve just come from now, by its looks.”

“And yet the way we must likely go now, by its.”

‘We must or another,” I said.

We stood with the unseeable look of the lack of deciding on each dark face until unreasonably we stumbled off.

It was some small dark object that brought me down to my surprise. But upon contact, my smear unoccluded went through the dark ground and light from there shone.

We had!

SERENDIPITY

Her skin was cool to the touch.

Certainly not feverishly hot, but neither did it have that warm, comforting feel of health and vitality. It was distinctly unwelcoming, unpleasant and very disconcerting.

You wouldn’t want to hold her hand, or hold her closely, skin against skin – you would shrink from her pallid fingers and feel a compulsion to pull away from her embrace; your instincts compelling you to avoid the other-worldly coolness of her touch.

I looked into her eyes, gently resting my hand against the softness of her cold cheek.

Time of death? Somewhere around three hours ago.

CHELSEA

I was never one of the cool kids. I spent my life on the outside looking in wondering what it meant to be “cool”.

I looked for some quantifiable “thing” that connected all the cool kids and set them apart from kids like me.

It took me into my late twenties to figure it out, the cool people were the ones who were uncomfortable with who they were. The ones who felt the need to belong in one way or another and that was never me.

Oh well, guess I’ll never be cool. But that’s okay, because I like me.

MUNSI

Crisis in Education

By Christopher Munroe

He was too cool for school.

But too legit to quit.

And this, in a nutshell, was the crux of his dilemma.

Would he stay, and lose the cool he’d worked so hard to cultivate, or quit, and in quitting be delegitimized in front of his peers? Quitters never win, but would caring about such victory damage his unflappable personae?

Somebody had to let him know.

Should he stay, or should he go?

In the end, he made no choice at all, and was expelled in a hail of scandal and bitter recrimination.

No longer cool, nor legit.

Merely unwanted.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 45
For the first time since he had begun this journey with his mother Timmy
was totally alone, which lasted all of 15 minutes. “Hello there Pilgrim,”
said the voice. “Oh, great, “thought Timmy,” another spontaneous acolytes
cozying up to their reluctant profit. Timmy turned, gasped, fell to his
knees. “ITS YOU!” Radiant as a burning bush the Duke smiled. “Timothy.”
“Yes Duke.” “Call me Marion.” How about Mr. Morrison?” “That’ll due Kid.
Shit is about to hit the fan. 40 pistol wheeling desperadoes mean to turn
this place into a ghost town.” “What can I do?” asked Timmy “Stay Cool.”

My My Hey Hey [it’s better to burn out then fade away]

Rath Waxman was the coolest kid in my high school. In four years I never
saw a single word exchanged in his presences. Just the slightest of nods,
a 2 degrees tip and a reserve expression of all knowing. Rath was the lead
singer in the school’s house band, a rock and roll Sartre god. At my 40th
high school reunion this rather wrinkled and crumpled guy dusted in
graying age was promoting his self-published CD. In the class bio it read:
Rath Waxman high school councilor 25 years of service. How age takes us
all from cool to cold.

SINGH

31.1

The station cab set them down in Mohali,

a satellite city flanking Chandigarh

outside a red-brick house. A gate sign read:

Guru ki Sharan Home.

“Come, Sant ji.

I have some work. We will stay tonight.”

Amrik knocked on the door. A young girl opened

in white Punjabi suit and dark-blue turban.

“Uncle Ji!” She said with folded palms:

“Waheguru ji ka Khalsa.”

Amrik

added “Waheguru ji ki Fateh!”

Is Bibi ji here? I have brought a friend.”

“This way Uncle. She is sitting in office.”

“Very good Betay*. Your English is improving.”

Yogi smiling, followed on behind.

31.2

A host of little turbans peeped from rooms.

“Uncle Ji!” chorused girlish giggles. Led

to Bibi ji,* they both shared the Khalsa

greeting (spoken Singh to Singh) originating

from the Tenth Sikh master.

“Sant ji, meet my sister,

Amar Kaur. She cares for widows, daughters

and the orphans.”

“Sat Sri Akal,” said Yogi.

Amrik had coached him in the Sikh hello-goodbye,

their ‘Namaste’ suitable for anyone to use

and also meaning: The Truth lives on forever.

“I’m very happy to meet you, Bibi ji.

I didn’t know Amrik had a sister.”

Both of them laughed, sharing a private joke.

31.3

She wore the same white clothes and ladies’ turban

draped with chiffon, along with a curved knife

on shoulder baldric.

“She’s a pukka Sikh.

Bibi ji follows to the letter the Guru’s code;

while I dye my beard, tie and primp it up

neat for business, or so I tell myself.

I should keep a lion-mane look like yours.”

Yogi had forgotten his bearded locks, and felt

more mock-hippy with his shin-length robe.

Just then, they heard a baby.

“Please wait,” said Amar.

She then returned, nursing an infant — another

moonshine doorstep baby, left in the cool night.

31.4

It was time. Amrik explained their visit:

The refuge housed 65 ruined lives —

widows and daughters, orphans of separatists

killed in armed police encounters after

Indira Gandhi attacked the Golden Temple

with troops and tanks in 1984

and other leading Sikh shrines of the country.

Thousands died through army massacres.

The pogroms led to angered insurrection

calling for creation of Khalistan,

a buffer country next to Pakistan.

A decade of guerrilla war ensued

dividing Sikh from Hindu, once close-knit

communities who inter-married,

with the eldest son often becoming Sikh.

Guru ki Sharan meant ‘The Guru’s Shelter’.

31.5

As Amar Kaur bottle-fed the child

Amrik Singh went on with his history

the residual grievances about Punjab,

and Nehru’s broken pledges after Partition.

“Who can think we are not Indian?”

Yogi was lost. India should mean shantih,

not loggerhead minorities at war.

The mooting of a land-locked Khalistan

seemed pure fan fiction.

“Now our boys

have been led astray. With “lakhs* now dead.”

Amar said: “Waheguru!”

Amrik described

Punjab as a lone woman in white dress

lying sideways with a gaping stomach wound,

her soul-blood history leaking away like oil.

“Now we have a generation of orphans.”

Lakh – 100,000

31.6

“Our girls are trying to rebuild lives from nothing.”

“So are there only girls and widows here?”

“Yes,” continued Amrik. “Men burn and fight,

fight and die, but women are our ghee-lamps.

They keep alight the flame and pass it on.”

Amar broke in: “He is right. India has

long believed the fiction that a woman

hasn’t a soul. We are helping her find it.

One day she will be the best guru

of her children and life’s storyteller.

I see you play an instrument, Yogiji.

Later on, will you play for us?

Our girls are talented with shabad kirtan.” *

Sikh sacred devotional song

31.7

It was expected, but he wanted to stay silent.

After Amrik, he knew this was another

house of music and felt less ‘the star’.

He should let hostesses lead the way.

With classical Hindustani he was an infant.

The corridor Singhni,* who had greeted them

sat at the harmonium, and another lass

in dark-blue turban, white suit, stocky body

tuned the tablas with some chunky whacks

touching the treble head with silver hammer

to meet the fundamental of the singer.

Another bowed a sitar-neck-like object

with the mournfulness of a dying swan.

Amrik said: “it’s called the dilbruba.”

*Singhni, a female Singh, a woman of the Sikh faith

31.8

“Guru ki Sharan” was chorused again and again.

He thought it was the Home’s well-chosen theme song.

Their angelic voices overwrote life’s pain,

and lifted them to the plane past right and wrong.

Closing eyes he submitted without understanding

inside this singing garden, this fragrant psalm.

The tight rose of the heart began expanding

pushing to sun, then grounding him in calm.

His music by the look of it reached out,

yet this shabad kirtan performed the opposite,

and it did not seem to have one shred of doubt,

and sang without ambition as singing reached It.

31.9

He was lifted

from peaks to clouds

and further on

to the end of place

distant and wide

it made him feel

how small he was

on an aural bridge

built from the nothing

sound voice-printing

bricks in the air

instruments playing

with no musicians

expanding him further

stepping up notes

lifting with heart

and moving en masse

they walked across

then bounced on air

and bounced again

until an earth voice

was calling him down

it was Amrik Singh

riding above

the refrain of girls

joining together

no one bigger

no one smaller

asking him

to unzip and play

his cracked guitar

31.10

The guitar is longing for the tablas

the tablas are longing for the voice

the voice is longing for the breath

and the breath is longing for the ether

the ether is longing for the spark

the spark is longing for the skin

the skin is longing for the touch

and the touch is waiting for the touch

the touch is hoping for the cheek

the cheek is planning for the hand

the hand is reaching for the lips

and the lips are closing on the lips

the lips are running with the salt

the salt is smarting in the mouth

the mouth is reaching for the word

and the word is gasping in the sea

31.11

Yogi remembered a shelly beach with Margot.

They picnicked near Cape Jarvis for the day,

a tartan rug with the girls beyond sand tussocks

where wind creeps up and whispers in the ear:

don’t forget what you saw along the way–

blonde paddocks creeping to the hills,

orchard plots and grids of vineyard green,

the highway hugging your car along the coast,

the blue-green seagull surf-line lapping land

to the fingertip of a peninsular.

The ocean calls to reach with one desire.

Remember you are part of something vast.

A day of family, whale-watching and much peace.

31.12

Does faith alone open through the forehead

to feel and see things beyond a sitting room?

He had sat down humbled by some little girls

with purer hearts, and let go of his pride.

So far, he had always gone it alone,

flittering from the shifting ordinals —

from birth, from book to book, from state to state

without clear purpose, except an urge to find

some place or person who might be a home.

These orphans of militants had been forced

to ask the question: how to make a stand?

To sit down here and now and sing, just sing.

31.13 Firefly

It was getting dark. Yogi felt the need

for fresh air. The sun was setting fast:

an orange sea with drifting swan of cloud

passed over the epiball of sunset;

and here were golden fireflies in the dusk

dancing in circular sweeps from shrub to fence.

Yogi had only seen them once before

in a Queensland rainforest, dossing in a shack

of Rasta friends, the most-part stoned and dull

to luminous bugs flying outside their door.

Now golden clouds lit the way ahead

yet connecting him to that rainforest past,

Then he saw the parked car with two shadows.

31.14

“Santi ji. You had better come inside.”

There was a seriousness in Amrik’s tone.

Yogi complied. The door crack closed behind.

“What’s going on?” Asked Yogi.

Amrik led him

to Bibi’s office.”I need to tell you, Yogi

this shelter is a victim of surveillance.”

He explained that plainclothes officers

sat lookout to clock their spy shift. “Maybe

they think a terrorist, believed alive

will turn up trying to see his wife or child.

It is a game that Bibi is forced to play.”

“And do they come?” Yogi had to ask,

but Amrik did not answer. And voices called.

31.15 Torch

Dinner was served in lines upon the floor.

The girls came round with dahl and vegetable,

another with curd and cucumber. Amrik dropped

hot chapatis directly into hands.

This was langar, the community kitchen feast

served on steel talis in Sikh temples.

Perhaps the shock of surveillance cops outside

made Yogi eat too fast. Or maybe his stomach

was better spiked with spicy food, not fear.

They were leaving early, and they bid goodnight.

The shelter was tight, so both the men were sharing.

Yogi on top bunk shined his torch and wrote —

his heart running swiftly to the village.

31.16

Darling,

Why aren’t we both going to the mountains? I came with Amrik Singh from Garhmukhteswar — the brother of the woman in charge of this girl’s shelter we’re staying at. Leaving early. Back in ten days. Are you coping with the mud?

Love you.

Yogi.

For Margot

Go talk with mountains. Go away.

“Today.”

She said it in the dream last night.

“Right.”

Can mountains really stand and talk?

“Walk.”

In snow and cold with a leopard’s eye.

“Try.”

Who can do this? I’m weak and faint.

“A saint.”

He would ask Barhai to pass this on to Margot.

31.17

The early morning rose for recitation.
Turbaned Singhni’s sat in rows, cross-legged

before the Granth, following their eldest

ensconced behind the holy book, intoning.

Then came the flowing hour of kirtan,

one long poem set to rhythmic ragas.

Effulgence sat deep down into his chest.

After, a nervous woman brought them paronthas.

Yogi said thanks. Her pained look spoke out hope.

Amrik passed his wad of stapled hundreds

and Bibi passed a quarto envelope.

“Can you carry, Sant ji,” Amrik asked.

“Keep it flat…in your guitar case.”

“My pleasure.”

Their taxi zoomed them onward to the bus-stand.

ZACKMANN

“Woe is me. I am freezing and think I am going to die. Why are you are wearing a Tee Shirt.”

“Oh Charles, in October 50 Fahrenheit is tee shirt weather. If you are already wearing a parka to keep warm what are you going to do to keep warm when it really gets cool?”

“It gets colder than this?”

“Really cold.”

“What is it that keeps you warm when it gets really cold?”
“Admittedly, I have too big a layer of fat but what really keeps me warm is watching people who moved here from more mild climates squirm.”

“Rafael, I would like you to see one for my favorite shows and then I will watch Todd and the Book of Pure Evil like you advised.”

“I am not sure if I am the target audience for this television show.” Said Rafael

“Well you liked Firefly, right? “

“Yes.”

“You like Animaniacs and Red Dwarf?”

“Yes, but I do not see how that is related”

“Since we both like those you should like this show I like too.”

“Maybe”

“What do you think?

JULIE

These Days, I Am Cool

The days pass and weeks fade—

My climate does not depend on season.

I know—

I can get fresh lavender roses.

There is always a reason,

They are ripe for the buying,

30 dollars a bunch,

Free vase included.

The days pass, the weeks fade–

The house is frozen,

The climate and mood controlled

Open the windows and rattle the doors

Make the chill go away.

What’s left of me inside

Is still warm and thinking—

Feeling, even.

I spend my days and nights

Tiptoeing,

Dancing in swirls around

The moods of those who depend

On me to keep my cool.
“Okay, Okay, I like the show but I think Rainbow Dash could be about twenty percent cooler.”

LIZZIE

Ronnie knew nothing about card games and his buddies made sure they let him know exactly that each time they met for beers and Poker.

So, one night, he tried to look cool and threw his cards onto the table, solemnly saying “Here, the dead man’s hand.”

His buddies roared laughing. “What a loser!”

He chuckled. “I was thinking… The fifth card is a two of clubs and not the nine of diamonds.”

His buddies saw Ronnie swinging a club at them, but they never made out Ronnie’s buddy from the gym, hiding in the darkest corner of the room.

SPATE

Davidson refused to wear clothes, choosing to remain naked like an ape in a
cage. Ten days from execution, what the fuck were they going to do to him?

Well he didn’t think they’d turn on the damned air conditioning. Hell, he
didn’t even know they had air conditioning.

He’d shiver but when his mind was set he was a rusted bolt.

Talk of Davidson’s nude stand spread throughout the pen with excitement.
This was not some ear hustling chin music. This was real.

To them, he was the coolest of cool staring down the big jab of Warden’s
needle.

CLIFF

They said that Davis was cool under fire. When the enemy had his company pinned down, he held his position. While the rest of his men returned fire blindly at their hidden foe, he stayed still. Low on ammo, out of contact with anyone in authority, his comrades were close to panicking. They were encouraged by his calm patience. When the enemy commander strutted into the street to demand their surrender, Davis stood up and killed him with one shot. He never told anyone that he’d actually fallen asleep and only woke up in time to take the fateful shot.

Fairmount, Indiana proclaims itself as being “Where Cool Was Born”. The billboard also shows an iconic image of James Dean, native son. I’m sure the marketing guru who created this thought it was a great way to create tourist appeal. After all, with an aging population, a shrinking tax base, and the exodus of each graduating class for better opportunities, the town needs all the help it can get. So if they can make a buck off of a dead actor, more power to them. Besides, we all know who the truly cool Fairmount native really is, don’t we? Right?

NORVAL JOE

A boy came to his mother and said, “I dreamed I was a dragon. Can I be a dragon?”
“That would be cool, but not possible,” she said.
Another day he said, “I dreamed I was a girl. Can I be a girl?”
“You can dress like a girl,” She said.
“Will clothes make me a girl?”
“There are operations and drugs to make you look like a girl?”
“Will I have babies?”
“No. You would still be a girl’s spirit in a boy’s body.”
“Ok, then,” the boy said, “I’d rather be a dragon’s spirit in a boy’s body.”

PLANET Z

Cool, whispers the bartender.
The bar is crowded, and there’s no way I could hear them, but it’s easy to read his lips.
Look in the mirror and say cool without speaking.
Can you see it?
Can you hear it in your head?
Just imagine it.
How the front teeth drag across the rolling lower lip.
What? That’s not a C? That’s an F?
So, the bartender called me a fool?
He’s been calling me a fool all this time?
That’s not cool at all.
Then what the shit have I been tipping him for?
I’m going to Taco Bell.

Weekly Challenge #416 – Hash

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 HASH.

We’ve got stories by:

Planet Z

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

Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.

JOHN MUSICO

“Everyone knows what SPAM is”
by John Musico

I’ve always wanted to know what SPAM really is.
The letters on the can are capitalized. What does the acronym stand for?
What is SPAM anyhow? So, I did some digging-
One theory is that it stands for SPiced hAM.
Problem is; it isn’t really spiced.
SPAM contains only salt and sugar; I’d hardly call that spiced.
The main ingredients are Shoulder of Pork and hAM; S.P.A.M.
That does fit. In case it throws you, yes “ham” is also pork-
“ham” denotes that the cut comes specifically from the buttocks.
Finally, the mysteries of the mystery meat have been unveiled!

JEFFREY

The Truest Measure of Wealth
by Jeffrey Fischer

As a child, Brendan would often eat corned beef hash for dinner. His mother would add a can of the meat, always an unhealthy color, to potatoes and onions, then sautéed it on the stove until it attained the flavor of charcoal.

Brendan’s father would pretend that this was a gourmet meal, and the kids would pretend they enjoyed it. None of them were good actors. As Brendan grew older, he realized the best acting job was his mother’s, as she never let the children know the extent of their poverty. According to her, everything the family did, from outings in the country to eating hash, was no less fine than the wealthiest nobles enjoyed. And so it was.

Lessons
by Jeffrey Fischer

Ricardo shook his head. “Bobby, you’ve really made a hash of it this time.” Good help was so hard to find. Sure, the recruits were eager to learn. They wanted to show the boss they were up to the job, and they wanted the chance to shine. So often, however, when Ricardo gave them the opportunity they screwed up so badly that Ricardo himself was left to pick up the pieces.

Such was Bobby’s mess today. He had tried disposing of the body in an acid bath, succeeding only in putting numerous chemical burns on the corpse. He then tried to hack up the body, but he underestimated the strength and energy required for someone that size to fit into a trash bag that small.

“Bobby, you first start with the head…”

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story: Part 53 – Memories

George may have started to remember the past – but now, try as he might, all his attempts at further recollection were an abject failure.

Eventually, Emily left him to it, returning after a couple of hours to check on his progress. She found George sat on the floor, his head in his hands and surrounded by piles of crumpled-up paper.

“It’s no good – I can’t remember a damn thing! I’m not even sure I ever played cricket any more! I’m sorry… I’ve made a complete hash of things again.”

“Yes you have”, smiled Emily, “never mind… fancy a joint?”

#2 – Symbolism

The Office for the Reintroduction of Forgotten Indicators, Characters and Expressions – ORiFICE for short – quietly works, unnoticed by most, to reinstate typographical nuances that might otherwise fall by the wayside.

This otherwise thankless task has become a great deal simpler, thanks to the internet, which has successfully catapulted some almost forgotten characters into the limelight… consider the forward slash, the ‘at’ symbol and the ampersand – whose fates once seemed sealed.

More recently, ORiFICE – working in collaboration with Twitter – has seen a resurgence of interest in the ailing hash.

However, the biggest challenge still lies ahead… How to resurrect the interrobang]

#3 – The Good Stuff

“Did I ever tell you about Hendrix teaching me guitar at Woodstock?”, the old hippy asked us, eyes glazing over and taking a long draw on the reefer: “Man, you guys have the best hash!”

It was the hash that brought him – and many others – back every time, and we didn’t mind in the slightest – we were on the verge of publishing our collaborative work: ‘Psychadelic Psychotics’.

Some questioned our methodology, but it was all above board – the ‘hash’ we used to mellow our subjects was really tea-leaves… the poor buggers were so far gone, they never even noticed!

TOM

It Was a Sign of the Times

Of all the people Ben could have chosen to head to the special screening
his chose of me to this day puzzles me. He was after all Zoe’s chosen
boyfriend a feat in my circle of friends of lofty success for in the
kindest way she had rejected all of us. Granted I was the most Sci-Fi geek
of us all and was most likely the one to enjoy the film the most.
Kubrick’s 2001 presented in full Cinerama on three glorious screens, but
wait there’s more. Ben had procured two opium dipped hashish joints.
Spaced in Space. Sorry Dave.

A Well Defined Relationship Part 44

Dino Mod stared off across the vermilion horizon. The compromise algorithm
was running through the hash arrays. As the associated identities flash
into his conscientious the full impact of his current situation became
painfully apparent. “Bastards,” railed Dino, “I am so fracked.” He had
signed up for a song and dance mod and somehow he ended up with a multiple
personality carrousel.

“Not somehow … someone …. Wynn … but Why?”

He didn’t have to wait long a secondary diagnostic slipped pass his optic
nerve: Wynn Corp Project Strike Team Alpha. After the reboot Dino sang,
Everybody need somebody sometimes.

SERENDIPITY

You may think me old-fashioned, but I’m very much an advocate of healthy eating, so you can imagine my feelings about a new burger joint opening in the neighbourhood, right on my doorstep.

Knowing my concerns, you might think it odd that I managed to get myself a job there, working in the kitchens.

I had an ulterior motive, of course.

The week after I started, the place was shut down permanently, after the breakfast hash browns were found to contain significant amounts of cannabis.

And you should have seen what I added to the chocolate extra-thick shakes!

CLIFF

My mother knew how to stretch a dollar when making a meal. At least once a week, we had hash for supper and we loved it. For those who don’t know, hash is simply a way to use up the leftovers without it looking like leftovers. Whatever meat she had went into it along with potatoes, some onions, and a sprinkling of spices. When mom was away and dad cooked, it was different. Oh, he still made hash. He was just less discriminating on the ingredients: Spam, maraschino cherries, a jar of green olives, and Flintstone vitamins for extra nutrition.

MUNSI

Not Every Stat Holiday is a Good Idea

By Christopher Munroe

A lot of people called in fake sick to work that day.

Like, a LOT.

A number of businesses didn’t open at all, and those that did, mostly places that sold snack foods, were swamped by the rush of people suddenly realizing that HOLY SHIT SOME CHIPS WOULD BE GOOD RIGHT NOW!!!

The customers didn’t always remember to bring money.

The staff didn’t always remember to take it.

Billions of dollars in economic activity were lost over the course of twenty-four hours.

“Hash Wednesday” was, overall, not the most productive of holidays, but it was certainly a lot of fun…

LIZZIE

How to write something saying nothing

#1 Set your heart on blabbering randomly… I mean, writing serious stuff.
#2 Waste… aham, spend some time browsing for inspiration.
#3 Look outside the window while trying to come up with a story.
#4 Squander … that is spend even more time checking your five email accounts, the ten thousand social networks you signed up to, and your cat.
#5 Brew coffee.
#6 Hash… Hash…
#7 Brew more coffee.
#8 Right, you do need to write something. Now, think.
#9 The cat’s snoring. Perhaps a nap would help you as well.
#10 Ok, procrastinate indefinitely. All that coffee is begging for attention and you don’t really want to take a nap at 10am.

Hash can be a few things, and sure enough, it can be a lot more than I thought at first. Between cryptographic hash functions, fragment identifiers, spatial data structures, a sports mark of some sort, even a military decoration and a running club, it was a bit difficult to choose one direction for this week’s story. So, after procrastinating the whole week, rattling on aimlessly seemed like a tempting option, considering that I, for some reason, didn’t want to write about hashish. Wait a second… What? A hundred? Really? Already? Well then, more next week! Where’s the delete button again?

SPATE

What do you say to a man when he tells you that for his last meal on earth
he wants corned beef hash? Straight from a can. Cold.

Do you ask him if he wants a side of brown bread? Maybe some ketchup?

Warden was baffled. He had encountered other odd final requests; the usual
gluttonous excess. But a can of Hormel? Cruel and unusual.

He pensively rubbed his sandpaper chin.

“Well fuck Warden!” Davidson spat while sprawled hairy ass naked in his
cement cell, “Why should I carry the memory of a pleasant taste on that
stainless steel ride?!”

DIONYSIS CLOWES

The world rolled up under the moon. A space.

Trkl tossed. Slovenly and sleepless in his rack, he turned under the tepid hazy gaze of the moon through the port. Articulated.

Eighteen days waiting. The feeling of waiting. The feeling of feeling the feeling of waiting.

The next day was like the rest, but different. There was something in the dust outside. A ray, he said. From?

Immense distance. Right under my nose. The feeling.

Outside, inside. Up, down. Around. The echo of a long-forgotten — long? — music from somewhere playing. A dancer.

Mark. Another unknown message sent.

JULIE

Rehash

Johnny liked legos. He built bridges and parks for his Power Rangers to play in.

After September 11, Johnny built towers. Tall ones, reaching up to the Powerpuff Girl ceiling fan in his room. He didn’t have toy airplanes, so he used the fancy dinosaur figures from the Museum of Natural History.

Bang. Crash. Towers down. Orange and red legos tumbled down. The cats batted around the pieces.

I walked into the room, kneeling down on the floor.

“Mom, in my adventure, all the Mommys and Daddys and pink power rangers get home to their kids.”

No more TV.

#sadabout911andmediaoverdose

DANNY

Mitch “Hash House” Harrier was crouching behind the stadium clubhouse smoking a large piece of hash from his favorite pipe before he went to work placing the hash marks on the football field for the N.Y. Giants. Mitch was to high to realize he placed the hash marks parallel to the field goals, Later that day, while eating hash and eggs while watching the football game at Ruffie’s Diner, Mitch noticed people on the sidelines kept getting injured every time a team tried to score a touchdown. Now unemployed, Mitch went to the bathroom to smoke another bowl of hash.

NORVAL JOE

Wollimus Pander, revered matriarch of the Women’s Trade Federation reclined her first class seat on flight 1386 from Paris to Atlanta. She considered the actions of Esmeralda Flinch who recently positioned herself as successor to the WTF president.
“Flinch would make a hash of the federation,” Wollimus muttered and vowed to circumvent Esmeralda’s machinations as soon as she got home.
Unfortunately, an inappropriate joke by In Flight Entertainment Man caused the passengers to rush the cockpit and attack the pilot.
As the jet plummeted toward the Atlantic, Wollimus realized it was she who had made a hash of it all.

ZACKMANN

“We emptied a house of walkers because it had off the grid solar panels. The last inhabitant must have taken all the plants which is fine for me, I much rather grow vegetables under those heat lamps. Wade found some Eau de Death, doe in heat scent, and hashish. I asked him not to smoke it. I also reminded him which was doe scent. Wade insisted on going with the scavenging party. Upon returning Beth practiced what she learned in psychology as she mended Wade’s pants but all I could do was dress a buck wondering how satyrs are made.”

########

“We are doing a survey to see how well our ads work. Have you seen our current Twitter inspired ad?” asked the man with the clipboard.

The young woman replied “The one that goes “Hashmark we are idiots whose children told us Twitter existed. hashmark, buy our crappy product hashmark we think you’re at least as gullible as your parents. hashmark, we are too clueless to know that saying hashmark so many times is totally annoying”

“That’s a yes and would you say our ad is very memorable?”

She replied “I remember the ad but what does your company sell?”

TURA

Hash(tag)
——–
@God Boring… #peaceandquiet

@God Let there be light! #creation

@God Water! Land! Grass! Trees! The moving creature that hath life! #creation

@God Isn’t this great? Hello… No-one here, must fix that #creation

@Adam @God What’s all this? #gardenofeden

@Eve @Adam ‘Oo are you? #gardenofeden

@God @Adam @Eve Whaddya think? Follow @God and you’ll live here forever #gardenofeden

@Serpent @Eve Trust me, unfollow that guy. Have an apple #tempttempt

@Eve *scream* we’re nekkid!!!! tinyurl.com/ofo5jkh #gardenofeden

@Adam @Eve A talking snake told you? Were you born yesterday? Oh… #gardenofeden

@God @Adam @Eve Out! #gotcha

@God @Fiery_Angel And don’t let them back! #peaceandquiet

SINGH

30.10

The morning brought a handful of dangling fictions:

battalions of snakes had crawled up from the Ganga,

others saw cobras flying from the moon;

fire-snakes had emerged from the smoking havan.

the ghosts of the Naga kingdoms were here for vengeance.

Atul found Margot at Kamal Devi’s.

She told what happened.

“Don’t worry Madam. I’ll bring

the Gunia. He speaks to snakes

and calls them out. I’ll bring him here.” He went

with Yudhi yapping behind, returning with

an old man, his casteless sweeper neighbour.

Mahadevan sat outside the Madam’s hut.

30.11

The Gunia threw rice grains at the door-slab

and went into a shaking body trance.

The snake mantra came rushing up through him

“Om Chah
Aam Chah

Im Chah

Aam Chah

one hundred and eight times and then again,

then again although he didn’t count.

A crowd arrived, including the pujari.

The Gunia spoke in trance: “Who put the sack?

I can see you here.”

No one stepped up.

Gradually the snakes began to appear

from under the gap beneath the door of planks —

at first the heads with flickering tongues, then bodies

slithering away among the muddy clods.

30.12

The priest was tense.

He didn’t like

the Gunia

a casteless sweeper

intoning mantras

meant for Brahmins.

“Go do your work,”

the pujari said.

“There’s nothing here

just jadu, magic.

Hurry up,

stop standing there.

You’ve all seen snakes.

They are rife this

time of the year.”

Meanwhile the Gunia

could see through him

on all dimensions

while he connected

with the nagas

coaxing them

to leave the woman,

someone of truth,

not like this priest,

trapped inside

his skull of power,

old enemies:

Dalits, Brahmins

and smiled to see

the crowd not thinning

until the show

was well over.

30.13

Mahadevan, snake whisperer snapped back,

slumping forward, spent as a limp cloth doll.

Before the Madam could restrain Atul

he had marched up to his Madam’s door with Yudhi

and opened it. So Margot followed calling

out “Atul. Be careful.” He found the empty

fertiliser sack and nothing more,

no snake in sight, not even a frog. She stepped,

and Yudhi rushed to lap up leftover milk.

She handed money to Atul for the snake man.

“No Madam. It is not necessary.”
“Surely his family…. could they not use this?

“You are offending Madam. Please, no need at all.”

She joined her palms and made a humble bow.

30.14

“Leave, Atul. I need to take a bath.”

She thanked him. “Take Yudhi and go play.”

Closing the door, she looked again for snakes

and finding none, sat and breathed relief.

Soon she was bucket-bathing out the back,

then changing into Indian cambric cotton.

She regretted she had gone to the funeral

in bright colours. Far worse had been her dead

neighbour doing those odd jobs for her

when Yogi left . This had fed the gossip.

Plus she’d never bonded with the women

in this natter-village with male-female sidelines.

Had she brought this Evil Eye on herself?

30.15

She kept to herself, but village life sped up

between the monsoon showers. Atul told her:

“Naag Panchami is coming.” It was the day

when snakes were venerated by new wives.

Atul knew from Didi, his married Sister.

“A careless son chopped up three male cobras

while ploughing earth. The Naga goddess mother

went and killed the son and all his brothers.

His young wife prayed to Naga Mata

in Naaga Loka, seventh realm underground.

She offered a bowl of milk for her husband’s life.

Naga Mata accepted, granting her wish.

That’s why the ladies worship with white flowers.”

30.16

“That’s interesting, Atul,” said his Madam.

“It’s lady-power day! We pray for men.”

“Yes Madam ji — husbands and us brothers.

Nagas have powers. If any are unhappy

they will bite. Or they bring wealth, also.”

So many customs rose like ornate blossoms

from the body of this land.

Atul confirmed:

“The ladies are now stringing jasmine malas,

making rice paste and decorating anthills.

painting them red with kum-kum, placing garlands

and every doorstep will have a five-headed naga

in coloured patterns. We call that rangoli.”

Flicking through her Mahabharata book

Margot said. “I think there’s another story.”

30.17

“It’s time for your reading practise,” Madam said

passing him her Mahabharata copy.

They were sitting in her hut out of the rain.

A torch lit up Khandava forest

killing Takshaka’s serpent wife.

Thus, Krishna and Arjuna ended

the Naga Queen’s right to life.

Revenge is a burning forest.

Twelve years after the Great War

Arjuna’s grandson Parakshit

gaining the throne, had a fatal flaw.

While hunting in another forest

the thirsty king saw a seated sage

who didn’t move when asked for water.

Parakshit burnt up with rage.

“He hung a dead snake on the shoulder

of the meditating forest Brahmin,

with blissful mind in Brahma Loka.

Parashit realised his sin

but it was done. The brahmin’s son,

also hot-tempered, uttered a verse:

“The Kuru king will die by snake bite.

Arjuna’s line will suffer the curse.”

Takshaka, the King of Cobras

took birth again and bit the king

who foamed and died. The next in line

was boiling like a volcanic spring.

Young Rajah Janamejaya

performed a yagna with sacred fire

to kill the serpents of the world.

It became the nagas’ funeral pyre.

Snakes flew into the fire-pit,

until almost the last – the Naga King

coiled around the foot of Indra,

dragging them both, as wrestlers cling.

Astika, son of the fire priest

said: stop it Dad! It will be the end

of heaven and earth if Indra burns.

They ceased and saw Indra ascend

and the Naga king go under earth.

Astika received a boon —

a mantra for controlling snakes

on Naag Panchami, fifth day of the moon.

Perhaps the mantra calms the cobra,

a blessing given to humankind.

Where exactly is Naga Loka

inside the earth, or the angry mind?

30.15

night of fasting day of the snake puja mantras

five-hooded naga drawn on walls above doors

on this day earth cannot be dug red anthills get

libations of milk for the King of all Cobras

snake wallahs on bicycles cobra baskets wearing pythons

young sari wives wave trays of lights lean close to fangs

place jasmine champa white lotus incense garlands

sweet rice kheer pourings of milk

the earth balances on the hood of Shesh Naag

deep down in the ocean Vishnu sleeps upon his coils

today no one has fear of snakes for one day of the year

30.16

The monsoon rains had paused. The sun came out,

Margot kept aloof from the celebrations

taking yellow Yudhi to the Ganga.

He was yapping, disturbed by the snake commotion.

Atul kept look out, The coffee-coloured waves

were rising still.

“Bapu Mahadevan.

He cleared your house of snakes,” Atul began.

She nodded.

“He is coming this way. See.”

Soon he was sitting.

“Namaste.” He said.

She was happy he had come to join them.

She returned the greeting. Then Atul spoke

at length with the older man. Then Atul reported.

Mahadevan began to share with Madam.

30.17

He didn’t like the snake charmer fellows.

They starved their snakes so they will gorge on milk.

“Bapu says snakes die. The milk is poison.”

Atul translated Bapu’s love for the Naga:

how the head and tail are good and bad together,

the start and the ending of the universe.

He told how no one understood a snake.

Snakes brought out fear in the human heart.

Few looked there, confronting weaknesses.

She was surprised. The flowers and milk,

and snake basket wallahs wearing pythons

were opportunists who had no gian, no wisdom.

“They are dead souls inside, Bapu says.”

30.18

“Please ask why he’s telling this, Atul.

I’m grateful, but I’m not sure why he’s come

when other villagers clearly seem to hate me.”

Atul tried to be the bridge between them

but as he talked she saw the water well

in his child eyes. “Because nobody here

will be helping you, Madam ji. Just us.”

The little boy choked on words. And paused, upset.

“But he’s praying to the Nagas to protect you.

He says you’re good, Madam, but times are bad.”

She was upset and held back downpour eyes

and grabbed and hugged the little one to her.

30.17 Mercy

Later on, they walked to Madam’s hut.

Bapu assured her she was safe from nagas,

His mantra was protecting the whole place

though he couldn’t save from the human kind

that planted their sacks of serpents. Still, they

plugged the holes in the walls with plastic bags

and put a strip at the bottom of the door

to keep out frogs. And then they left at dusk.

Mercy’s heart went searching for her Yogi,

wondering why he hadn’t been in touch.

On this day, new wives pray for husbands

and that is what she did all night to Shiva.

PLANET Z

Our days are numbered.
So are the lunch specials at the Chinese place down the street.

This makes choosing what to eat for lunch easy. Just pick the special that matches up with the day.

The place has been open for years. And I expect that it will be open for years to come.

But when the day comes that they close down for good, or the place burns up in a fire, I know my number is up.

Until then, I’ve got my table there, and it’s coming up on noon.

Hungry? Up for Chinese?

Good, because I’m buying.

Weekly Challenge #415 – PICK TWO

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 PICK TWO.

We’ve got stories by:

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of HASH?

Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll fix them as soon as possible.

JOHN

Yin and Yang‘s Main Lesson
by John Musico

Geometry demonstrates Yin Yang theory quite nicely-
Starting with a plain triangle:
add a side; now quadrangle.
Continue on this path of gain-
changing shapes upon the plane.
Pentagon,septagon,octagon more:
to the square we gain now four.
On this path what we have found,
is that the shape becomes quite round;
a shape devoid of sides at all,
the upper limit, then we fall.
That’s the crux that is profound;
that zero’s most;it goes around.
So when to gain becomes obsession,
remember Yin and Yang’s main lesson;
that the nature of procession-
brings us only to regression….

JEFFREY

The Well
by Jeffrey Fischer

“What’s that, girl? Timmy’s fallen into the well? Again?” We followed the barking dog outside.

“How can we reach him in time?” my sister asked.

I looked at the empty road in front of us. “Anything but taxis. I reckon we ain’t goin’ to see one for a spell.”

We jumped on bicycles as Lassie ran beside us. When we reached the well on Farmer Simpson’s property, we raced to it. No Timmy.

We searched one well after another. When we finally found the right one, Timmy was long dead. My sister blamed Lassie, but I pointed out that the dog was always slow and knew only one bark. “Don’ blame her. How could she figger out the dif’rence between them wells?”

Yin and Yang
by Jeffrey Fischer

Whenever Randy has a difficult decision ahead, he makes sure that all points of view are represented. He reaches into his sock drawer and puts on his morally-conservative socks. They’re the ones that tell him to take things slowly, that change for the sake of change is never good.

But Randy is no reactionary. When bold thinking is needed, he’s your man. To represent that side of him, he dons a pair of fishnet stockings, covering up the socks.

When he gets the crap beaten out of him, he protests in vain that his assailants aren’t looking at all sides of the issue, and, besides, his shoe laces are more moderate, but they never listen.

RICHARD

#1 – 52) Stumped

“You complete and utter git!”, exclaimed Emily, before pulling her shoe off and throwing it at George.

Her aim could have been somewhat better, and George deftly caught the missile as it flew towards him.

He smiled apologetically: “I knew being on the village cricket team would pay off! Look, Emily, I’m sorry… but you did deserve it.”

Emily appeared not to have heard – she was looking at him strangely. George fiddled with her shoe laces, uncomfortable under her stare.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“George… you’ve started remembering! You remembered being in the village cricket team!”

#2 – Main Course

One of the great things about travelling the world is seeing the strange things that crop up on restaurant menus.

I’ve eaten insects in Thailand, snake in Bali and guinea pig in Peru – all very interesting, but nowhere near as interesting as the mangled translations that get listed as dish of the day. Like the ‘curry children’ that I discovered in North Africa, which turned out to be goat.

This one had me baffled – ‘Donkey Salad’ – what on earth could that be?

My travelling companion wasn’t tempted: “I’ll have the fish”, she said – but I was feeling adventurous… “Donkey salad, with extra donkey, please!”

Here’s a tip – sometimes, those weird things on the menu are exactly what they appear to be!

#3 – The Party

Everything was going so well until the party.

The campaign posters were out, people were flocking to see us and the ‘Sermon on the Mount’ CDs were selling like hotcakes.

Then we got the invitation to the wedding and the boss stepped in when the caterers let everyone down. Sure, the whole ‘water into wine’ thing was great publicity, but when the boss had a few too many and started doing the lambada on the dance floor with the bride, something had to be done.

But, what do you do with a drunken Jesus?

Actually, I think Judas will make a great messiah, and I don’t think anyone’s noticed the switch!

LIZZIE

That dreadful day at the Kipling’s study group, composed of an eclectic group of people, was rife with unexpected events and Timmy, the host, was beside himself. The Egyptologist blabbered something about fish, a net and stockings and everyone understood he was wearing fishnet stockings. A drunken Jesus showed up claiming to be able to find the alien sparrows. Suddenly, someone hit the switch. Total darkness. As the light got back on, Timmy’s face bore suspicious shades of blue while his morally conservative socks were wrapped around his neck. “Well, why not?” added the ventriloquist. “This is better than cable.”

SERENDIPITY

We’ll never forget the day Jimmy was sliced in two. We told him not to play with chainsaws, but would he listen?

Miraculously, he avoided all his major organs, and it’s amazing what surgeons can do these days… soon, he was up and about, doing almost as well as before the accident.

Of course, some things were difficult, but Jimmy was an optimist, not letting a little thing like being half the man he once was, get in the way of his cheerful disposition.

“Look on the bright side”, he’d say… “this way, who cares if I’m wearing odd socks!”

TOM

A Great Awakening

The Penguin tramped through the snow. “What are those?” asked Frank.
“Morally Conservative Socks.” Ralph shook his head. “I need them because
of my chosen career path.” “Oh, really,” mocked Frank, “And that is?”
“Penguin Chaplin.” “Your making that up?” “Nope.” “Sam, penguins don’t
believe in god, we believe in herring.” “Len dose.” “Len is a idiot,
Penguin Chaplin is a totally fictitious job.” “Oh yee of little faith.”
Well I hope you have more than faith cus your morally conservative socks
are frozen to the rock. “We shall gather at the river …” “Good luck with
that” returned Frank.

A Well Defined Relationship Part 43

The Senator sat on the steps of the church, his Brooks Bro. pants hiked up
his ankles. “What are those?” asked Banister. “Morally Conservative
Socks.” “How can foundation ware be moral or conservative?” “Its like
Mormon Magic Underwear or Socialist wearing red ties, the context of
content is dictated by the juxtaposition of uninfected images. Take the
Department of Redundancy Department a more enlighten populous would
demand the removal of all thous fictitious jobs, but we of the Senate
frame the context.” “With sky blue argyle socks?” “Indeed.” Sparky
appeared ” Love your socks.” “That must be demoralizing” noted Banister.

MUNSI

Changing of the Guard

By Christopher Munroe

The newly elected MPs, some in odd socks, others in fishnets, still others in more morally conservative socks, made their way into the Capital, heads held high.

And why not?

They’d been elected to enact their version of the future, and that’s exactly what they intended to do, bringing with them a smorgasbord of values, principals and ideals.

Opportunity for all, an end to the abuses of the past, a nation where all could prosper.

And friendship, which is magic.

It was My Little Party’s first time forming a government, but they were determined that it wouldn’t be their last…

SPATE

The Magic Show

His trick was simple. Place any pretty, blonde, unassuming and preferably
dull witted assistant into the wooden box. just head and feet protruding on
either end.

Cut on center with a chain saw.

The assistant desperately shrieks before going disturbingly silent. He
slowly separates the box revealing she has indeed been sliced in two. The
audience gasps and screams as they stare in horror at the bloody severed
entrails.

But then the assistant shouts out: “It’s an illusion! I’m okay!”

The curtains close to a standing ovation.

Backstage he smiles knowing that he is more a ventriloquist than a magician.

TURA

Sparrows: Why Not?
——–
In the frozen meats aisle I picked up a hard, vacuum-packed block, and slowly deciphered the Japanese characters. “Two dozen sparrows.” A challenge! I rubbed my “WHY NOT?” medallion for luck.

Back in my tiny apartment I hesitated, then cut the package open and separated the tiny corpses. They were whole. Half an hour later I had a small pile of sparrow breasts, and a larger pile of… other parts. With enough deep frying, I thought, anything is edible. Then I pushed the larger pile into the bin.

Four dozen sparrow breasts make a nourishing bowl of stew for one.
——–

CLIFF

When I heard Larry, the lab technician cursing I came running. He told me that some of the patients were responding to the placebo as if it were the actual drug. I pulled up the supposedly private and confidential files of our paid volunteers and quickly found the problem. Writers. Dammit. Writers were practically fake people and responded differently. As such, they were banned but I could tell from the occupations listed. Sunset designer. Female Body Inspector. Earth worm rancher. Galactic Defender. And worst of all, Congressional Ethics Enforcer. Not a real job amongst them. The test was completely ruined.

They were known as the LWF and they were the strangest criminal organization Steele had ever encountered. They targeted seemingly random people. Age, race, pro-life, pro-war, pro-wrestling, the LWF hit them all. It was armed robbery with a bizarre twist. Each victim was relieved of valuables but also, of one sock. When Steele caught up with them, the cash was found but the socks were gone. The criminals turned out to be political activists who set the socks free. They were the Liberators of Weary Footwear. Steele just called them the morons responsible for the collapse of the sock market.

NORVAL JOE

“Come in,” Halberk Crottage called from behind his government surplus desk. Local Super Hero Liaison was by necessity a low profile job.
A man stepped in. Bright red lipstick matched his flowing red hair. He wore a black satin jacket over a silver French cut leotard, and black fishnet stockings.
“Let me guess. You’re Drag Queen Man,” Halberk said.
“I prefer, just Drag Queen.”
“Okay. What’s your super power?”
“Among other things, I can talk with my mouth closed,” a voice said from behind.
“Why not?” Crottage said. “What brings you in?”
A tear form in Drag’s eye, “Timmy’s Dead.”

SINGH

Ch 30.1

The village priest had set his sights on Margot,

the Foreign Madam. Her sweeper urchin

was also growing up with a smart mouth,

plus bringing that filthy yapper into the temple!

He was ready to blame and cite dogmas of caste.

Let ragpickers stick to sweeping up the compounds,

then stay away on the refuse edge of the village

with those dirty biters and not defile pure houses.

But this Madam was an education do-gooder,

fiddling with the bottom rung of the ladder

that shouldn’t be climbed. He flapped like a fighting bantam,

scratching in his kingdom of cockalorum.

30.2

The sweatshop season brought a year long glut

of swamp frogs into homes. Rats, mice and voles

found cosy huts, and next — the slither realm.

Trinket snakes, keelbacks, vipers, cobras

hatched from anthills, rocky crevices

like phrases growing into the narrative

of waterlogged days and barefoot paddy fields.

Ram, the neighbour was bitten. He foamed and choked,

paralysed cold by the time they brought him back

on a buffalo dray. Relatives and the villagers

prayed and wailed. The pujari said the prayers

around a white-sheet body; then the procession

chanted Ram Nam Satya Hai * to the pyre.

*The Name of Ram is Truth.

30.3

At the cremation, beside cold-coffee Ganga

Margot joined the women in funeral whites

but did not have the right Punjabi suit.

They started to spit with superstitious venom.

“She has no respect! Why is she here, just why?

Gandi nazar! Gandi nazar!” A gossip said.

“The Dirty Eye. Her eyes are evil slits!

Beware your children! She’s stealing them from us —

all because her own man has gone off,”

they surmised. Man-envy was the cause

and lack of having children of her own.

They prattled on. The temple priest just gloated.

Luckily the widow did not blame her.

30.4

Kamal was known for quiet piety,

submerging herself inside her husband-loss

as Margot sat alone with a snoring puppy,

wondering how or if she would survive here.

She remembered the River Oise, those hog-tied,

gasping moments, thrown in witch-float water.

She didn’t understand. A past life flash-back?

Why was she feared? She’d only sought to teach,

and had left behind her own two darling daughters.

It was sacrifice she told herself. She’d come

to give to needy others. Was this delusion

or misplaced missionary ego? It

was then she saw the shadow on the floor.

30.5

Yudhi growled and barked. She held him tight

upon the bed. He barked again. She grabbed

her torch from under the pillow, searchlighting

the hopping frogs, then a long shape struck.

It was a rat snake, brown with a diamond back.

Atul had showed her one on the way to school.

They were not venomous, but if frogs or rodents

came, slitherers would find the holes and gaps

in these reed walls. She ranged her snaky light

around the floor. Sure enough another

and still more nosed from a fertiliser bag.

Someone had put a snake sack in her hut.

30.6

At first she felt

a surge of wild horror

constrict her breathing the frog parlour waited

for macabre partners till each came forward

making a sea of writhing

snakes and victims

marooning Margot

on the boat of her bed

not daring to move

fearing they would smell

her fear. She closed her eyes to breathe and focus

whether projection

or a vision

she saw Lord Shiva

eyes half-closed

in meditative focus

Mahadeva wearing

a risen cobra

around his neck

Vasuki the churning rod

stirrer of poisons

from the primordial

sea of milk

the world floats upon

all now drunk down

by Mahadeva

trapped in his throat

by Parvati’s swift hands

turning it blue

the blue-necked one

Neelakantha Shiva

raising his palm

in benediction

time to leave

five snakes

were busy gorging

Grabbing Yudhi

she stepped between

turned the nob

and fled

30.7 Raindrop

The first big glob of rain hit her forehead

and without any warning the downpour drilled the earth.

Kamal Devi’s hut was her only option —

the neighbour widow. She ran to knock for shelter.

Kamal’s eyes were red, but she let in Margot,

even with the barking yellow pup.

She held an infant girl, had lost her husband

but still she was kind, unlike the finger-pointers.

Margot explained the snake-sack in her hut.

Kamal Devi, named for a lotus goddess,

just nodded knowing the cruelty of the present

that rips out love, yet here she had a sister.

30.8 Shadowlands

Widowhood is the whiter shadowlands.

Entering young, she knew that she would have

to wear for life this simple snowy sari —

the wrapping of death and inauspiciousness.

At best she’d have shaved-head aunty status

expected to stay within the family compound

under Brother-In-Law’s predatory eye,

her child her passport, albeit an infant girl.

She would never marry again, or inherit

any portion of shared family lands.

Her lack of luck was good luck for her brother.

They would let her stay as an extra pair of hands;

and she knew of course she would be ‘second wife.’

30.9

Margot breathed. Kamal made chai.

The night of snakes would slither away.

Two troubled women beneath gruel sky

sharing memories on instant replay.

Kamal Devi with a child,

Margot adrift, still under threat.

Clearly someone else was riled.

Was the snake a trick, a karmic debt?

Her village time was going sour,

parents would hold back each school child.

Some shift in the balance of power

had made the snakes of tongues turn wild.

They were pariahs, three together.

Was this first chapter or epilogue —

with shared loss in rain god weather

for Caucasian, Indian and yellow dog?

DANNY

What’s on my mind!!? I screamed at myself while I ate my donkey salad while hailing anything but a taxi. Fortunately, there was this carriage drawn by a donkey I had not eaten yet, in some kind of odd sock salad form, and in an instant lasting over 5 hours, 45 minutes, and 35 seconds, exactly, I was off to my fictitious job creating a paradox for morally conservative socks designed as fishnet stockings to please the conservative white Republican male perverts who love to wear them while pretending to be Ventriloquists. Even the German Porn sites who love the Scheiße essen are blushing.

CHELSEA

Who do you miss?

I miss him the moment he’s out of my sight. The moment I can no longer smell his sweat or feel his arms around me.

I know full well that it’s irrational, it is just a combination of neurotransmitters in my brain flooding the the receptor sites of the neurons. A complex chemical reaction that I must stand aside and let happen.

That does not change the fact that I can feel the press of his lips on mine and the shiver at the ghost of his touch on my skin.

I miss him so much it hurts and I like it.

Tease!

Hot bath full of bubbles perfumed with lavender bath salts.
Shaving cream to make my legs silky smooth.
Slide the fishnet stocking slowly up one leg and then the other.
Black lace bra and panty set.
Knee length skirt with a zipper slit.
6 inch stiletto heals.
Button down shirt with the top button undone.
Hair in a bun, a few wispy curls hanging down.
Lashes curled and lips lined.
Earrings sparkling in the mirror.
Glasses placed on the tip of my nose.
One quick wink in the mirror.
I am such an awful tease.
But really, why not?

PLANET Z

The forklift robot was in the middle of the warehouse, spinning in circles.

We tried to remotely shut it down, but the communications module was offline. And nobody was crazy enough to climb up on the thing to pull out the power core.

“It’ll stop when it runs out of power,” I said. “We can use the spare forklift in the meantime.”

While we placed bets on the spinner, the spare booted up.

“WAIT!” I yelled, and jumped on the spare.

Just like the other forklift, it began to spin.

“Fucking virus,” I growled, and I pulled the power core.