Weekly Challenge – Page 63 – The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Weekly Challenge #355 – Switch

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. (You were also challenged to come up with a Single Frame Story on the same topic.)

The topic this week was Switch.

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

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

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

CLAIRE

Teddy threw the switch. The heavy machine hummed and spun up to full speed. It drew a lot of power, and dimmed the lights for a moment in the great house. Teddy dropped in the first few items and the sharp blades did their work without bogging down. Next, a few more items, some sweetener, and a bit of liquid to thin the pink slurry. He poured the finished blend into some tall glasses, serving his unaware house guests most of the annoying neighbor that made the mistake of irritating Teddy by playing his dammed accordion so late every night.

###

“Better switch than fight.” The new motto was posted inside the door of the clubhouse. The Khaki Scouts voted to allow girls, homosexuals, and transgender members into their organization. They had fought long and hard, using the power of the national council and the great church in Utah to ban certain applicants, but there was so much pressure and press against them the last few years, they gave in and re-thought their initial ban and organizational policies. Rather than fight the courts and lawsuits, they opened their membership to anyone who applied, except of course, ignorant, bald-headed coffee house proprietors.

###

Miss Tuttinhamshrope made sure all students saw the willow switch hung behind her desk. She had permission from all the parents to apply the switch to the backside of any student that talked back, spat, smoked, swore, talked out of turn, was tardy, wore their pants low, acted slutty, misspelled words, texted during lectures, answered out of turn, lied, cheated on exams and quizzes, bullied, were late with assignments, got out of their seat, wet their pants, burped, farted, made faces or teased, picked their nose, pulled hair, made obscene gestures, or showed any sort of disrespect to an adult.

###

The squirrel’s switch wiggled and almost vibrated with excitement, as it discovered a bag of unsalted cashews on the little deck off the kitchen. Grandma was cooking and “absent mindedly” left the cashews on the table. The hungry squirrel tore at the cellophane bag and some cashews tumbled out. As he chattered and barked, his friends and his mate came running to gather up what they could, stuffing them in their mouths and retreating to the nest, high in the tree. The following week, the squirrels had bags of peanuts left on the table, then pecans, walnuts, hazels and brazils.

JEFFREY

Switched at Birth
by Jeffrey Fischer

Although I grew up in a loving household, I always felt a little out of place. Where my parents were short and squat, I was tall and lean. They had dark, smooth skin, while I was light-skinned and hairy. They insisted on a protein-heavy diet; I was a vegetarian.

One day my suspicions were confirmed. A wandering minstrel said I was switched at birth, and my real parents had raised another child.

“This is terrible!” I said.

He insisted I had the better of the deal. “You are the heir to the kingdom.”

“But it’s the frog kingdom. I’m the prince of the frogs! What could be worse?”

The minstrel strummed a chord. “Well, young princeling, your true parents are chefs in a French restaurant.” He licked his lips. “Truth be told, the lad’s legs were delicious.”

***

A Different Perspective
by Jeffrey Fischer

My boarding school was big on discipline. Minor misbehaving earned you extra chores. Medium-sized trouble, like being caught smoking, got the extra chores and additional hours of phys ed. But major infractions brought out the switch, an old, rough one, with a well-worn handle. As the punishment was public, this was both painful and embarrassing.

When the boys took control of the school and kept the faculty as prisoners, we decided that turn about was fair play. But seeing Mr. Melmick’s bare ass quickly dissuaded us of that. From then on, misbehaving teachers just earned demerits.

LIZZIE

The monster inside

Sometimes there’s a feeling that makes the mind stray away. He flipped a coin. The break-up was so sudden and most of all foolish. Heads. He would look her up and make amends. Valentine’s was coming up and it seemed to be the right moment. She would be impressed and would leap into his arms, an open smile on her beautiful face. When he showed up at her door, a rose in hand, she had already moved on. She was going out with someone else. His mind roamed away once more, this time desperately trying to avoid the switch over.

TOM

Hand Cranked

Grandmother was displeased with me. She told me to go find a switch in the backyard. I had no idea what I did wrong, but by the dead look in her eyes I knew I must find an appropriate switch or risk raising the level of her discontent. So I cut off a willow branch about the thickness of my thumb and hoped for the best. Grandmother exam it and laughed. “No child one of these switches.” She connected the weathered switch to the magneto. Grandmother had been a gegeneur is Sothern Algeria. I woke up with three broken teeth.

SERENDIPITY

Number two yawned, scratching his crotch reflectively.

Number Three looked at him critically: “You’re becoming a bit of a porker!”

“Hey, you shut it! You’re jealous, just because you do all the running around”

“Hardly a job, is it… flicking switches?”

Number Three looked longingly at the invitingly large switch on the control panel…

“Can I, just this once…?”

“Bugger off!”

The bickering was interrupted by the telephone’s ring; Number Two snatched the handset.

“Yes boss! Immediately!”

“What did he say?”, asked Number Three.

“He said”, replied Jesus, reaching across and flicking the switch to ‘ON’…

“Let there be light!”

AEQUITAS

We called her Sergeant Major due to her fondness for corporal punishment. We were lined up outside her classroom for dinner. I had a green ticket. A green ticket meant your father had died. I was embarrassed so i was acting out. Sergeant Major heard me and brought me in to stand in front of her class and receive punishment. She used a leather strap rather than a switch. She put her body in to the swing of the strap making for an effective cracking noise as she delivered.

MUNSI

After the Adventure

By Christopher Munroe

…I’d switched the idol for a forgery. So by the time Heinrich’s crew found the temple and deactivated its booby-traps, I’d long since absconded with the treasure.

That’s where my troubles began.

I don’t know the first thing about fencing ancient artifacts, and I’d financed the expedition on money borrowed from people who wouldn’t accept “…once I find a buyer” in lieu of cash.

And to make matters worse, Heinrich will definitely figure out that I have the thing eventually.

He’s not stupid.

I expect this isn’t over…

…also, there’s a horrible curse, but that’s a story for another day.

TURA

“Mr. Benn visits Second Life”

Mr. Benn arrived at the costume shop, and went in. As if by magic, the shopkeeper appeared. “I have something new today,” said the shopkeeper. “Would you like to switch bodies?”

“That sounds interesting,” said Mr. Benn. He chose a purple-haired anthropomorphic cat with a long, bushy tail. Then he went out by the other door, the one that might lead to adventures.

On the rolling green hills, all kinds of strange buildings popped into view around him. Some of them floated right up in the sky.

“Well,” he said, waving his new tail, “this will certainly be an adventure!”

DONDO

The bet was simple. If my team won, I decided on the date and what she’d wear, and if she won, she’d decide. Her team won, and I regret leaving the terms of the bet so open.
She said that we’d reverse roles tonight. She would hold the doors open, she’d pay for dinner, and she would wear the pants.
I went along with all of that, even wearing heels.
But I’m having trouble with her last request, how do I give up the one thing I’ve never shared?

I’ll cry when I hand her the keys to my Mustang.

WHISKEY

Switch on a Smile
“I learned at a young age how to tell truths cloaked in humor. If you can make someone laugh, you can say anything out loud. Even the darkest words aren’t so heavy when they’re framed in sarcasm or jest. And if I ever went too far, said too much, opened my mouth just a little too wide and let some of the scary stuff spill out, well, I could always switch on a smile and say, “I was just joking.” No matter. It was just a joke.”

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

“Daaaaaaad!”

I trudge half-asleep down the dark hallway. My feet are freezing on the hardwood floor.

“Daaaaaaaaa-”

I open the door mid-yell and survey the room. Nothing under the bed. Window closed. But there’s a red glow and hint of sulphur from the closet.

I grab the SuperSoaker from his shelf and open the closet door. A demon bares it’s teeth at me. I pull the trigger and cover it in holy water.

“Done,” I tell my son. “Now go back to sleep.”

“Can I have a drink of water?” he asks.

I raise the squirt gun again.

BOTGIRL

Screech! The car lurched to a halt. The acorn I’d thrown with all my might hit the driver in his face. I dropped from the tree and ran home. A minute later he pounded on our door. My father answered and took the brunt of the driver’s rage. Next thing I knew, I was getting spanked for the first time in my life. It didn’t go well. I was so upset that a blood vessel burst in my eye. My father sprained his wrist. That was also the last time I was spanked. Good thing he didn’t use a switch.

RICK

It all unfolded right there on the porch.
Them 5 bullies was goading the tall nerdy boys into a fight!
Both tall, skinny, wore glasses … and their mamas dressed them kinda funny!
The shorter nerd reckoned the taller boy was more scared and started in with some name callin and such.
The taller boy kept saying “I don’t wanna fight you”, then the mouthy nerd said “you’re just a damn yankee” …
… was like he’d flipped a switch!
The taller boy, lost it, punched him square in the face!
Knocked him out!
Blood everywhere!
Them bullies ought be ashamed of themselves!

CLIFF

You learn a lot when your parents are hillbillies. I’m sorry, Redneck Americans. Anyway, when I misbehaved as a kid, my dad would send me outside to get a switch off of one of the trees. He’d use it to raise welts on my backside. So this one time I thought I’d be funny. Instead of the woods, I went to the garage and brought back a light switch. Dad wired me up to a car battery and flipped the switch a few times. To this day, I can’t go in a hardware store without twitching just a little bit.

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

Bait N Switch

Pepe had a plan!
He knew that he was a born leader, he just needed followers!

Gain control of the minds of a bunch of troops and all else will fall into place.
Pepe traded his tea to a Chinaman for a thousand Hersey kisses.
How deep into the trenches could he get with these as his lure to join his plight.

I mean seriously, who can resist a milk chocolaty kiss?
Mind you these were specially laced milky kisses…
Just take out a bit of the center chocolate and switch it with the right drug and viola an army!

REDGODDESS

The hotel goes all out on Valentine’s Day. The penthouse suites are scattered in flower petals, couples with the Cupid Package get champagne. When did Valentine’s Day become a litmus test for relationships? Lola had made a switch to lower her expectations. No dates on February 14! Not sure when she lost the romance. Perhaps the thoughtless gifts of past lovers. She was almost in tears when she saw a book and a card leaning on her door. “I never liked poetry until I met you. I think of you when reading this.” Lola picked up a worn copy of Anais Nin. She smiled.

ZACKMANN

The villain tied her hostage to a railroad track then made the call “Give me a bazillion dollars or bad haircut boy has sung his last song”
The hostage started chanting “Oh baby baby baby Oh”
The young woman really really wished she had been able to gag her victim. She placed her phone where his screams could be heard, The train was coming at him fast or would have been if not changed directions at the switching station.
She asked “I won’t go overboard and kill you because then the radio would play your songs constantly for several months.”

NORVAL JOE

“Be ready to flip that switch when I shout ‘go'”, Flerdy told Borle, pointing to a silver toggle on the console.
Borle held out his hand, ready to act.
The hyperdrive capacitors screamed as they wound higher and higher.
Flerdy struck an ancient tuning fork and placed its base against the ship’s console. When the whining drives matched the fork’s tone, Flerdy screamed, “Go.”
With a flick, everything went black, inside the ship and out.
In the sudden silence, Flerdy said, “The switch engaged a string drive. It’s theoretical. We’ll have to wait to see if it takes us somewhere.”

Patrick groaned beneath a tremendous weight. He desperately sucked air into his burning lungs to keep from passing out.
“Do you give?” Mangus asked from his perch on his brother’s shoulder blades.
“No,” he wheezed.
“You’re a changeling, you know. Fairies came to switch the real Patrick for the worst kind of demon when you were just a wee babe.”
“You’re the demon,” Patrick cried at his brother.
The wiener dog smiled an evil grin. He knew he was the changeling. The malicious fairy who switched him with the Irish Wolf hound pup hadn’t been the cleverest of the bunch.

DANNY DWYER

“Do I hit the switch now?,” the conductor in training asked the experienced train conductor. “Ah, Ya, might be a good idea since we are speeding into the station.” The Trainee flicked the switch. The train suddenly slowed down, then calmly entered the subway platform, before coming to a swift, yet gentle stop. “What’s the trick to conducting a subway for as long as you have?,” the kid asked the senior. “Don’t become an alcoholic,” the conductor retorted. The Trainee replied, “Honestly, how did you conduct a subway for over 30 years without being an alcoholic?” “Just flick the damn switch.”

JUSTIN

Mars City, new foothold of the human race, and a new home of horror and death. The scientists unearthed something, and like any good scientist, they poked it, prodded it, and opened up a gate to Hell. Now Delta Labs is filled with demons and baby Satans, clawing at my armor, reaching for my soul. I hope this room has supplies. What? Lights switched off, I hear a door open… the hell? Demon with a chainsaw?! The only light is from the shotgun blasts, illuminating teeth, blood and chain. I’ve got to get a better post next tour of duty.

PLANET Z

We couldn’t trust Ted with a dog or cat.

Or a fish.
Or a mouse.
Or…

After we tried every pet in the pet store, we finally got Ted a pet can of soup.

That’s right. We gave Ted a pet can of soup.

It’s safe.
It’s cheap.
And we can always buy another.

Ted walked up and down the soup aisle, unable to select a can.

“I want to take them all home with me!” he cried.

“Just one,” I said.

In the end, he went with a packet of Lipton mix.

So it could fit in his pocket.

Weekly Challenge #354 – Black

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 Black.

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

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

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

CLAIRE

He left me with a black eye and a loose tooth. I picked the fight during half time. We stood face to face, and he said something about removing his jacket, and pow! One to the mouth with a quick, straight right, and a left jab to the eye. One-two! I stood there, stunned, more embarrassed than hurt. He was a country boy, and his dad or his big brother taught him the trick that caused me to lose two front teeth at thirteen. I walked away, head down, staying in the shadows of the stadium lights, crying and embarrassed.

Black is the color of my true love’s hair, although it is getting very thin. She does everything she can to thicken it up, or treat it to give it more body and cover, but I can still see the bare and thinning patches. I want to suggest she get a smart hat, or silk scarf, but then I would have to explain why, and it would be too awkward or embarrassing for both of us. She never says anything about the patches of dry skin or little rashes that pop up on my face so often. Bless this woman.

The black ones are favorites. Yellow, second. When I was a kid, I used to put a black one in one nostril and a yellow one in the other, and go on about my play. After the jelly beans warmed, the sweet smell of licorice and lemon filled my nose. Folks would give me a sidelong glance, but never say anything. When I went into Mister Fong’s store to get a soda, I had forgotten the jewels in my nostrils. He was a quiet, polite man, and didn’t say anything, although he offered a hankie after I bought my drink.

The edge of the room at the ceiling was covered with a smoky swath of black mold. Deadly I heard, or at least not good to breathe. We got the house cheap, but had to rip out all the interior walls and insulation. You could wring water out of the fiberglass. Some of the studs were rotten, and had to be removed. Wire was re-rerouted, and some replaced. The seller was a deacon in the church, and when he and his wife signed the contract, they smiled warmly and gave us the fine, gold Parker they signed the contract with.

SERENDIPITY

Black Anniversary

Appetiser

The car came to an abrupt halt and he glowered at me, before exiting, slamming the door behind him in the blackest of his black moods.

It was my fault we were late of course, why could I never be ready on time? This time though, it was intentional – payback for the affair that he thought I didn’t know about. The same affair that had driven me into the arms of Marco.

Almost dragging me into the restaurant, we were led to our table – the waiter, hovering anxiously, could obviously sense the tension.

“It’s our anniversary!”, I explained, smiling broadly.

Entree

I ordered the garlic mushrooms, eliciting a snide comment about their effect on anniversary kisses. I can’t remember the last time we kissed and meant it, garlic or not.

He settled for prawn cocktail – I knew he would… so predictable, and oh, so boring. I’ve never known someone so black and white; and you can forget any shades of grey!

We ate in stony silence, as my thoughts turned to Marco and the week in Europe we’d planned – I smiled at the thought of the tickets in my clutch bag, resting on the table, right in front of his eyes.

Main

The main courses arrived – my venison cooked to perfection, whilst he wouldn’t have noticed if his seafood linguine was half-cooked and cold, such was the relish with which he wolfed it down!

Ten minutes later, and he was looking decidedly queasy, no doubt thanks to the rat poison lacing his black, squid ink pasta sauce. The idiot just sat there, too damn proud to make a fuss.

I asked him if he was alright, only to receive a withering look. Well, what did I care anyway?

The waiter appeared, clearing our plates away and slipping me a surreptitious wink.

Dessert

“I’ll order for you”.

He was in no state to argue; I signalled our waiter – Marco – and pointed to the menu – “This please, and black coffee”.

The desserts arrived – his looked good enough to eat – I’d spent hours preparing it while he was in work.

I could see he was struggling: a panic-stricken look filled his face as the battery acid sorbet worked its way into his system. Desperately, he grabbed his strychnine-laced espresso, downing it in one…

He’d never complain about my cooking again!

“I’m just going to powder my nose”, I murmured, slipping from my seat…

TOM

Leave the Light On

Blackness had never been my friend. As a child I had multiple rituals to keep it at bay. The closet door had to be ajar exactly ¼ inch. Bedroom door ½ inch to maintain the respective glow from each space which grayed the heart of blackness. The radio had to be tuned to Music Till Dawn. A sheet had to be on top of the navy blanket covering face, feet, and hand. As a child I thought Monsters hide in the black. These rings of early warning keep me safe. At 60 I’ve learned the Monsters hide in the white.

JEFFREY

Closing Time
by Jeffrey Fischer

I staggered, a look of shock on my face. The bastard had shot me! Oddly, I felt no pain. The coward took a last look at me, stuffed the gun down his waistband, and fled. I tried to pull my Glock, but found that I couldn’t move my arm. Instead, I toppled over backward, hitting my head on two bar stools before landing on the floor, sticky with spilled drinks.

I stared at the ceiling, the soft recessed lights boring into my eyes. I couldn’t blink, I couldn’t move, I could only look at those lights, now starting to dim. Fade to black. It was closing time.

The Usual Tipple
by Jeffrey Fischer

The two strangers sat next to one another at the otherwise empty bar. They started talking, as men sometimes do.

“I’ll get the next around,” Ray, in an usually generous mood, said, signalling to the bartender. “What’s yours?”

Gary said, “Johnnie Black.” The bartender reached for the bottle and poured, then pushed the glass toward Gary. He took a sip.

Ray hoped his credit card wouldn’t be rejected. He kicked himself for not finding out what Gary was drinking before impulsively offering to buy the round.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what makes the Black Label so good?”

Gary considered the question for a moment. “Well, there’s the smooth, smoky taste, but…”

“But?”

“But I’d be a liar if I didn’t say it tastes especially fine when someone else is paying.”

MUNSI

I Finally Get Around to Endorsing an Energy Drink

By Christopher Munroe

I am thirsty.

Life is empty.

Why? Why isn’t there an energy drink for me?

Isn’t there?

Bev-rage, an energy drink by Goths, for Goths, is finally available, assuming you can face the conformists at your local store.

Available in three flavors, Black as Night Black Current, Black as the Raven’s Wing Black Cherry and Black as my Soul Salt-Cola, Bev-rage provides the energy you need for moping, writing poetry, or just sitting alone listening to old Cure records through oversized headphones.

All the activities a Goth might need energy for…

Bev-rage, buy it.

Drink it.

Quench your existential thirst.

CARMSIE

The blackness of coffee

From lips to ears and back again sad memories were whispered. Silver spoons in coffee mugs clinked in the background.

A door opened. Heads turned and the room froze.

Mum walked in.

As she took a seat several voices nervously tumbled over each other.

“He’ll be missed.”

“We all loved him”.

“He’s at peace.”

Mum smiled wanly.

“Have a coffee. You’ll feel better,” suggested Aunty Joan. The others nodded.

While she sat sipping her coffee an ocean of tears tracked crookedly down Mum’s cheeks.

My family thinks the blackness of coffee cures everything … but it doesn’t.

LIZZIE

“Don’t touch the button, Cindy,” commanded Tommy to his cousin.

“Why not?”

“You’ll be sucked into that keyhole,” he pointed at the pantry door.

“What’s inside the keyhole?”

“A box…” Tommy was enjoying this.

“What’s inside the box?”

“A black hole,” Tommy replied.

“What’s in the black hole?”

Tommy thought nothing, but reconsidered, because Cindy was full of questions these days.

“You…”

Cindy giggled.

“How can I be there if I am here?”

“Black magic…”

That’s when Cindy pressed the button.

“Where’s Tommy?”asked her aunt when she realized the kids were too silent.

“In the black hole… perhaps with me.”

ERIKA

Black

His irises expanded in the candlelight while she considered that all eyes have black centers.

Windows to the soul, she thought on an inhale as he fingered her chin.

Wicks crackled, held transfixed in the bittersweet burn of their siren flames. Vague memories of a preacher’s sermon on abstinence rippled across her tongue in a fleeting attempt at resistance, but the night swelled with instinct as the lovers pulsated toward midnight.

The blackness between stars howled like a wolf and caressed her soul with slick onyx fingers. Craving midnight’s touch, she sacrificed herself to the hypnotic burn of dark hours.

RICK

Her first memories were of auras.
Shifting, sparkling, brightly colored emanations …
each singularly unique!
Each a window to the soul from which it radiated.
She loved to meet the people with the bright auras,
and had learned to avoid those who had lost their sparkle and shine!

She saw him as he walked toward her.
She stopped in her tracks, her mouth open wide.
His aura had no color, no sparkle … no emanation.
It sucked from the auras of others …
diminishing them.

An aura so BLACK!!!
She knew she faced a demon!
She shrank back …
Just a child

TURA

I remember the blacksmith. He was actually black, the only black man we’d ever seen. He called himself Jack, but it can’t have been his real name. Where did he come from? How did he fetch up there? He told some tall tales to us children, but he never really said.

One day the King’s men came, demanding one man from every village. Later, they would take more. One lad volunteered (dead now, of course), but they insisted on taking Jack as well. I think they knew who he was.

I never saw him again. I don’t know what he’d done, back wherever he had called home. His story is gone, ground into the mud like so many others, in the war.

ZACKMANN

So glad it is the new year and all the apocalypses of 2012 have been avoided. I was very disappointed that several times I received emails from a certain electronics store telling me it is like Black Friday all over again. The Email reads like a horror version of Groundhog’s Day in which you relive the worst shopping experiences of your life. Day after day of standing in long lines in subzero weather to not be able to buy anything you came in for because nothing in the ad is stocked. Does reminding us of this pain really increase sales?

CLIFF

My senior year of college, I interned at a newspaper staffed by a bunch of salty old guys who were far from politically correct. After the unfortunate article about Senator Ruiz, the board of directors insisted that the newspaper install censoring software. All offensive language was sanitized before publication. The journalists loved it. They didn’t have to monitor themselves anymore. Lazy writing and bad habits were cleaned up automatically. Even the editors stopped relying on their own judgment. It all fell apart when the headline on the local section proclaimed “After years of debt, city firmly in the African American”.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY

The third minute ends, and everyone’s heart takes a beat.

If it can. For some, the strain is too much. Others were flying, driving, swimming, and are now smears on the landscape.

Everyone else is alive again.

There were no gates. No fires. No waiting virgins, or cycles, or wheels, or reincarnation.

Just black. Absence. Nothing. No feelings, no sensation, no joy, no fear.

But now, three minutes after everyone’s heart stopped, they know what waits.

And no matter how hard they pray in stone boxes, worship the planet among the plants, praise someone, anyone’s glory, they know.

They know.

BONCHANCE ND SEVI

White by Severina Halostar and Bonchance Longfall

This is the season of my discontent.
Everywhere I turn there is a white horizon.
The ability to discern objects from this desert of frozen water has long since left.
Shutting eyes tightly, feebly fighting off the blinding whiteness bestows red relief only for a moment.

Exhausted from my body’s endeavour to transform energy to heat,
through endless shivering, saps all remaining vigour and the cold sinks deeper into my soul.

As I lay in my bed of white covered in a sky of pale,

I embrace the bitter cold. I feel slumber taking me.

Gradually, all fades to black.

JUSTIN

Colonial Marine Arnie was separated from his squad, if there was a squad left. The corridor was long, lights flickered. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped down onto his rifle, which pointed the way into every dark corner.

Arnie looked up. Something was above him, in the girders and the wires, he knew it. No reason or rhyme, he just knew it. Every few yards, he looked up, but nothing.

He looked up again, and all he saw was teeth. He backpedaled, screaming until the gun clicked empty, leaving only himself, and an alien corpse smoldering in the corridor.

NORVAL JOE

“You know. Maybe we slipped through a black hole. We were getting really close to the galactic center,” Borle Phlegmbburn suggested.
“I wouldn’t think so,” Flerdy Torquespindle replied sarcastically. “First of all, you’re supposed to spend eternity, falling over the brink into the black hole, while your final seconds stretch out infinitely. Besides, we would either be blasted back out as light energy or consumed in the hole.”
Flerdy entered data into his ship’s computer.
“What are you doing?” Borle asked.
“I’m backing up. Maybe I can reverse this weird jump if we just go back the way we came.”

Leopold gazed into the depths of her eyes. Two solid black pools reflected his own image back to him. His insecurity and doubt were blatantly obvious, even with his images in miniature. He loved her, yet he was incapable of telling her so.
There was aristocracy in her line and nothing but mundane commoners in his. Her sire Lord Willhelm Pookie Schnapps and her dam, Princess Magdalena Frankfurt Wiseburger.
And his parents, they just called them Shultz and Helga; how plebeian.
She would be the queen of the show, and he, just a plain, old, black and tan weiner dog.

FREJ

Black. That was all he saw. Black space, pricked by stars. Even Zeta Reticuli was eclipsed by Beachball.

He took his binoculars, set them to maximum amplification and high magnification, and swept the starfields.

Nothing.

He flipped his fighter upside down to scan the other half of the sky. Still nothing.

An IR scan: again, nothing.

The enemy ship was too far away and too cold…

Or not. He had an idea. He scanned Beachball in IR.

There! The silhouette of an enemy fighter, cold against the warm planet!

He aimed carefully and fired.

An explosion, then the blackness returned.

SINGH

Singing the Black Dog

I have been bitten by the black dog, the one frothing at the mouth for no reason. Yes, she left the india-inked note on my table with a black rose; and now the madness does not stop. All I have is her heartless black rose of a poem that makes me froth at the mouth each time it sings inside me:

Down we lie
on the grass each night
and hear the snap of firelight
you nestle back – I am your piece of turf
we face the crash of the surf
how long can we lie
under black sky
adieu

PLANET Z

I take my coffee black.

No, not without sugar, cream, or milk.

Or whiskey.

Black. As in solid black.

Pour some ink in there. As long as it’s black.

Got some paint? Better be watercolor. Because tempera and house paint are way too thick for coffee.

Take a step back.

Does that look black enough?

No?

Then turn out the lights. Board up the windows, and put blankets over the boards.

Not dark enough?

Then cover your eyes with cotton and wrap a scarf around your head.

And…

Shit. I tipped over the coffee mug.

Have you got a flashlight?

Weekly Challenge #353 – Tea

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 Tea.

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

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

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

RICK

As she led him through the pasture the full moon lit the way.
She selectively plucked the mushrooms of her choice from the cow pies.
Once back home they were cleaned. boiled, and finally strained from the tea.
A packet of Kool-Aid, heavy sugar, and lemon juice.
Herbs, a candle, an incantation.
They finished their glasses in one swallow.
DELICIOUS!
As she refilled their glasses
Reality swam away from him in long steady strokes.
It was then he saw her for what she was …
A Sorceress!
In her eyes he saw the reflection of a man enchanted …
Soul forever lost …

CLAIRE

Every pouring of the special, hot tea was ceremonious. Eddie made elaborate flourishes with the teapot, flipping the porcelain cup in the air, before pouring the Earl Grey with aplomb. He tossed a small, silver spoon into the air, and it landed directly into the middle of the ornate teacup without the hint of a splash. He sliced a fresh lemon, behind his back, without looking, and placed the wedge carefully, edgewise, on the saucer. Eddie was an artist, and people would make it a point to go to the truck stop to see him work, regardless of being teetotalers.

The tea, or elixir, she poured was guaranteed that I would attract females. I paid the gypsy a thousand dollars for three of her potions. The last–the tea, would complete the course she insisted I required. Had I known what kind of females I would attract, I would have gone elsewhere for help dans le département de l’amour. As I exited the gypsy’s storefront, I bumped into a slim, attractive, blond. I excused my clumsiness, helping her to pick up her packages. She scowled and told me to fuck off, and screamed “watch where you’re going, you clumsy oaf.”

Millie only drank chai tea with soy milk and a smidgin of savia. She was a total aficionado of the stuff, and when she drank it, she held her pinkie high, like the Royal Mum at afternoon tea. She was stunning in her appearance, but her habits were annoying, ostentatious, and I felt embarrassed to sit with her at the coffeehouse. She affected a pseudo British accent, only slightly covering her Brooklyn accent, which made the whole scenario that much more bizarre, but entertaining. I put up with her affectations as her husband and co-owner of a large, liquor chain.

JEFFREY

The Doctor
by Jeffrey Fischer

In the 1970s, I ran a small hospital in a war-torn African country. We had few medical supplies and were chronically short of painkillers, but we always had plenty of tea from a nearby plantation.

When patients came to me in severe pain and mortally wounded, I personally served the tea. Laced with strychnine, it ended their suffering in as humane a way as possible.

Of course, eventually the authorities got wise to my unusually high mortality rate. A general sat in my office, a serious look on his face, impatiently tapping a leg.

“Tea, General?”

YORDIE

Tom & Viv & Me
by Yordie Sands

On a late August afternoon, while dancing around my bedroom, in my undies, I was suddenly swept into a time vortex.

Instantly, I was standing in a parlor filled with old people. A spectacled man mumbled: “I shall sit here, serving tea to friends…”

Ever so politely I said, “I’ll have sweetener in my tea, please.”

The guests turned and glared at me. A man asserted, “Young woman! T.S. Eliot is not serving tea!”

And the woman beside the great poet shouted, “Tom, who is this slut?!”

Untroubled, Tom made a cowardly amends for what Viv had said to me.

EXPLORER

TEA
by Helen R. Starr
Tea is not Coffee, yes; coffee has a smoky flavor, but is not seductive like tea.
Teas preference’s are a matter of choice or blend of leafs white, green, black,
or Oolong. She’s not your pinky toddling English drink anymore. Tea, seduces
the biggest of men with medicinal essences.
Tea a companion in a cup, she’s warm, earthy, and seductive. Just boil a pot of
water, get your favorite cup, and pour after a stressful day. You are never
alone with a cup of tea.
Let the warmth seep through your soul, take a deep breath, hold, and exhale,
Aah.

LIZZIE

Come over for tea, and they did. Cinnamon.

We have all been there, she said and they thought she was slipping into the abyss of an improbable mental decay.

The fireflies have lit up the garden yesterday, she said and they thought “hallucinations”. She was still so young.

Oh, and I had the most refreshing dinner with your cousin Edwin, she continued, and they thought “Edwin is dead”.

When they left, Edwin’s spectral figure glided down the stairs coming from the attic. It’s cold up there, he complained, and she pointed at the teapot and replied “they just wouldn’t leave!”

MIATA

Southern Iced TEA

I was in horrible turmoil! Life on all sides, divorce, work, problems, were chasing me,
I could not breathe. Closing the door, I turned around, and saw you. All confusion flew
away. I breathed in quiet, happiness, and serenity. I sat down to eat with you, took in
your smile, your laughter…..your eyes. You held your hand out for mine and as I
grasped it, my hand slid down the glass of tea, feeling the contrast of cool water
droplets and the warmth of your fingers. My soul was finished with its journey….I’d found
peace.

ZACKMANN

“Look a cafe”
“Weren’t you a regular cola drinker?”
“Not for years now, I had to cut down on sugar and am not giving up cookies so I now drink unsweetened tea usually Tejava”.
“Do they call you Mister “ea now?”
“No but I am calling my next cat Tee Morris”
“why?”
“Something Pip said about working with Tee is like herding cats”
“Well, I am naming my next cat Earl Grey”
“why”
“Because English Breakfast Blend is a really stupid name for a cat.”
“Look my tea leaves are telling me something.
“Really what?”
“I’m out of damn tea.”

MUNSI

Tea

By Christopher Munroe

As you know, I work at a restaurant.

As you may not know, prepping pots of Tea is annoying.

It’s more steps than other drinks, so I have to wait in more lines, and half the time we don’t have clean teapots and I either have to wait or hand-wash one.

Which isn’t to say you shouldn’t order tea. It’s your meal. If you want tea have tea.

However, so you know: Next time somebody orders a pot of tea, I make it, get back and their friend orders a pot of tea, I’m burning the place to the ground.

SERENDIPITY

The tea parties had been fun at first… the Hatter’s endless riddles and jests with the March Hare amused her, although she often felt sorry for the poor Dormouse, not that he ever seemed to mind the antics they got up to.

Eventually, the whole thing started to get on her nerves; the constant swapping of chairs and the never-ending supply of awful – always cold and far too strong – tea.

Alice determined that today would be her last.

Politely declining another cup, she brushed aside the Hatter’s protests, informing him with relish exactly where he could shove his teapot!

SINGH

Tea Cup

“Let me reading your tea-leaves, Darling.

I see backseat love in woods, hand leading to altar. I hear ‘I do’, I see lift off, interstellar journey. Arrival.

He peels off face – strange blue skin, eye-sockets. Pin-hole mouth? Darling, You have married alien!

Ouch! Impregnation gun. Clinic. Thousands behind glass. Meal-tubes. Your nine months, then joy — a blue boy.

Strange blue life in sky condominium. Blue Planet TV hours. Then, Blue Academy, his graduation. Your work is done, Darling.

‘Goodbye, Earth-Mother.’

Return. Wormhole.

Landing lights. Drop-off in woods. Green! You are home! Home?

~
Another cup of green tea, Darling?”

TURA

It began when her parents named her Téa. Of course the kids at school would call her Tea, even some of the teachers. It wouldn’t have been so bad but the family name was Kapp.

Then when her brother was born they called him Kofi. But things really went wrong when she overheard her parents talking about more baby names. Her mother suggested “Chai”, or “Lati”, but her father wanted “Beanie”.

They’re orphans now. Nothing was proved, but I can’t say I’d blame them. They were adopted, but whatever were the social workers thinking? Their new parents are called Mugg.

BONCHANCE and SEVI

Pepe had a plan.

Reading in “Hello Mutt” magazine tea was very popular in America. Brewing a perfect cuppa took time and patience, said the article.
What a perfect back drop to his Mary Jane investment. He could open a tea emporium as a front to his spice operation and make millions!

Opening day came quickly. Pepe spread the word about his special tea blend.
All you had to do to get a bag of stash was say “make it spicy”.

He opened the crate of his special shipment from Chairman Meow only to find it full of meow mix!

The Yin and Yang

Black or creamy
Sweet or savory

Delicate leaves evoke emotions as
The tender plant is harvested
Aromas fill the air
Surrounding you
Rituals in abundance
Showing respect
To humankind
An offering

Displayed through the swirl Of a ladle
Eyes fixated on gentle movements
Of the dance
With a graceful finish
As the steaming pure water
Flows down into fine porcelain
The Yin and the Yang

Raising the vessel of desire
Up to your nose
You breathe in anticipation
Of the musical release of flavours
That will fill your mouth
Awaken the senses
You offer the ritualistic chalice
To your love…

JUSTIN

Adam Jensen sat in his apartment, recuperating from everything he’d been through. He sipped tea, watching the news. Picus TV repeated his broadcast, telling the world what he had decided they needed to hear. The media poured into the minds of the world, their brains steeping in the information. Newscasters added their own flavors to the story, some were soothing and calm, others spicy and gave heated arguments. But would the world listen? Certainly they would believe the TV, as they always did, but would they make rational decisions, and make positive change? Or would humanity stay exactly the same?

CLIFF

Jared heard the zombies scratching at the door and knew they’d soon be through. He had thought that if he made it out of London, he’d be safe in the country but the plague was here waiting. He’d taken refuge in a shop, but they’d found him. When the door splintered, he announced “Have a seat. Tea will be served shortly.” The undead looked confused but each quickly found a seat. Jared gripped the cricket bat and stepped towards his customers, thankful that the English loved both their tea and manners. “One lump or two?” he asked and started serving.

NORVAL JOE

“I thought we’d see more stars, out here.” Borle Phlegmbburn said. “It looks like a cup of tea I once had on Cretus IV. Black with little bits of white stuff floating in it.”
“Those white spots out there aren’t stars. They’re galaxies,” Flurdy Torqespindle replied. “The reason you see so few of them is because we’re most the way to the universal expansion limit.”
“You think we’ll find any fish out here?”
“That’s kind of a stupid question for an inter-galactic ichthyologist.”
“Well, it’s as smart as, ‘How in time and space did you get us clear out here?”

###

We always avoided Gramma when we kids were feeling a little, how would you call it, irregular. Most kid’s moms would give them castor oil, or if they’re lucky prunes.,
Gramma couldn’t wait to dose you with her special wiener dog tea.
I always thought they were saying wiener dog pee. It was yellow and smelled bad enough. Found out it was actually the water of boiled berries from a bush that grows over where gramma’s old wiener dog is buried.
They say on full moons the ghost of that dog still pees on that bush. I believe it, too.

REDGODDESS

Tea by RedGoddess

Lola misses girls’ night out with her best friends. Since they’ve gotten older and juggling jobs and families, they’ve seen each other less. In high school, they used to hang out every day after school over soda and a basket of fries at the local diner. They gossiped about everything and give advice about boys. Life was so simple when together eating their problems away. These days, soda is not gonna cut it after dealing with her nasty boss. At home, her sister knows just what she needs to take her mind off her troubles. She makes a potent pitcher long island iced tea served with box of brownies. They talk for hours, reminiscing over drinks until they both pass out on the living room floor.

PLANET Z

I’ll try to explain this again:

In England, tea is something you serve hot in a teacup.

But down in Texas, when people ask for tea, they’re asking for iced tea.

And in Georgia, they’ll want that tea sweetened.

The seven-eyed mass of tentacles writhed in understanding behind the bar at Sosquorphosh Station.

Wait.

No.

He actually signalled for his Xophobian bouncer to throw me out of his place.

Which really sucks, since this was the only bar in Sosquorphosh with a human-breathable atmosphere.

Um… the Xophobian hasn’t put me down yet.

Oh shit. He’s carrying me to the airlo-

Weekly Challenge #352 – Bird

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 Bird.

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

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

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

Cliff’s Cat

CLAIRE

The last bird to leave was on schedule. We climbed aboard and flew out of the area. The water was rising, and rising fast. The old guy that lived nearby, built a very big, wooden ship, and he loaded his family and pets on it. As we flew over, we waved and gave him a shout with the bullhorn. We could see that the deck of the ship was already covered with animal crap, and his wife was busy cleaning and scrubbing, frantically. It would be a while until the water receded, but Noah was determined to ride it out.

The other kids called him a pin head, dweeb, and bird brain. Eddie was different. He kept to himself, and only communicated with a couple of other kids and his teachers. He could not communicate with most people because they couldn’t understand him, and he would launch into diatribes about things so intricate and multi-faceted, they would be puzzled and confused, so they gave up and walked away. Eddie went on to form a social media company that became an instant hit, owing to the use of free subscriptions and total anonymity, guaranteed in writing and backed with a bond.

The Church of the Gooey Death and Discount House of Worship had an ornate motto over the portico. Carved into the granite, the words: “May the blue bird of happiness crap in your birthday pie.” The parishioners, for the most part, were a group of acerbic hipsters. Their average age, 25. They were white-collar workers, and made good money. The came together to form the church so they could dodge taxes and have a quiet building where they could burn doobies before Sunday fixie rides and rollerblading. They gave themselves unusual monikers, and outdid each other with their church regalia.

RICK

He sat in the shade watching a bird patiently wait for someone to toss a fry out the window. The company takes thirty minutes for lunch, whether you use it or not. Unfortunately the two burgers, one soda, and most of a large order of fries was gone in about four minutes.

Inspiration struck!

For twenty minutes he tied french fries to a long piece of twine, tossed the fries to where the bird could see them, the bird repeatedly swooped in, grabbed them, and tried to fly away.

Sky Fishing!

Another attraction for the carnival of the easily amused!

DETLEV

BIRD is what my autralian friends say to a nice girl. And BIRD is as well a movie by client Eastwood about „The troubled life and career of the jazz musician, Charlie “Bird” Parker“. We all know the BIRDs in the garden but in Hamburg the BIRD is „New York style bar & kitchen“ Where they believe in serving the finest burgers and steaks possible by using all fresh … – no not BIRDs. The BIRD project aims to develop a fully functional dynamic IP Routing Daemon primarily targeted on Linux.

So BIRDs are all over with many different feathers

TOM

Cloud CocoLand

“Pawlenty” “Nope”

“Jindal” “OH please not again.”

“Ok Jeb” “Have you seen the daughter’s rap sheet?”

In a cigar smoke filled room a small circle of men fell silent. “What the fuck was Christie thinking?”

They checked the Q Board: Under 5% for the Senate, the Congress, the General staff, and the Right Media.

“What about Fortune 500?” All 9%ers.”

“So we might as well run a dancing bear.”

“Funny you should say that.”

We do have someone with a 99% Q, strong showing with women, liked across all ethnic and racial groups. On paper a promising candidate, Anger Bird Red.

###

Teacher’s Pet

When I was in the 3rd grade our teacher was moving to a new city. She sadly wasn’t able to take her pet with. She had a writing contest to see who would be their new caretakers. I wrote about my grandmother’s parakeet. How it would sit on her shoulder when she called. I wrote if I had a parakeet I would let them sit on my shoulder. “Take good care of Frank,” said my teacher handing me the cage. Not ownly did I teach him to sit on my shoulder I taught him how to peck open a Carotid artery.

DERRY

Bird – by Chickory McMahon, Read by Derry McMahon

BIRD!!!! I want that bird, gimme that bird.

It is plump, there’s a lot of meat on that bird.

That bird would be delicious eaten raw, right here, right now.

Or that bird could be best grilled and lightly sauced, served on fine china.

I pace back and forth, watching the bird, waiting for the right position, the right trajectory.

I’ll need just the right angle to grab that bird. Ahh, there we go, I launch, I reach…

I slam into the picture window.

Alas, there will be no bird for me; only a can of processed cat food. Sigh.

CARMSIE

Bird

He arrived one spring, my bird. It was his song I noticed. He wasn’t a cheepy, chirpy bird. His voice was melodic, beautiful, magical. Like an exotic scent it filled the air, sweeping me away to places warm and distant. While his lullaby crooned the sun to sleep I looked for my bird. I had to see him. But, safe in his leafy haven, he hid. He was shy. Then one wind-chilled dusk, daubed with coloured leaves, there was silence. My ears ached desperately with seeking but he’d gone. I still wonder what he looked like, my bird…

JEFFREY

Civil Disobedience
by Jeffrey Fischer

We arranged to protest federal funding for the immensely profitable Sesame Street characters. As the tallest, I dressed as Big Bird. We also had an Oscar, a Bert – or Ernie, as I can’t keep them straight – and those two old opera dudes.

An old hippie wandered by, wearing a tattered Celtics #33 jersey. He said something about Sesame Street being “our street,” so Oscar yelled back, “Get a job, you birdbrain!” The hippie kept walking, flipping us the bird as he left.

After an hour, we went home. A little birdie told us the suits at PBS were parroting to the police the corporate line about trademark infringements and an arrest was imminent. I ditched the costume and walked off, free as… well, you know.

MUNSI

Birds

By Christopher Munroe

I want to make a movie.

Specifically, a Hitchcock movie from 1963.

I want to do a shot-for-shot remake of “The Birds”, set in the modern day, with a cast of contemporary actors, who will be forced to behave as though they were the actors in the original film.

The only difference will be the birds themselves, who will be computer-animated representations based on the popular video game Angry Birds.

The film will be in 3d.

Search your heart, you know this to be true. This is not a dumber idea than half the reboots that came out last year…

KIRIL

This Meeting is Called to Order

I am a bird, a pigeon to be specific, president of the Pigeon Anti-Defamation League, Long Beach Chapter, an organization created to fight for the rights of pigeons to do our thing unmolested, and not made fun of. We demand the same un-fettered access to public spaces that other critters have.

We also take issue with certain businesses who refuse us access, discriminating against Pigeons, and other birds, in their business model.
However, pigeons being pigeons, getting them to focus during a meeting can be difficult, especially if there is food around. Organizing a mass protest march is near impossible!

LIZZIE

When they got to the gas station, Bert had an idea, and ideas do tend to be dangerous, especially coming from Bert.

“Let’s rob this joint.”

At first, the other ones laughed. They were just going for a ride.

Then Ian changed his mind and, in a matter of minutes, all agreed it was brilliant. Rob grabbed a stick from the crates lying about. Dave slid his cap backwards. They were ready. They walked in. They screamed, threatened, took the money. They got famous. Their name was fierce, BIRD.

Oh, they got famous alright… in jail, and it wasn’t pretty.

SERNDIPITY

Much as I love technology, I’m not one to fall for the latest fad or the current trending app… I’m no spring chicken, and unlike the younger generation, who take to such things like a duck to water, I’m a bit of a goose at adapting to change.

Let’s talk turkey: I don’t understand Twitter and tweets, cannot play Angry Birds, and Phoenix Viewer just ruffles my feathers. Much as I’d like to spread my wings, it’s a chicken and egg situation, where my best efforts are a complete albatross.

My learning days are long gone… dead, as a dodo!

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

Mr Cinnamon

Mr. Cinnamon, with his bright yellow coat and sprinkles of brownish red fell off his perch at birth, then nursed back to health by a loving boy.
He was the strongest singer of the flock, with the most beautiful trill that soared through air. As day entered, he would burst into song to greet the day and his loving companion.

The boy’s heart and soul would take flight with the gift of song.

One morning, the boy found him at the bottom of the cage.
He and day break mourned the loss of his song, from a most precious bird.

Goose is cooked!

Pepe had a plan. He needed to buff up and decided to try that fad “bird diet”.
He would be the sexiest mutt in town in just 30 days!
~~~~~
Pablo’s destiny had changed! He happened on a goose that layed golden eggs!
Caging the priceless fowl, he went to pawn the first golden egg.

Pepe came home from the gym. Ma and Pops were madly searching the house.

“The goose, the goose is loose!” Pablo bellowed. “We need to find the goose!”
Pepe stealthily removed the white goose feather from the fur on his chin and joined the “search”

TURA

The urge impels me out onto the air, then up, up to the sky. I circle until it says, “this way!”, then on, on across the rocky desert. Lizards scurry below but I am not hunting them. The destination approaches, and I exult as the prey lights up in my vision, then diving down, down, until–

Thirty miles away a soldier shakily took his bionic helmet off and placed it in his lap. “You got him,” said his supervisor. “First time, right? You’ll get used to it.” He placed a finger to his lips and winked, “but it’s always good.”

CLIFF

We were working in the yard when I noticed an odd pile of feathers near some bushes. When the feathers moved, I realized that it wasn’t a pile. It was a hawk. He had been sitting there calmly watching us string Christmas lights around a tree. I decided to get as close as I could. The bird was staring into our side yard and as I looked around the corner, I saw a cat staring back at the hawk. Which was predator and which prey? I left them to work it out for themselves and I went back to decorating.

TAMMI

Stockholm Syndrome

He croons in my ear, soothing sounds late at night. I cluck my tongue back at him. We understand each other.

Sometimes, he is noisy, and I cover the cage with a blanket and put it in a closet out of sight and mind.

I may have forgotten him there for several days once or twice.

When I remember, I bring the cage out into the light. I change the seed cup, the water dish, and the paper lining.

After he has eaten, he flies out the open door to my shoulder.

He croons. I cluck. He forgives me.

REDGODDESS

Bird by RedGoddess

Monday is the worst working day! Lola is back to the daily grind at the hotel. Holiday festivities and romantic getaways with her lover are replaced by sore feet and demanding guests. She misses waking up to bird songs and sweet air instead of city traffic.

It’s time to reinvent herself, focus on paying down debts and aim her sights on a promotion. Work she can handle like a trained magician. But its not management, unless you are paid appropriately. No matter how hard she works, she knows it won’t protect her from disappointments. But she needs more from life.

NORVAL JOE

Owen was stunned from his landing on the stone floor of the throne room. Cindy sat on the throne shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She spoke but might as well have been a bird chirping for all the noise from the agressive goblins.
The rest of the company took up defensive positions. Elbownor worked at the princess’s bonds while Owen cleared his head. He scrambled to join them on the dais. He turned to regard the snarling goblins who inched hesitantly forward.
The slavering goblins rushed, but with a whoosh, the companions found themselves in the tunnel above.

I was pretty hard to get along with as a child. I never had any friends, and even my imaginary friends would desert me after only a few visits. Eventually I got an imaginary wiener dog. We were like kindred spirits and Hurley remained with me until he died at the ripe old doggie age of 17.
He annoyed my mother when he began bringing presents home. A lizard, a bird, even a bunny, their necks broken and bodies left neatly on the living room floor.
Killing the neighbors rottwieler was too much. After that Hurley had to stay outside.

SINGH

A Bird in the Bush
The road led to green ferns and bushfire-black gumtrees around the bend. Then, pinging like a submarine sonar began, or was it little goat bells about to break cover? Instinct put a rock in the boy’s hand. He threw straight into the heart of the tree. Freakishly, something yellow dropped to earth. Like a fetch-dog, he ran forward, kneeling with intense regret. A bellbird. Dead. His sudden tears could not bring this warm yellow fellow back to life. Powerless, he felt responsible, he felt the end of innocence and the shock of initiation into a new squawking avian life.

Caged
From then, birds flew pell-mell across his fate-path. They led him into the backyard aviary his father had built before deserting he and Mum one day. The boy stared at lovebirds kissing on their perch, while budgerigars and cockateels made friends with his head, and finches were orbiting satellites . Comforted, he crouched on his heels as they cracked seed, gargled water, preened, squabbled and warbled. He imitated their pecking-order behaviour and copied how they tucked themselves into feathery necks at sunset. During school, he preferred crouching down the back. Not surprisingly, this earned him the nickname of ‘Bird’.

Bird Years
Bird grew increasingly quiet in school. It worried his teachers. Neither did he mix with his peers, sitting apart. Instead of cheering for the school team, he stared at ground-zero sparrows, or followed uppity pigeons crash-landing on the telephone wires. Everywhere he went, he met and made friends with starlings, pigeons, magpies or mopokes. He sympathised with caged cocky and sclerotic parrot. He deepened his birds-eye view of things. Closing eye-lids, Bird wheeled with the gulls, soared with the sea-eagles, travelled through long-distance bird-vision to the other side of the cockatoo continent and beyond.

Mother Bird
She was deeply concerned about his low scores at school, his withdrawn manner with everyone and herself. She thought this was due to the desertion of her husband. She knew nothing about the death of the bellbird and his totemic bird world. She had not interfered, thinking that he was not out on the streets while out-back in the aviary. She even let him bring Braggers his favourite budgie into the house on his head or shoulder. But some change was needed, so she sent him to her parents for the holidays on the south-west coast near Perth, Western Australia.

The Colony
His grandparents were strangers he met for the first time. Pop had claw-fingers from POW years in German coal mines and ate honey, while Nanna had a clandestine relationship with the sherry cupboard. Bird saw, but was unmoved. The big reward of the trip was joining the returnee colony of magpies in the backyard. For years, Nanna had fed them meat-scraps They now numbered to 157. Remembering extinct Moa birds in New Zealand, he made his own feathered cloak and sat down warbling in bird bliss. Pop thought he was autistic, while Nanna was a bit bird-mad herself.

Birds and Girls
Puberty arrived. He grew into a wiry adolescent, but had little ambition to go on dates to the movies. Once, for a dare, brash Brenda from No 7 sat with him on the curb under the maple. The neighbourhood hid and watched. Her love-bird lips put salty wetness on his cheek as she took his hand to her breast, but he merely replied with coos and clicks, unstirred by her willing passion. Not one to give up, she said: “You are a real weirdo, Bird.”
But she secretly liked his shyness and was still willing to go all the way.

Workshift
Bird left school and got a job at the cannery. It was bean season. Somehow the metal tins spinning down wire runners worked hypnotically on him and he turned his head sideways with birdlike puzzlement. He’d always been sensitive to sharp ringing, but had locked away the grail of all sounds — the bellbird’s call. One day he would have to answer to it.
Then, his mobile rang.
It was Brenda: “I am picking you up after your shift.”
Somehow, they had become close. She’d offload her troubles and every latest sexual adventure, her ups and down. He would listen without judgement.

The Tattooist
One-day, passing through the arcade, he heard a high-pitched whining coming from a shop. He went in. A tattooist was at work with his electric pencil drawing a dragon around a man’s kneecap. With sudden insight he knew what he had to do. When the dragon man was gone, Bird pointed to the picture in the catalogue of a tall feather with bits of fibre disintegrating as a tiny spiral of inky-black ravens. He pointed to his shoulder. ‘Take off your shirt.’’ Said the tattooist. He stencilled on the design and soon Bird had his first totemic tattoo.

The Transmogrification
He went weekends for over a year. Brenda, helped plan his full body avian transformation. Starting below, the tattooist drew ostrich claws and feathered thighs. His front torso gradually became swirls and spirals of finches, swallows, wagtails, doves, honey-eaters, owls and blue falcons. He had them interwoven around a plum-blossom branch, while on the centre of his back, the electric gun grew a large tree. At its core was the yellow bellbird half-hidden, with a galaxy of perching fowls around it. The sound of the tattoo gun was the closest he and Brenda got to a sexual thrill.

Bird Mates
“This one looks really lovely,” Brenda said lying naked on the bed next to him. She was simply more relaxed with a man without her clothes. It hardly mattered to Bird, but he had learned to snuggle and appreciate human warmth. Still, he barely talked. It didn’t mattered to Brenda. She nattered on enough for both of them. As a sign of her affection, she also wore a redbird tattoo on her back shoulder. She ran her finger lightly over the raw surface of his massive feather-shoulders design, completed an hour ago.
“Wow! With wings like these you could actually fly.”

The Call
The tattoo-work done, the inner pinging began. It led he and Brenda to lookouts and tall buildings. The call of the bellbird told him to find the highest pylon of the Sydney Harbour Bridge, take off clothes and offer his bird-body to the wind.
“Bird!” she shouted. But she grabbed too late.
Like Icarus falling he entered the water clean as a blade between a ferry and a liner. His splash was insignificant compared to the churning of the big boats.
So ended the odd brief life of the boy who would be bird, the world none the wiser.

PLANET Z

It feels like I grew up watching Larry Bird and Michael Jordan, but those guys played in my teens and twenties.

Still, I cheered for the Dream Team and the ruthless way by which they defeated their opponents.

And then there was the Nothing But Net series of commercials for McDonalds, where the two superstars challenged each other to increasingly difficult and absurd shots for a Big Mac and fries.

By the time one won, the burger and fries were not just cold, but likely a health hazard.

As if the greasy fast-food wasn’t a health hazard to begin with.

Weekly Challenge #351 – Mustard

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 Mustard.

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

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

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

DAVID

I have never understood why ketchup is so popular with fries. I use
mustard instead except when the ketchup is specially made or organic.
It’s funny that both ketchup and mustard are standard on burgers and
hot dogs, but not so much on fries. Ketchup usually has sugar in it,
by the way; whereas, most mustards don’t. For sweet mustard, the
sugar is usually something tasteful, like honey. So mustard rarely
has high fructose corn syrup unlike the typical brand of ketchup. Do
me a favor, would you? The next time you find yourself ready to grab
that bottle of red stuff, reach instead for the yellow and enjoy the
sour, the hot, the sweet, the dijon, whichever…taste your pick.

RICK

A Thing Or Two About Crabs

Blue Crab is the pride of Southern Maryland! There’s five parts to a crab … claw meat, leg meat, body meat, shell, and the mustard. The meat is all good! The shell don’t pose no real problems if you know what you’re doing, but, that mustard is some nasty stuff!

The mustard is the renderings of everything in a crab you’d never want to eat … heart, lungs, guts, and feces all cooked into a greasy yellow paste.

If you’re smart you clean out that mustard first thing!

If you’re lazy maybe a little mustard is acceptable.

If you’re mean you tell the yankees it’s where the flavor comes from.

MOUSY

Waking from my nap is glorious. The sunshine coming through the curtains feels like warm sparkles. My eyes open to see soft blues and happy yellows—hints of cottony pink on my blanky. Poby is right beside me, snuggling my face as I greet the afternoon. He’s my Poby ‘cause he’s white and soft. “Hey, Poby. What’s this?” Something squishy and warm. It’s pretty like Big Bird. “I know; let’s do like Mama showed us and make our hands, Poby. Swish yours up and down, like the sun.”

Daddy and Mama come in, “Is that mustard? It smells like…”

CHRIS THE NUCLEAR KID

Ingredients: hot dogs, buns, mustard, relish, ketchup, and cheese.
Step one: cook the hotdogs on a skillet at medium heat until slightly crisped and hot.
Step two: place the desired number of buns on a play and put a slice of cheese in each.
Step three: place hot dogs in buns, one per bun.
Step four: add desired amount of relish.
Step five: add desired amount of ketchup.
Step six: add desired amount of mustard.
Step seven: add a side of chips.
Step eight: add a desired drink.
Step nine: enjoy your fine hot dog creation and try new things.

JEFFREY

Perspective
by Jeffrey Fischer

Barbara heard the rattle of a knife at the bottom of an empty jar. She cringed as she waited for the angry voice. “Barbara, you worthless bitch, we’re out of mustard! How am I supposed to make a sandwich without mustard?”

Jim had always had a short fuse, but lately his tantrums had become more frequent. He exploded at the slightest frustration, often accompanying his torrent of verbal abuse with a good smack or two.

This time, instead of digging into the pantry to check for a new jar, Barbara pulled her .38 Special from her purse, checking the chamber to ensure that it was loaded. Maybe Jim needed to rethink how important mustard was to his well-being.

ZACKMANN

“What is this?”
“It is a container of Mustard Seed.”
“Father, Why Do we have Mustard Seed?”
“The same reason we have a bread box, son.”
“Dad, How can you put bread into a mustard seed?”
“Well son, No one really needs a box to put bread in anymore but so many people use that expression, “Is it bigger than a bread box?”, we needed one so you children would know how big one is and there is that Bible verse about “Faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains” therefore I bought a container of mustard seed.”

“How is the restaurant business going, Manager?”
“Great the black and white ad form in the Pennysaver is working well. We really have a lot more customers with that grey coupon.The thing is I promised the owner’s wife that I would help reduce the amount of salt he eats but he loves mustard so I would add some vinegar and water to his favorite condiment. I had an easy time when he had poor eyesight but his laser surgery worked really well. Now he sees everything and it really bothers me now that I can’t cut the mustard anymore.

KIRIL

Life is like a package of hot dogs.

You can choose what type of dog

to eat, but the number in your

pack may vary.

When you eat your hot dog

you can put a variety of mustard

on it, even wrap it in a bun,

or do something corny.

Your life can be regular, or spicy, honey,

just be aware that, sometimes,

when you least expect it, the

mustard comes off the hot dog.

Don’t just keep eating the same dog,

and moving on…expand your horizons,

exercise your balls…and give

Smack My Ass & Call Me Sally a try.

TURA

There are nine rooms… and the cellar, where no-one goes… except… I cannot remember.

I have taken to counting my steps. I can manage only six before resting. I enter a room full of potted plants, orchids, indoor palms. The Colonel is here, his back to me. “Good day, Colonel,” I venture, but he turns and bears a look of such savagery that my knees give way in terror. As the blow descends, I realise that it is I, Dr. Black, whose body will go down to the cellar, killed by Colonel Mustard, with the lead piping, in the conservatory.

SERENDIPITY

My first paid employment was a weekend job at Balloni’s Ice-cream and Burgers – a family-run establishment on the sea front. It wasn’t particularly glamorous: I was expected to wipe down tables and generally keep the place looking clean and tidy.

Anxious to impress, I hit upon the idea of displaying everything behind the counter in neat, alphabetical order… that was to be my undoing.

First customer of the day – two cornets, with chocolate sauce and sprinkles – with a flourish, Mr Balloni produced the ices, then reached behind for the sauce.

French mustard with sprinkles was not a success!

MUNSI

How To Make a Sandwich

By Christopher Munroe

The perfect sandwich isn’t difficult to make.

Bread, cheeses, meat of your choice, the ingredients will vary.

The important bit is, while eating, understanding your tiny place in an enormous, uncaring universe and, instead of fearing that realization, embracing it as liberating.

After all, if your place in the cosmos is essentially meaningless, you needn’t worry about petty problems, and are free focus on life’s small pleasures.

Like a good sandwich, for example.

…and mustard. Mustard’s also important.

So there you have it, the perfect sandwich. Theoretically easy, practically nearly impossible. I hope you one day manage to eat one…

ARCHANGEL OF AWESONE MICHAEL MOORMAN

Sandwich Apocalypse

You’ve gotta believe me! I have found the prophecy of the Sandwich Apocalypse! It states that on March 10, 2029, God will make an Earth sandwich! The first sign of the Sandwich Apocaypse will be the raining of mustard from the heavens in a massive wave, much like the squirting of a mustard bottle! Then, pickles will fall upon the Earth, smashing every major city! Then a rain of ketchup will fall upon the earth, much like the aforementioned mustard wave! After that, the world will be eaten by God! Wait a sec, where’s that rain of mustard coming from?

TAMMI

Little Red

Joe thought he was styling in his mustard t-shirt all summer. I thought he was dorky with his awkward gait and buck teeth. I mean, who wears mustard?

But that afternoon, his eyes caught mine and stirred the pit of my stomach. For years, he had been the goofy boy next door, and I had never shared this adult awareness with anyone before. I went inside to catch my breath and check my look in the mirror.

They left to get the pizza, and Joe did not survive the accident.

Everyone mourns the boy; I ache for the man.

TOM

In the Library with a Wrench

If you live long enough you will have at least three careers. Take the Mustard Man for instances, the actor famed for inquiring if your Rolls was stocked with a jar of Grey Poupon. Before his commercial career he had the dubious distinction for being the first actor on Broadway fully nude in Marat/Sade. Late in life he became the King of shattering the the 4th wall in the BBC production of House of Cards. A postcard child for power corrupts who chats with the audience drawing them into complicity.

You might very well think that; I couldn’t possibly comment

DR. FRAN

Tree House by DrFran Babcock

When I was young, in the Bronx, my mom set pineapples on the windowsill to ripen. I placed dollhouse furniture in their tops, creating magical tree houses. I could spend hours amusing myself in this way.

One day, my mom came into the kitchen while I was playing, pulling a jar of mustard out of the fridge. She looked at me saying: “I have to clean in here, find someplace else to play.” At that moment, the mustard jar crashed to the ground. She cried out, glaring: “Why does everything you touch turn to shit?”

LIZZIE

Lunacy and a song

The song is playing in the background, the distorted sounds of a mean man. Just don’t look at the Queen, shout out something, something obscene. And everyone looked and yelled and built a boat to sail up the road. Madam, Madam, go get a man, but not one like Pam’s old dirty brother with a ten bob note up his nose. Hold that bottle and squeeze it out of your glaring eyes. The clothes have a tone, a stain or a medal. A cheap man from a song is playing the Beatles in the background, playing softly from a hole.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

Jesus paused for a quick breath, the crowd hanging on his every word. “…for lo, though the mustard seed is the smallest of all seeds-”

“Actually,” the nasal voice ripped across the crowd. “It’s not. Obviously mold spores are smaller.” The speaker stood up, straightened his hair, and adjusted his inevitable bow tie. “Even among plants the mustard seed is far from the smallest.”

Jesus sighed. A brief waggle of fingers, then Matthew, Judas, and John leapt on the man and brought him to the ground, silencing him.

“And,” Jesus said, “God abhors time travelers. Got that? Totally hates them.”

SINGH

Loving the Goddess of Mustard

She loved mustard – not that gloop grand-kids squirt up walls, courting summary execution. She pined for pungent stuff in sweet pots from ye olde oaken vat, whose floating crust the once-upon-a-time mustardeer’s apprentice probed with a paddle. If it broke and sank, he’d say. “This cuts the mustard not, Sirrah!”
At snack time, she’d sliver ham and tomato, then bite into her cracker lathered — not with any Betty-bought-bit-of-bitter-butter. No. Long ago, she had sold her soul to the Devil’s Kitchen for a wicked spoonful of hit-the-sour-spot, gold-standard mustard.

*
Born of ancient stone masons and kitchen goddesses, the Mustard Goddess lived on Mason’s Parade with the jolly good Colonel, her devoted protector-partner. Both practised The Precepts: thou shall not waste Time, Money, and certainly not Mustard. Arcane wisdom put sugar into vases and roses bloomed long; spinach and bananas wrapped in newsprint stopped sweating in the fridge; left-overs paid it forward to tomorrow’s remix lunch. The thrift goddess had maintained everything with deep regard for its intrinsic and sentimental value, while the good Colonel quietly acquired new items of innovation. She included all in her dragon treasure hoard.

*
Meanwhile, the OJ decanter and skim-milk jug clinked and chatted about budgetary constraints, while the TV watched its own portable news broadcast, and midday movie as she multi-tasked, polishing life’s Laminex bench tops. Around her, gadgets whirred and stirred. A timer sang, the dishwasher slurped as she programmed the time-travelling microwave to cook the future in 60 seconds. It all made sense in a squeaky-clean universe. Ironically, she was at home with kitchen technology, although the Colonel’s computer and gregarious on-line life she viewed with a wary eye. “You are wasting time.” she would say.

The fact is, she worked hard in her micro world, ready to plan for the proper entertainment of guests. This made sense. A friend was someone sitting before you, talking in the flesh, not somewhere down the internet superhighway.
As the Angel of Order, she welcomed visitors to stay in their granny flat. Out There, disorder could be accommodated safely with old plates, cups and used cutlery. She provided a tray of fine teas – Earl Grey Blue Flower, Oolong Lychee and her favourite – Prosperi-T. She thought she had everything covered. That was until the unexpected return of the Messy Son.

*
The prodigal had roughed it with holy-men in the land of tea plantations, seen big stinking urban slums and was on speaking terms with germs and chaos. He dumped his disheveled kit and road-bitten guitar. Instinctively, he ignored the satellite kitchenette and launched a midnight guerilla raid on the mothership pantry. Next morning, the Mustard Goddess found her kitchen in shambles. This opened a unique chapter in the Mason’s Parade annals, related occasionally at dinner with ready wit by the Colonel, or when dressed penguin-like in dinner-suit with cummerbund as Grand Pooh Bah at his Masonic meeting.

To express this devotion at the altar of the Mustard Goddess, the son in question had wolfed down left-over pizza, pulled off both the drum-sticks from tomorrow’s chicken salad, broke off some hunks of expensive cheese, added olives, pickles, thick hackings from the ham-bone and cracked the seal on three of her premium mustard jars for variety. It was a fulfilling feast, especially leaving the refrigerator items such as pickle and mustard jars out ringing his empty plate of scraps, rind and bones like sentinels of a mother’s love. This was the unconscious message he was sending her.

As psychologists tell mothers with challenging children, raiding the refrigerator is an archetypal act. Its rites-of-passage importance cannot be understated. It has to do with bonding. The mother is the refrigerator. The needy child must feel he has access to his parent at any moment. Thus midnight snacking, especially on expensive sacred hands-off taboo foods such as special cake, ice-cream, or if in savory need —sausage, or cheeses with pickles and of course – mustard, is the child crying to be fed at the breast. Leaving a visible mess behind is an act of highest love for her.

Unfortunately, the Mustard Goddess saw red. The open olive, pickle and mustard jars around his plate were not like broken columns of a temple surrounding a sacramental feast. It was mess and mayhem. After clearing up, she went to complain, but found him gone. She waited to pounce all day, but he didn’t return until midnight again that night, when he once more paid homage to the Mustard Goddess, raiding her fridge a second time, leaving evidence of his love as before. Sleeping late in the flat, it was convenient to slip away unseen by the side gate for the day.

*
She had had enough and waited up on the third night, but he didn’t come. She knocked on his door, and after there was no answer, she went in, only to find the bed unmade, cushions and dirty washing willy nilly. His note was on the table:
Dear Mum,
Happy birthday. Gone for a music festival. Back Monday. By the way, got you a present.”
Indeed, he had bought her a gift hamper of selected mustards and beside it, with the mustard dispenser from the cupboard he had squirted a yellow smiley across the bench-top and lovingly signed his name.

CLIFF

I used to live in an apartment building across town. The guy in 3B was an evil looking guy with jet black hair and crazy eyes. When someone suggested that we have a building-wide cookout on Independence Day, I hoped 3B wouldn’t show up, but he did. Most folks brought one food item and a drink. 3B brought devil’s food cake, deviled ham, deviled corn, and deviled eggs. “I just love to cook,” he said. “No one ever bothered to ask.” When I asked what was in the delicious eggs, he replied “Just mustard, salt, pepper, and an innocent soul.”

JUSTIN

I was sitting at this food shop in lower Hengsha, putting mustard on a hot dog, when I thought I was going to die. I’d seen some scary gangers, loaded with augs, but then this guy stepped up and he was like, almost totally a robot. He threads were sweet, and if he met a group of those auged up gang guys in an alley, I’d bet on this dude. I wonder if he’s even human anymore, or if he’s just a machine? I mean, he ordered dim sum, so, that’s normal, human, right? Still, scared the hell outta me.

SEVI and BONCHANCE

Murder!

He is the kindest man I know. He wouldn’t speak a word out of turn about anyone or anything. He has impeccable
posture. As ex military, he is a stickler for proper posture. “Sit up straight boy!” he would bellow.
Would you like to know what I think made him do it?
He couldn’t let go of how he was wrongfully accused of that murder by the other boarders. Those people didn’t
have a clue! Imagine, condemning poor Colonel Mustard of cold-blooded murder! With a pipe wrench of all things!
Now he has actually done it! Yes, I blame them!

The Smallest Seed

Pepe had a plan! He devised an innovation to make some extra scratch. That creative think tank with the Chairman
fueled his passion. He scored seeds from a guy named Matt and set out to cultivate his crop. “Pepe, Pepe quite contrary how does your
garden grow?” he woofed as he trekked to his harvest.

Pepe panicked, the spouts didn’t look “right”. He analyzed the pictures of baby crops of mary jane.

An epiphany merged. These are mustard seeds!

When confronted, the merchant just gave him a sermon about faith and mustard seeds. “So small yet, able to move
mountains!”

RED

Lola loves buttery soul food. She will never understand how women subject themselves to diets. She sure as hell isn’t substituting mustard for mayo. She has enough dos and donts in life. She tries to keep her curves in place, but if there is some chocolate, she ain’t holding back. Her admirer has picked up on that and knows just the right food to cook for her. Even when he’s away, he spoils her with desserts and other delicacies that are irresistible. Yeah, rich buttery food, mayo over mustard and with every bite she likes him more for loving her as she is…

DANNY

famous mustard line. What a cocky statement, considering the Stomach suffered a humiliating loss to character of Fink, played simplistically by Keith Knight. Keith was working in summer stock when he was signed for his first movie role in “Meatballs”. During the filming of the hot-dog-eating contest in that movie, Keith ate more than 100 hot dogs, without mustard. Fink beat “the Stomach,” whose performance at hot dog eating simply did not cut the mustard.

NORVAL JOE

The company crouched close to the opening in the passageway floor. Cindy, the princess, sat in the dwarven throne, her hands and feet tied.
Owen thought it would be best to have Shareeka drop them through the floor as they had passed through the earth back at the farmer’s cottage. Shareeka explained they would be left vulnerable for a potentially fatal few seconds.
On a silent count of three all except for Shareeka dropped through the hole to confront the goblin guards.
With a puff of smoke and the scent of sulfur and mustard, the room filled with goblin warriors.

My brother-in-law was over the other day for a family barbecue. I don’t know where my sister found the guy, or what she sees in him. He’ll argue about the time of day or if the grass is really green.
He said he wanted a mustard dog, so I put some mustard on a hot dog and gave it to him. He said, “No. You need a sausage for a good mustard dog. I know you got them. I can smell sausage and mustard.”
I told him that wasn’t a mustard dog he was smelling. That was my wiener dog.

PLANET Z

Fred’s been going around at night, squirting mustard in people’s faces.

He’d been doing this for weeks until the cops set a trap and finally caught him.

He called me for bail money.

“You know how vampires hate garlic and Frankenstein hates fire?” said Fred.

It’s actually Frankenstein’s Monst-

“Well, it turns out that Zombies hate mustard,” said Fred. “I need to get out of here before the zombies take over.”

I drove Downtown to bail him out, but he’d already hung himself in his cell.

MONSTER! was written on the wall in ketchup.

Deadly… Ketchup…

He knew about me!

Weekly Challenge #350 – Think

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 Think.

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

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

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

HELEN

As a child, I was told to “Think” before I spoke and children speak first and think
later. Time elapsed, I am an adult, and I do “Think” before I speak. Let me share a
phrase about thinking before you speak
Before you utter words T H I N K.
T – is truths
H – is honesty
I – is important
N – is necessary
K – is knowing
Do you speak Truths, with an Honest heart, and is it Important, and is it Necessary,
and do you Know what your speaking about.
How many times have you spoken, and did not think.

CHRIS

The Hell Gate

I have spent an eternity searching for The Doomsday Sword, I had found Excalibur but it was only the shattered remains. In the arctic I have come across Northern Frost Giants, Ice Trolls, and Abominable Snowmen.
Thanks to my quick thinking and great survival training, I have survived. I only wish there weren’t monsters to begin with. But then again we would not fear and become our own monsters.
But that is beside the point! I am still searching for the sword and hopefully I’ll be in time to shut the gates of hell before the demon Diablo has escaped.

JEFFREY

Marital Relations
by Jeffrey Fischer

Larry had been married a long time, or at least long enough that he thought he understood how the marital game was played. He knew the traps, the pitfalls in a relationship. “Do these pants make my butt look big?” elicited a rapid “You look lovely, as always” in response.

Despite his expertise, or what he perceived to be his expertise, Larry was caught off guard when his wife said, “What do you think? Do these pants make my butt look bigger than usual?” Think, man, think! he thought, scrambling for the right answer.

While he was still floundering at that question, his wife fired a second round: “When you say I look like a million, why do you think it isn’t it more?”

“Uh…” Think! he exhorted himself, but nothing reasonable came to mind.

That was when Larry decided that the smartest course was to quietly pack a suitcase and leave.

DR. FRAN

Think

In Alcoholics Anonymous Meetings they have signs with aphorisms on the walls or tables in the room. One of the signs says THINK. Some say it stands for: The Happiness I Now Know thanks to being sober (which I think stands for: Son of a bitch, everything’s real). What gets me is that a lot of meetings place the signs upside down. What’s up with that? Is that supposed to make me think more? My sponsor tells me not to think ever. So what do I do…do I think or don’t I think? I really don’t know what to think.

TOM

HEY 19

When you reflect on the levels of product placement in the media it’s a wonder there is any room left for plot. Whether it’s an Aston Martin or an Azure Mustang, Coke or Cadbury, Reese’s Pieces or Rolex timepieces we the captive audience are severed up a banquet of purchase possibilities. Most placements have the subtly of a sledgehammer, but others lie under the psyche sub rosa of pop culture Take International Business Machine Corporation they wedged their presence into Billboard’s top ten in May 1968. Got the Queen of Soul to hammer it home in a pounding refrain.

LIZZIE

Ruminations

He had the irritating habit of never doing what he was told. Go right, he went left. Don’t eat with your mouth open and he made it a point of showing his ruminations, although that could be construed as something highly philosophical, especially after a few large bites, when he would gravely state “I ate Sunday for dessert” while spraying the table with bits of food. So, when someone jokingly told him to jump out of the window on the third floor, they never expected him to follow through. His psychiatrist even commented “I think he misunderstood what was said.”

Chopping work

“We’ll never make it, boss…”

“We must.”

So, they left to fulfill the task at hand.

Hours later, back in the freezing workshop, they emptied the bags on the tables.

“I got 9.”

“9? Where’s the tenth?”

“Damaged. The guy tried to punch me…”

“Didn’t I tell you not to grab live ones?”

“Yes, boss, but this is an emergency…”

It was. They still needed 21 to reach the quota. How did they ever manage to convince the chef of the local delicatessen restaurant that fried fingers would become fashionable? And to think of all the chopping work still ahead…

ALAN

HAMLET

They couldn’t persuade him to go out, so they left him behind with his books. They, in the meantime, had dinner and drinks at Gerry’s Grill. By nine in the evening, they were at Chef and Brewer’s dancing to the funk band, The Bedroom Boys. They wound up the night at a girlie bar carousing and singing karaoke. When they returned, they found him on the rocking chair dead. “He thought too much,” they remarked. The next day, they buried Hamlet.

MUNSI

The Worst Joke I Know

By Christopher Munroe

So Rene Descartes walks into a bar.

He’s finished an axiom a day ahead of schedule, and as such has a three-day weekend he hadn’t expected to have. Therefore, he plans to get schnozzled.

And schnozzled he becomes. Shots of Jagermeister, beer by the jug, by two in the morning he’s propped against the bar to keep from falling.

Still, he’s good folk and he works hard. Nobody begrudges him.

“One for the road?” the bartender asks, and Descartes scoffs.

“Are you kidding? I’m already so drunk I can’t even think!” He replies, then vanishes, never to be seen again…

ZACKMANN

“Does your new thinking cap work?”
“Not so well, I think I use the wrong Thinkgeek website because all I can think about is small headless animals.” replied Zack
“Now trying my thinking pants.” Joe sings “Ooh ahh, dance in smarty pants.”
“Stop that singing. Don’t try using those. My mother says whenever a guy thinks with his pants it can only end in tears.”
“Say Zack, Do you think we spending too much on useless gadgets?”
“I was told if I thought I would be dangerous.” .
“Well, someone should have told you, you’re more dangerous when you don’t think”

“What are you building up here?”
“Didn’t I tell you I am starting a think tank and tonight we are going to take over the world”
“Really?”
“Oh my yes, I am making It and It will solve all of our problems. People are unhappy because they think too much and It will do all our thinking for us. It for President. Vote It in 2016.”
“You’re teasing?”
“Actually it’s It, a prop for a stage performance of A Wrinkle in Time and I am making the Happiest Sadist. Do you like It? ”
“I hated It I reading the book”

TURA

It had taken years, and millions of dollars, but at last, the Artificial General Intelligence project was ready for its first demonstration.

The professor took the microphone in his hand, and spoke its first command: “Computer! Think!”

Billions of transistors performed billions of operations every second, while incomprehensible patterns flowed across the front panel, and retro magnetic tape drives twitched back and forth. At last, the screen displayed the computer’s response: “Computer! Think!”.

“Great, the speech recognition works. Do you think that will be enough to keep DARPA off our backs for another year?”

The programmer snorted. “Not a chance.”

SEVI and BONCHANCE

Salt

The distrust was tangible throughout the salt negotiations.
The Americans presented a sweet deal to the Soviets;
consequently they couldn’t understand why the Russians balked.

Soviet behaviour was explained by lead Air Force General.

“Sir they know that we know they are cheating.
They intend to continue cheating. We factored that in,
however they are oblivious to our cheating tactics.

“General we are not cheating! Sir,if they don’t find ours, they won’t sign.”
They laboured all night weaving sneaky cheats into the treaty.
The President promoted the General to a staff position saying,
“Son I like the way you think”.

Think About It

Carl sat at the table gazing down at his cup of coffee as his wife chattered.
This was their reality. His wife would talk; Carl meditated with his cup of coffee.
Diane finally noticed that Carl had not stirred for over 10 minutes.
By now he would have shuffled off to warm his coffee.

“Carl?”

He looked up blankly “Yes my love”?
“What are you thinking about? “Nothin honey”.
She smiled and nodded, pouring hot coffee into his cup.
Early on in their marriage, she didn’t believe that answer.
Overtime acceptance set in.
Men miraculously really could just “not think”.

CLIFF

The robot was supposed to respond to David’s thoughts. We had built the war machine and the sensors that connected it to David, the pilot. Today, we had the live test. David cleared his mind, put on the sensor helmet, and his face went blank. I held my breath and waited. The robot stepped onto the field, surveyed the surroundings, and promptly put a missile into the Toyota parked in David’s spot. David drove a Chevy. He apologized profusely. Apparently, his unconscious mind had more input than we thought. That’s when I decided to stop messing around with David’s wife.

SINGH

Welcome to Geekosity!

We are such stuff as dreams are made on.

Unlike Shakespeare we used to think the mind was enchained. Decades of research have shown this isn’t so. Brain plasticity can alter and with special training we can develop higher functioning abilities. Like a fitness centre where you exercise various muscle groups, we have designed an online brain-gym to grow cognitive know-how, spike memory ability, cultivate problem-solving, and balance right brain, left brain coherence — and increase attention span, duh! In other words — warp speed your thinking to the next level. This is the Age of the Nerd! Welcome to Geekosity.com.

*
“As a professional gambler, my eyes are constantly scanning every combination of clubs, spades, hearts and diamonds. I must memorize and discretely bet, or video surveillance will bring the casino goons down upon me. Through Geekosity I am playing games like Multiple Taskforce, Hypothalamus Hip Hop and Runaway Roulette. My percentile average is up from 58 to 99%. Now I can play high stake Black Jack in my transvestite disguise with total confidence. Yes, Geekosity has quadrupled my earnings in just seven days. Without it, I’d still be a scratch lottery jockey down at the local drug store. Cool huh?”

*
“Since coming from Slovenia, they were giving me bad name – Forgetful Franka. Business not good. Regular customer would come for ‘usual’, but I can not tell foot fetishist from simple hand job with mayonnaise customer. I am only thinking of dollar. This was until Geekosity super memory programmme. After just 12 days I can start tagging different sex toy to different name, different face. For example – riding crop for Freddy, dog muzzle for Carlo, bottle of mayo for Peter, plastic nappy for Cry-Baby Benny. Thank you, so much Geekosity! I am now serving customer good with open mind, open heart.”

*
“Whenever we do a job it must be blue-printed, rehearsed and executed to the letter. Not everyone can waltz in with a sawn-off shotgun and terrorize customers to the floor while your partner bags the cash. And you have to watch out for trigger-happy security guards and bank clerks blowing the whistle with a buzzer under the counter. Geekosity’s speed, agility and problem-solving games have taken all the stress out of bank-robbing. We knock over one a week now. Seeing the results, Joey my partner is signing up. Thanks to Geekosity the sky is the limit!”

*
These stories are from the ranks of our 30 million under-achievers. Each is opening his or her nerd eye, transforming daily from turkey consciousness to becoming high-flying eagles of aptitude. This is the golden age of the geek. Log on to our website and join the millions with self-esteem issues who are battling valiantly to get good at mind games. Why? To get good at mind games! Get in touch with your inner geek and become an ambassador of Geek chic. Sign up for a neuro-plastic self-assessment and trade in your old brain today!

REDGODDESS

Lola wakes up in a daze, blinded by scent of romance. She rolls over to realize he’s not there. She tries to trigger a memory from her New Year’s Eve date. “How could he leave her in his strange bed? She thinks it’s best to get out of here. Draped in a white satin sheet, she tiptoes through an open door, following the aroma of fresh brewed coffee. She is surprised to see “him” cooking shirtless.
Clearing her throat, she greets him. “You’re awake, my sleeping beauty,” Lola is exhausted but finds energy to soak in the view. The kitchen table adorned with decadent pastries. She drops the sheet and sat next to him. Lola sips her coffee, looking over at him, and firmly asks, “Where do we go from here?…

JUSTIN

Adam Jensen stood over the hacked console, finger hovering over the screen. One press of a button, and the security robot would rampage against the guards. Adam remembered the screams after he hacked that turret. Did those men have families? Were they just trying to feed them with a job like everyone else? Did he have a right to end their lives, even if they were bad men, when he could just take them down without killing with a little more effort? With one press of another button, he deactivated the security robots and went on his way, sneaking, non-lethal.

NORVAL JOE

The company followed Flindert back down the passage to an intersection, the sorceress lighting the way with a glowing silver ball. The tunnel curved slowly back to the right and Owen tried to picture in his mind where they had gone in relationship to the throne room.
“I think,” The second word was barely out of his mouth when Traveller clamped broad hand over Owen’s lips. The ranger motioned to the ground with his other hand.
A hole in the floor revealed the company had climbed over the throne room and now stood directly above the princess and her captors.

People say Dr. Seuss was a creative genius.
As a child I found his illustrations disconcerting and at times downright depressing.
And his text. My Daughter insisted I read her the book, “Oh the thinks you can think.”
Get this;
“If you try,
you can think up
a GUFF going by.
And you don’t have to stop.
You can think about SCHLOPP.
Schlopp. Schlopp. Beautiful schlopp.
Beautiful schlopp
with a cherry on top.”
That’s not creative. That’s lazy poetry. If he couldn’t come up with a rhyme, he just made up a word. And he never once mentions wiener dogs.

PLANET Z

Fred’s job was to think up amazing things.

He’d sit at his desk all day with a wistful look on his face, and every now and then he’d sigh.

His boss asked him if he’d thought up anything useful, and Fred would say “Yes.”

Then he’d sigh again.

When the CEO asked him to be more productive with his time, Fred said “Sure, I’ll think about it.”

And he did.

His quarterly report showed that he’d thought up three times as many amazing things than in the previous quarter.

He had plenty of time to think in the Unemployment Line.

Weekly Challenge #349 – Chance

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 Chance.

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

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

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

SECRET RAGE

As She drove the deserted highway, thinking…, “My life’s become so predictably mundane … I just can’t live through another day of this boredom!” she noticed the train tracks to her right, turned up Highway to Hell playing on the radio, accelerated and decided her word for the day: CHANCE.
Gaining speed, ahead she noticed a cross street..and then ~ a train headed her direction. Smiling to herself~now was the time…her CHANCE. The train and car both neared the crossing. Speeding, she reached it… wildly turning, gates descending… thinking, “will I? will I? will I beat the train…….”

JEFFREY

A Game of Chance
by Jeffrey Fischer

At the Black Carnival, Death set up a booth. “Come one, come all!” he cried. “Take a dare with Death. One dollar only! Fifty-fifty odds – flip a coin, heads you win, tails you lose!”

A man walked up to the booth. He asked Death, “What do I get if I win?”

Death smiled. There’s one born every minute. “Sir, your prize is one hundred – yes, you heard me right, one HUN-dred years of life. A marvelous thing, unavailable elsewhere at any price.”

“And if I lose?”

Death looked somber. “Why, I collect your life tonight.”

The man placed a dollar on the table, his robust look giving the lie to his cancer-wracked body.

“I like those chances.”

LIZZIE

A book of clouds, that was my gift.

I opened it and turned the pages randomly. A face, a mushroom, a flying saucer, a world of lambent pictures in the sky. They made my child smile and point and laugh and giggle for no reason.

By chance, I opened the book on a page where the clouds had formed a 6, his age. He stopped, staring at the photo, then looked up.

“That’s me!”

“Yes, that’s your age,” I replied.

He beamed and said “I have been to the sky!”

Being a kid is such an amazing thing, isn’t it?

CHRIS

A Chance Of Snow

In Sunny Town it never snows so every Christmas is a downer. It doesn’t rain, hail, get foggy or cloudy, and it never snows. There is only the hot miserable sun. If it weeny for the glass domes we live in we would burn in seconds. Because Venus isn’t exactly what you might call cool.
There is a giant factory plant mining a material known as Laverium. It is a stone that stays hot no matter what.
It’s been fun not having to be inside all the Time though.And at least we can hope for a chance of snow.

TOM

I drive the Subaru into the City of Chance pass the towering temples of
temptation. What could possibly say Christmas more gloriously then Las
Vegas. A place that gives Paris a run for its money, as to a claim for
City of Light. And timeless, and by that I mean, search as you may you
won’t find a clock on a casino floor. As I pursue the practitioners of
possibility I chose the altar of avarice to lay my money down. Though I
win or lose in the end in my heart I know its best to be the house.

ZACKMANN

“Someday I, Chance RueLay, will be part of Chad Blastermann’s team, The Action Battalion, fighting the illuminati everyplace they try to hide ”
“Honey, I don’t think there is a chance you can do that?”
“Don’t you think I am good enough?”
“Joe, you do know Cheyenne just made Chad Blastermann up. Right?”
“Honey I said call me Chance so the illuminati doesn’t find us.”
“Joe, I mean Chance, don’t you think you should face reality?”
“My hero Chad Blastermann almost never faces reality why should I.”
“Because you love me.”
“I’ll leave my fantasy world before its I leave for work.”

ALAN ADENA TAN

It was by chance that I first met you. I had come from Mindanao and was resting in Cebu. You and your friends were at the boarding house watching Annabelle Rama making a fool of herself on TV, what else? Though we had only met, you gave me a slice of blueberry cheesecake that a friend of yours brought. I was hooked. But I had to return to Manila, and our love had no chance. The distance was unforgiving, despite the astronomical phone bills. You had to marry someone else. That was fated.

SERENDIPITY

It was the high school reunion: a party and a dance.

Across the room I saw him – and watched him steal a furtive glance.

There within his eyes, the silent hope for some romance,

But he wouldn’t have it easy – I looked back at him, askance.

I recalled how he had bullied me, called me names, and now perchance,

I wondered if he’d apologise, before making his advance.

He made his way toward me across the ballroom’s wide expanse,

Then smiling at me broadly, he assumed a haughty stance.

So I flipped him the finger! – Sorry mate… not a chance!

MUNSI

Chance

By Christopher Munroe

They say leave nothing to chance.

But I knew a guy nicknamed Chance once.

We worked together in Edmonton for years, hang out to this day, I see him whenever I’m up there. I make a point of dropping in to say hi.

We maybe aren’t the closest friends, but he’s good people, my life’s richer for having him in it.

Were I to pass away, I’d leave him something. At the very least a token, to remember me by.

Wait, now that I think about it, his nickname was Chase, not chance.

No, yeah, I’ll leave nothing to chance.

SINGH

Who’s Your Daddy?

by Chris Mooney-SIngh/Singh Albatros

Dolly had been giving Daddy trouble. If he asked her for coffee, she hesitated.
If he suggested a back-rub, she’d whine sweetly. “What about me?”
When his best friend visited, she seemed out-rightly flirtatious, passing him the tumbler of scotch with two rocks of ice.
“There, Teddy Bear.”
Strangely, Daddy didn’t object. Instead, he smelled a challenge.
“Roll over,” he said in bed, later.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“It’s time to shift things up a notch, girl.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He pressed open the motorised slot in her polymer neck. There were three buttons. He took a deep breath and pressed number 1.

*
Dolly’s instruction manual boasted 188 sympathetic functions like blinking, preening, smiling, frowning, singing, even shedding a saline tear; and there was a self-learning cycle programmed into her memory chip to mimic independent thought.
“Daddy, Let’s go out.”
He was excited by her suggestion. The artificial intelligence factor was kicking in.
Soon, his hover sedan was varooming them toward Citadel Towers and parking beside the ocean.
“It’s big, Daddy,” she said, her synthetic cheeks flushing red. She pressed the seats to recline mode and was soon riding him.
“More!”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He couldn’t resist and reached to press Button 2.
*
“Let’s go swim now,” said polymer Dolly.
Daddy was thrilled with her new random assertiveness. He liked women with spark, supremely confident he could always master them. Unlike his plump ex-wife who had drained him emotionally and financially, Dolly didn’t need food, so she never lost her charming figure with its modifiable tummy, breasts and hips.
No one worried about sex-bots any more. It was normal to see them walking around naked at the beach. As soon as they hit the water, webbing appeared automatically between fingers and toes, and next, Daddy was riding Dolly like a jet-ski.

*
She took him in queasy circles, then, dolphin-dived him underwater.
“You like that, Daddy?” She gurgled.
Gasping air-bubbles, he nodded his head.
Then she came to shore, beached and straddled him aggressively. He loved her rough new style, then got even more excited seeing ten needle-points come from beneath her fingernails. She clamped them on his pectorals.
“Harder,” he ordered.
“Yes, Daddy.”
He felt light-headed pleasure.
“You’ve really got your hooks into me now!”
“Yes, Daddy,” she winked, crushing those perfect breasts against his chest.
Daddy knew he was taking a big chance, and pressed Button 3.

*
It was then she forced him, hard, inside her. She began to simulate her most sexual performance to date. Daddy was her rocking horse. Her eyeballs began to swivel in their sockets, in tune with an inner mechanism as the ten needles sucked up and syphoned off his blood.
He felt himself losing control and tried to break her power-grip.
“Enough!” he gasped, but she continued her programmed revery having multiple orgasms.
“Yes! Daddy! Oh, Daddy! Oh!” baring down on him harder, all the while increasing his blood-flow rate into her stomach-sac.
Sucked dry, he gasped his last.

*
As soon as the blood-dribble stopped, a light-button flickered, sounding in her forehead. She touched it to answer.
“Dolly 3330.”
“Control Centre here. Report.”
“Assignment complete, Control. Need a blood-station.”
“Look behind you, then reset.”
There was a terminal in the wall of the building.
After disposing of Daddy’s body in the ocean, she connected her stomach-hose to the blood-station and uploaded.
Done, she reached behind her neck and reset each button. Her head rolled, then clicked back into place. She smiled, ready.
Then, her forehead-phone sounded again.
“Hello Dolly. Teddy here. Remember?”
“Yes, Daddy.”

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The boy clutched the edges of his blanket, huddling into the flannel, hiding against the cold and his sister’s condescending glare.

She tapped his shoulder. “Santa’s not coming. Not even a chance. Come to bed before…” she shuddered “…he sees and beats us again.”

The boy didn’t move. Finally, his sister shook her head and hid in the tiny room they shared.

The boy started awake at the hoofstep on the floor.

The demon, Santa’s prisoner and helper, punisher of the wicked, handed his chain to the boy.

“Merry Christmas,” it hissed. Boy and demon smiled the same smile.

CLIFF

The grand prize was a new car. It was worth a buck and besides, the money all went to help orphaned pandas or balding whales. Some goofy charity.
I didn’t expect to win, but I did. Not the car. No, I won a time machine. The Mad Scientist Museum had gone under and all the exhibits were donated for the raffle. The documentation for the device was terrible. Obviously, the madman who had built it was no technical writer. I could see how to make it work but not how to set the destination. So, should I take another chance?

GARY

She sounds perfect for me. Or I sound perfect for her.

Both of us a little past prime, never married, no kids, seeking intelligent companionship on one of those—how did I end up here—sites.

I’m looking for someone to help kill the boredom of next Sunday. I hate Sundays.

She’s jaded—waded through a dozen phonies.

I clicked the wrong distance—stupid mouse. She’s 500 miles away.

I’m no jet-setter.

Aw hell, I’ll email anyway. I like to write and she sounds funny…

Now, two years gone by. The nurse just handed me my new baby girl.

TURA

“How do you reckon our chances, Dad?”

“Well now, there’s a chance it’ll be cold. That’s fine, then we won’t work up a sweat. There’s a chance it’ll be warm. So our trigger fingers won’t stiffen. In a blustery wind, the game won’t hear us, but if it’s still, we’ll hear the game. If the sky’s clear, we can see for miles. If it’s cloudy, the sun won’t be in our eyes. Maybe there’s a chance of rain. Then there won’t be any dust. It might even snow, which makes tracking easy.

“Don’t worry about chances, son. Make your own.”

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

Hotel

He looked across the room where she was sitting at a table alone,
appearing above all the others in the room.
She was sucking on a candy cane and he couldn’t help but focus
in as she pursed her lips sucking on it. He smiled as he heard the song
take a chance on me playing over the sound system.

He stood to go introduce himself.
The conference was three days of boring speeches separated by
long breaks in between at the hotel restaurant or lobby.

They were in the city that never sleeps and should be making some noise!

The Odds

Pepe had really strained his relationship with his pops, Pablo.
But he had a plan to fix all of it. He saved enough cash to replace the TV that he broke
and did all of his assigned chores without a complaint.

It’s been a month since the chairman incident. He summoned the courage to run it by his mom.
Ma what’s the odds pops will reduce my being grounded to just one month since I’ve been so good?

Espy looked up as if she was doing a difficult mental calculation then shook her head firmly saying,
not a chance buster!

NORVAL JOE

Elbownor, being as lightfooted as any elf, eased himself close to the open door and listened. Moments later he was back with the rest of the company.
“The sound of three people breathing, one of which was distressed,” he told them.
“We could take a chance that the one is the princess, but if it is not, we may have three to battle, needlessly,” Shareeka said. “Is there another way into the throne room, Flindert?”
The dwarf, still in his black mood, slowly looked from his folded hands.
“Aye. I do believe there be a secret way into the room.”

REDGODDESS

Lola stares at the elegant Christmas tree in the hotel lobby as guests hurry by, waving hello. Each one speeds up faster than the last to the exit door. Lola has dreamed about traveling somewhere exotic for the holidays but each year she takes on more hours and responsibilities, to pay crushing debts. She abruptly places her head down on the counter and sighs, “ when will something good come in my life.” She lifts her head as she wipes her eyes and finds herself face to face with her “guy.” She stood speechless yet pleased to see him. Before she could utter a word, he pleads, “give us a fighting chance.’

PLANET Z

It’s nice out, but I won’t open the windows.

We have screens on the windows to keep out the bugs, but the cats like to knock them out of the frames and go out to hunt.

The only way to keep the screens in place is to screw them into place. However, that would make it difficult to escape out a window if there was a fire.

Perhaps I’ll screw all the screens into place except one, and that will be the window I’ll use to escape if there’s a fire.

I hope it’s still nice out when I’m done.

Weekly Challenge #348 – Funk

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

This is Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was Funk.

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

The next weekly challenge is on the topic of Chance.

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

JEFFREY

Christmas
by Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

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

TOM

Colorblind

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

SERENDIPITY

Funk

– The Call –

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

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

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

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

– The Disciple –

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

The monk’s words were wise, yet perplexing.

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

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

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

I failed again.

And again.

The monk demanded I try once more.

“More? – What is it good for?”

“Absolutely nothing!”, came the enigmatic reply.

– The Enlightened –

Is it really ten years since I ascended this mountain?

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

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

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

But, what was this?

A new sound in town!

The funk monk had discovered punk!

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

MUNSI

Occupy Funk
By Chris Munroe

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

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

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

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

We want the funk.

Give us the funk.

We need the funk.

Gotta have that funk.

LIZZIE

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

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

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

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

SINGH

Heard it Though the Pumpkinvine

By Chris Mooney-Singh/Singh Albatros

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

A negro gardener paused on his rake.

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

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

“Me too?” I asked cheekily.

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

He smiled, and was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure am.” I said. “Come over.”

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

“What happened?”

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

He passed me some fresh Pak Choy he had grown.

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

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

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

“Whasupp Daddyo? Gimme some skin!”

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

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

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

“Hey man! No need for da fuzz’.

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

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

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

CLIFF

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

ZACKMANN

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

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

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

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

“Well, yeah…”

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

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

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

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

SEVI AND BONCHANCE

This Cold will be the Death of him!

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

He literally got away with murder.

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

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

REDGODDESS

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

NORVAL JOE

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

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

PLANET Z

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

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

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

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

I looked at the briefcase that the police had brought.

“Do you have it?”

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

One peek.

Bright light.

“Yeah,” I said, closing the briefcase.

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

Weekly Challenge #347 – Pudding

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

This is Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was Pudding.

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

The next weekly challenge is on the topic of Funk.

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

SECRET RAGE

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

VINCENT

The proof is in the pudding

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

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

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

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

JEFFREY

Dinner Time
by Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

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

I hate Jell-O pudding.

ROSI VINSON

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

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

London’s not so bad after all.

SARAH W

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

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

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

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

Our eyebrows grew back by Easter!

LIZZIE

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It tastes bad.”

“You haven’t tried it.”

“I have.”

“Not this one.”

“Is it any different?”

“No.”

“Well…”

“I’ll eat it.”

“Be my guest.”

Fast-forward to an hour later.

“How is he doing, doctor?”

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

“Pudding.”

“It must have been bad already…”

“No.”

“No…?”

“No. I added some arsenic to it.”

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

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

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

TOM

Take the Chair.

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

CLIFF

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

MUNSI

Pudding Cups

By Chris Munroe

Look, none of this is complicated.

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

So that’s quadruple, right?

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

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

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

It’s going to be a blast!

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

ZACKMANN

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

SINGH

Dinner Party Wars

Chris Mooney-Singh/Singh Albatros

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

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

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

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

“Ruby, I am starting your steamer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BONCHANCE and SEVI

Hero!

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

Coffee and Tea

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

Pudding

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

REDGODDESS

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

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

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

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

Beat. Slip.

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

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

She looked at the ring, at him.

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

She answered.

NORVAL JOE

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

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

TURA

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

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

PLANET Z

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

Individual servings in cups from the refrigerated section.

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

Boxes of powder to mix on the stove.

And cans of pre-made pudding.

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

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

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

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

I grumbled and went back to the store for chocolate.

Weekly Challenge #346 – Monkey

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

This is Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.

The topic this week was Monkey.

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

The next weekly challenge is on the topic of Pudding.

And if you want to spam your social networks with this episode, use the Share buttons at the end of the post… this obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

VINCENT

Elvis’ half orang-utan brother arrested

Sheriff Deputy Hayden leant against the car. Inside, fifty-one year old Mark Loescher was saying that he needed to call the Fusion Centre to ask about his monkey blood supply, on account that he was half orang-utan.

“Is that right?” the Sheriff Deputy said. “I still need you to exit the vehicle and place both hands on the hood.”

Loescher gave him that smile. “You know who I am,” he said, “Director of the FBI.”

“Uh huh, sure thing Mr. Hoover?””

“Man, you have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Loescher said. “Hell, I’m even Elvis’ half brother.”

JEFFREY

Supporting Cast
by Jeffrey Fischer

You people out there, you TV-watching couch potatoes, watching The Wizard of Oz for the tenth time because you’re too lazy to change the channel – yeah, I’m talking to you.

You watch us, the winged monkeys, and maybe you laugh – though I’ll bet you weren’t laughing when you saw us as a child, were you? Do you ever really think about us? To you, we’re just minions of the Wicked Witch, an interchangeable set of oddly-winged simians. You don’t care about us as individuals. For example, Sam, third from the left in the second row, has debts like you wouldn’t believe. And Frankie over there just learned his kid has cancer – ain’t that fuck-all?

Have some compassion next time. After all, you’re part monkey, too.

When Family Calls
by Jeffrey Fischer

I got a call late at night from my brother. “Help me, John. I need to get this monkey off my back.” He hung up. Truth be told, I had been worried about Patrick for some time now. He always partied hard. Once he could handle it. More recently, I had begun to wonder. I jumped into the car.

His girlfriend opened the door. “Thank God you came! Pat didn’t know who else to call.” I pushed past the girl, into the apartment.

“John? Is that you?” I was shocked at his appearance as he came into view. His face was gaunt, he looked impossibly thin – and a capucian monkey was affixed to his back, nails digging into his flesh.

“Get this damn thing off me!”

Monkey Business
by Jeffrey Fischer

Political aficionados remember that Gary Hart’s boat was called the Monkey Business, and that, during the 1988 Presidential primaries, when the press suggested the Senator might be fooling around on his wife, he told them, “Follow me around. I don’t care. I’m serious. If anybody wants to put a tail on me, go ahead. They’ll be very bored.” They took him up on that challenge, and, a few weeks later, the Miami Herald obtained the infamous photo of Hart and his mistress on board the Monkey Business. Hart dropped out of the race.

What the press failed to realize was that the Donna Rice scandal was just a red herring, a ruse. Below decks, the Monkey Business was a full-fledged crack cocaine production facility, and Gary was more concerned with the press discovering his side business than his side interest.

MUNSI

How to Increase Your Enjoyment of Popular Music

By Christopher Munroe

Every song improves when you replace the word “Money” with the word “Monkeys” in the lyric.

Monkeys don’t get everything, it’s true. But what they don’t get I can’t use, I want monkeys.

Or:

She works hard for the monkeys, so hard for them, honey, she works hard for the monkeys so you better treat her right.

I’ve just ruined countless songs for you, but you see my point.

Oh! Except for “Shock the Monkey” by Peter Gabriel. That one’s already about a monkey.

For that one, replace “Monkey” with “Munsi.” You’ll find the result shocking.

As, apparently, will I.

SERENDIPITY

The lab was still and quiet – experiments finished for the day: time for the unfortunate creatures to lick their wounds and try to sleep.

The monkey sat back on his haunches, surveying the scene with interest… rows of cages; occupants wide-eyed and fearful.

A scuffle from the nearest cage, caused the monkey to shriek a warning.

Then, silence.

He stared through the bars, then jumped down to the floor to double-check the padlocked cage. Baring his teeth at the cowering human inside, he scuttled to the door, turned off the lights, and left the lab for the night.

SINGH
Monkey Matters

By Chris Mooney-Singh/Singh Albatros

Monkey Circus Comes to the Village

Collared on string leads, the charade began: husband sat on a can. Wife complained in monkey tongue. He cupped hands over ears. Her complaints got louder. Sick and tired, he cuffed her. She ran off screaming. He’d done it now. The turbaned trainer passed a banana. Husband offered, wife took, twisted off the squishy neck, ate; then eyeing spouse — gave half back. Peace was restored. Years away from arranged marriages, children whistled and clapped. The white-cheeked macaques walked forward on hind legs. Time to pay. The foreign teacher dropped three grubby rupees into the monkey cup, one for each ex-husband.

Interview With a Simian God

The Bollybuzz reporter came for an exclusive interview with baby Hanuman, a chubby six-year-old.

“What do you like about portraying a monkey god?
Doing the flying stunts and fighting evil.

What do school friends say?
They ask about the show. Some call me as Hanuman only.

Do you have a Hanuman doll?
No, but we keep an idol of Hanumanji in our house and pray.

Do you watch the show at home?
No, Sir. I play with my cars and on Play Station.”

The make-artist painted on the red circle, suggesting a monkey-mouth. Then, the little god left for the shoot.

A Monkey’s Tale

The medical delegation came to see the living monkey god. Born with a 33cm ‘tail’, the spina bifida man had become a rare object of devotion. He monkeyed about and gobbled bananas. Believers touched his exposed stump to get healed.
One foreign doctor offered to remove it.
“No! he said. “It is Lord Hanuman’s blessing.”
Meanwhile, twenty women had rejected him.“I will only marry she who loves my tail, otherwise I will stay bachelor like Hanumanji.”
Next, someone mentioned Spider Devi in Bangalore — the girl-child with 4 arms and 4 legs. The eminent delegation rushed to catch their flight.

Monkey Art

At the station, they saw the god on the pavement. He wore a gilt crown, loin cloth, his whole body painted orange-red. Garlanded with marigolds, he also had a yogi’s traditional rudraksha rosary about his neck and upheld a big gada, a shiny mace – his symbolic weapon. That would have been a marvellous feat of strength, had the club not been paper mache. Thus, the divine idol stood unblinkingly, waiting for passersby to drop money in his bowl. Then some cynic walked up and eyeballed him. The mischievous god gave a sudden primate-bark and the unbeliever ran for his life.

A Blind Eye

Mahatma Gandhi owned one possession – a statuette of the Three Wise Monkeys, who, together embody the proverbial maxim to “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”. When India was partitioned in 1947, slicing Punjab like a melon down the middle, M.K Gandhi could not turn a blind eye. Neither could he stop the exodus and mutual slaughter of millions of Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims. After the killings, Nathuram Godse, an anti-Muslim Hindu Nationalist fired 3 bullets from his Beretta point blank into Gandhi’s chest. “Hey Ram!” uttered the god man dying. Hanuman’s brethren munched fresh contraband in the trees.

The US President and the City of Monkeys

When Barak Obama came to Delhi, everyone went on primate-alert. Already the deputy-mayor, attacked on his balcony had fallen to his death. Delhi police risked monkey uprisings, vowing to sacrifice their lives for the nation’s prestige. Monkey-catchers came out in force baiting cages with bananas. Public boulevards were patrolled by Gypsy jeeps; the Black Cat squads had anti-insurgent strategies in place; but the Government’s secret weapon and the macaque’s jungle rival, lanky langur monkeys, unleashed by handlers were set roaming around the President’s walled residence. Meanwhile, special prayers were offered in the temples appealing to Lord Hanuman to keep the peace.

Monkey Rule

Despite the lying of the microphone
there will be the noble bellowing of a buffalo,

despite hydro-electric schemes and promises
there will be a cuckoo drinking only raindrops,

despite the hunting season on dissidents
there will be another mongoose on the road,

despite machine guns in the bazaar
there will be a militia of mynah birds,

despite the cost of dignity
there will be a sacred cow to stop the traffic,

despite the lure of the city
the night deer will dance in the wheat field,

despite the rise of fanatics to government
there will always be monkeys to rule the ruins.

LIZZIE

The rain threw a monkey wrench in the works; it rained for five weeks. The river struggled in a turbulent flow of waves. But the kid was having fun; he could row his boat anywhere in town. He took his dog along; they were quite a pair. He sang, the dog howled. That day, the two went exploring down the river, but the ruthless waves swallowed them, the kid, his dog and the boat. Still today, people say they hear a dog howling merrily to the voice of a kid singing “row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream…”

ZACKMANN

“So is this similar to the Shellback Ceremony when sailors cross the equator and the first timers have to crawl through trash and other odd stuff?”
“Oh yes, only you have to run between lines of monkey throwing Filipino style banana ketchup at you then you run up a hill and yell “I drabble everyday”, three times, stomping around in circles. “
“Why banana ketchup?”
“Well it could be tomato ketchup but banana is just what the monkeys have around the house.”
“It just seems too complicated for me to take the oath to write a hundred word story every day.”

Mulligan told the zookeeper “I wasn’t going to take your case because I bought tickets to the Con until seeing who won most realistic costume as Ceasar from Rise Of in a cosplay competition. Mike please bring our friend from the car”
“Come on monkey” said Mike
Mulligan said “Please, Don’t call him that. He is an ape and that offends him”
“He did complain when I did it before” replied Walmart Mike as he led the ape to the zookeeper.
“He may be an ape but he is still Canadian and you know we only fight on Hockey Night.”

“I believe this situation calls for Sergeant Lawrence Simian and his troupe troop to troop over to Washington to fix things.”
“Sergeant Simian’s what, General?”
“Simian leads a primate paramilitary group troupe of acrobats called The Barrel of Monkeys.”
“Would sound fun sir, if only I didn’t have wounds from falling into a barrel of monkey during maneuvers in brazil. Are you saying use guerrilla fighters?”
“No Captain, they are monkeys who are performers and soldiers, Not guerrillas. They have great PR.”
“A childhood dream come true sir but maybe using accountants would be better to fix a fiscal cliff.”

TOM

“Hey, hey, I’m a monkey and people say we monkey around, but we’re too busy singing to put anybody down.” Chuck kept playing the tune over and over on his guitar. “I’m damn better that Steven Stills and a hell of a lot funnier,” thought Chuck. He had been grouped with that kid who had played the led in Circus Boy. After the audition some idiot Limey bumped into him. It took every ounce of restraint to keep him from turning the kid into a 3D St Sebastian. The door opened. “We’re ready for your parole hearing Mr. Manson.”

SEVI AND BONCHANCE

The Amazing Sea Monkeys!

In 1990, a wacky professor accidently created three human sized sea monkeys. Each of them eventually disappeared from this earth. One was lost during the wiki-leaks debacle; one was kidnapped and was never heard from again. The last monkey standing, in 1998, was killed in a failed assassination on the polka king in Chicago.
After many attempts there was another birthing! Unfortunately, the new human sized sea monkeys escaped at night and roamed into a neighbor’s backyard. The boxers enjoyed their surprise treat and left the professor with an answer to his dilemma…how do you make sea monkeys commercially viable?

In Our Defence

The department chief was beckoned to the white house more often than any other time in history. Ongoing unfortunate decisions had been handed down from the high security national strategic planning department. Each time the same non-explanatory excuses were utilized.
“Sir we need to pay our staff better if we are to retain them!”
“The dancing monkeys no longer work for just peanuts!”
“The monkey grinders are paying cash.”
“If our goal is to increase retention rates, we need to stop paying peanuts.”
The state department continues to suffer, but the script writing for sitcoms is improving leaps and bounds.

The Backroom

George was a curious soul. He surfed the net at work. One day, his search engine found, much to his dismay, the infinite monkey theorem. Each posting he reviewed revealed that this theory was popular and well supported by academia. George rested his stogie down on the side of the table, pushed back his editors cap thinking for a long time. He jumped out of his chair, ran to the back office where the monkeys were hard at work producing new screenplays. Ok boys and girls let’s close it all down, we knew it would happen, the jig is up!

CLIFF

The twelve were gathered to pass judgment on Man. Tiger said that man was strong but unwise. Dragon said that Man was a danger to the harmony of the Earth. Rabbit said that Man was the only being in creation to slaughter his own kind. One by one, the creatures gave their reasons for dooming mankind. Monkey was last. “Have you guys ever heard Eric Clapton play the guitar?” he asked. “Any species that can produce an artist like that is worth keeping around.” Reluctantly, the others agreed and the December 2012 deadline was pushed back another two thousand years.

STEVEN

On top of the tower, the wind blows through her hair. She flares her wings, enjoying the air passing through them. The clouds scud in a grey ceiling above her as she waits.

There is still time, she thinks looking over the city. So much metal and plastic. So far from the jungle. They didn’t have to be perfect, just better than the apes they descended from.

The clouds part above her; sunlight flares down. The Voice booms its answer.

“No.”

She draws her sword and slams it through the tower, and begins the long job of destroying the world.

NORVAL JOE

The creature had seen the company cowering where the tunnel ended at a locked door. It hissed and Shareeka’s feeble light glimmered off rows of razor-sharp, reptilian teeth.
Owen was scared.
Who wouldn’t be, he thought to himself but still had to stare at Spleen who flapped his arms and danced around like a monkey the boy had seen in a travelling show.
“The thing has seen us,” Traveller said. “Maybe it’s time you got us through the door, Flindert.”
“Let me give you some more light,” Shareeka said. The sorceress chanted and cast the glowing ball at the creature.

Welcome to your therapy session, Mr. Ritchie. May I call you Lionell?
So. You say you have lost your funk. Not to worry. They don’t call me the Funk Miester for nothing.
We have ways of making you funk.
Igor, bring me the monkey.
We will start with the funky monkey, progress to the funkey chicken, und if we have the time, we will finnish with the disco duck.
Igor, you fool. This is not a monkey. This is a wiener dog. We can not get funky with a wiener dog. Now. Bring us the monkey. Schnell you dum kopf.

TURA

You ever hear about the monkey city? See, sometimes a monkey goes missing. Stuff does on a spaceship ten miles long. Nobody’s really comfortable with them, too close to human with their brain augmentations and vocalisers. Treat ’em like smart machines, the higher-ups say, they’ll do the spit-polishing better and cheaper than humans.

So, story is, they’ve their own little city somewhere on board, have babies, no chips in the new ones but they can teach them. One day they’ll swarm out of the ducts and take over.

Tall tale, right? I’m just saying, don’t turn your back on ’em.

REDGODDESS

The holiday season puts everyone at the hotel in a festive mood except for the Manager, “the dragon lady.” She was engaged for five years until her fiancee dumped her after a drunken girl’s night out. Since then, she’s been taking her rage on the staff. She fired the doorman for not smiling at the guests. She decided it would be funny to hire a monkey moscot as a greeter in the lobby. Lola has to put a stop to her madness. In desperation, she writes an anonymous note with her favorite chocolate. It reads,”Life will be sweet again.”

PLANET Z

I had a friend in high school who was blind, but he got more pussy than every other guy in the school combined.

Doug would fuck anyone and anything.

“I don’t care what they look like, as long as they feel good,” he said.

So, we played a prank on him.

We bought a monkey, dressed it up, and then handed her off to Doug.

The monkey ripped Doug’s face off, and he died in the hospital.

But before he died, he said “Best sex I ever had.”

We all stared at the monkey, wondering.

But nobody was brave enough.

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