Category: Weekly Challenge

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 Who do you miss?.

We’ve got stories by:

• John
• Jeffrey
• Richard
• Tura Brezoianu
• Julie
• Lizzie
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Serendipity
• Munsi
• Zackmann
• Whispy Darkstone
• Spate
• Tom
• Norval Joe
• Planet Z

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of PICK TWO?

Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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

JOHN MUSICO

“A Rose by any Other Name Would Still Smell as Sweet”
by John Musico

Two thousand years ago, Jesus stood before the masses.
He was concerned that much dissention regarding the Messiah had led to wars.
He passed his hand over his face changing it to the face of Buddha and announced; “My name is Buddha.” He pointed at one of his followers and asked sternly; “Do you no longer believe in me?” He again passed his hand over his face revealing the face of Mohammed and said; ”My name is Mohammed. There is but one God, see that He comes in more than one form.” The Messiah then left and prayed for them.

JEFFREY

The Missing Doctor
by Jeffrey Fischer

Last November, when the 50th anniversary of Doctor Who rolled around, the BBC made sure that the anniversary was both a statement about where the show was heading and a celebration of the past. Between the anniversary episode itself, the prequel “The Night of the Doctor,” and the Peter Davison-penned “The Five(ish) Doctors Reboot,” all but one of the surviving actors who played the Doctor made an appearance. Smith, Tennant, Hurt, and Tom Baker in the anniversary episode, a marvelous six minutes of McGann in the prequel, and Davison, Colin Baker, and McCoy in the “Five(ish) Doctors.”

Christopher Eccleston, I don’t know who pissed you off, but it’s time to stop holding a grudge. We missed you.

Jimmy
by Jeffrey Fischer

That smile. The gentle southern accent – the genuine article, not an affectation.

Military service. An engineering degree. Experience in both business and governing.

A wife who wasn’t a national scold.

The relative competence in foreign policy. (I did say “relative.”)

Yes, I miss the Carter Presidency. Sure, energy crisis, gasoline rationing, sweaters in the White House, hostages in Iran, inflation, unemployment, malaise, misery index… and yet… Come back, Jimmy, all is forgiven.

My wife yells from the next room. “Jeff, stop reading the goddam Washington Post! You know it just irritates you!”

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story: Part 51 – Missed me?

“Did you miss me?”, enquired Emily, flirtatiously.

Annoyed at her joke, George responded grumpily: “No, I didn’t! If anyone can look after themselves, you can. To be honest, I was happy to get the hell out of town without you holding me back!”

Emily looked hurt; “But George, I missed you”

George sighed, “You know who I miss?… all those normal people from before this nightmare started, my friends and family. People who weren’t terrified the world was going to end.”

Emily still looked upset.

George laughed.

“Gotcha! You’re not the only joker around here! Of course I missed you.”

#2 – The One

There’s always ‘the one’ – she’s the one you grew up with and shared your schooldays; maybe even that first kiss. You had a special connection, loved the same music, and enjoyed those wild and crazy moments together; now so long ago.

Then life intervened. You moved apart, stayed in touch for a while, but gradually, quietly, you grew distant and apart.

And now, only memories remain… the fleeting moments restored by a familiar song or rediscovered photograph.

So many years have passed.

And, do I miss her?

Hell no! She was a complete leech!

But I bet she misses me!

TURA

We might have met on Ios, or perhaps it was Delos, or Santorini. The only customers in a small café, an invitation from one to join the other, and then walking together to contemplate the gleaming white houses, the blue domes, and the occasional fragments of antiquity.

And we did what neither of us would have done alone, going island-hopping around the Cyclades for two weeks, using our small Greek to find lodgings wherever our spirits took us.

And then? Well, there is no “and then”, because this is just a story I made up. But I still miss her.

JULIE

Host Body

The white BMW

Rides on autopilot—

It knows its way to work.

Where I smile, nod

And acquiesce

For $85,000 a year.

I spread my legs weekly,

Let you

Take my body—

To keep the peace.

Smile and nod, again.

17 years ago

I carried a child,

Nausea, piercing spear pain

Under my ribs

Until they took you—

All they gave me was Tylenol.

Oh Tylenol, Oh Tuinol, Oh Xanax

Blessed saviors—

These aliens, they inhabit me

These strangers, they take me,

In bits and pieces

What remains?

Who I miss

Is that girl

Not tied,

Or obligated

To anyone.

LIZZIE

The roller-coaster was closed. A crowd of people stood at the gates of the Carnival. The media gathered, awkwardly silent except for one reporter.

“Who do you miss?” he asked.

“I miss my friend Tom,” replied the kid.

The reporter motioned his cameraman to go back in the van. No report would come out of this…

He took one last glance at the crowd of sad people, poor souls. They had all been decapitated by that darn rollercoaster and apparently they didn’t know it yet.

Of all things, the reporter couldn’t help thinking “I would’ve replied… I definitely miss myself”.

CLIFF

In my profession, you can’t afford to be sentimental. The higher ups expect things of you and they don’t take excuses. Emotions get in the way. Mind you, I’m not a machine or anything. I have feelings just like anybody. I just control them. Still, everyone has a weakness. You know, someone they can’t forget. For me, it was Natasha. I spoke to her once seven years ago and I still miss her. It seems stupid, but it’s true. I miss her but some day, I’ll get over it and finally hit her. Being a sniper is a tough business.

SERENDIPITY

They call it ‘sniper alley’ – the only route into the city, and anyone using it is a sitting duck.

It’s almost too easy from where I’m hidden on the hillside. I’m protected, invisible and deadly. It’s a case of ‘you can run, but you can’t hide’ – and I’m good at my job, extremely good.

I keep on the move: claiming a new spot under cover of darkness, waiting until daybreak, and the next unfortunate soul.

Load. Aim. Fire… Reload.

Too damn easy.

Not so much a case of whom do you target, more a case of who do you miss?

MUNSI

I Miss Him Still

By Christopher Munroe

I miss the man I used to be.

The energy, the enthusiasm of youth. The belief that I could do anything, these are things I do genuinely miss.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d never go back to being him in a million years. He was just the worst. If I met myself at seventeen it’d be five minutes before I wanted to punch him in the face. He was too full of himself, too in love with the sound of his own voice to be even remotely tolerable.

I still am, but the material I do now has improved somewhat…

ZACKMANN

“How was your grocery shopping trip with my favorite cousin?”

“Not too bad dearest. I brought you home some fresh butter.”

“But I asked for cream not butter.”

“Yes, I purchase you cream and you have butter.”

“You don’t make any sense.”

“Well Dearest, It would make sense if you had been riding in the car with you cousin. He got pulled over with the police officer accusing him of almost hitting a pedestrian. He might have gotten away without a ticket if he hadn’t said something to the cop about what matters is how many pedestrians he decisively missed.”

“I read that the place that Spongebob lives was probably named after where those nuclear tests were done.” mentioned Drew.

“Bikini Atoll?”

“Yes Dylan, and Bikini Bottom would be under it.” said Drew

“I never understood how crabs could give birth to blue whales.” pondered Zack.

“Mr Krabs didn’t give birth to Pearl. He is a crab not a seahorse.” responded Dyan

“Is Mr Krabs the Sweeney Todd of Bikini Bottom?” inquired Zack

“No, thats silly. Mr Krabs isn’t a barber.” replied Drew

“It’s unlikely Krabby patties are crab meat” added Dylan

“We’ll miss these talks when spring break ends.”

WHISPY

The Captain’s Eyeglass

Ruby wakes prodded from her sedation,

“Did you say, how do you do Miss?”

“I’ll have you know, I’m no Miss! I’m a Ms!”

“I was a Miss, a proper little Miss!”

“He put paid to that, ‘HIS Mrs’, he said, his to punch, slap and shout, get on yer back to! Do I feel remorse, do I heck, that knife set me free! What? Oh!”

Ruby grins.

“Who do I miss? I miss the dog, now give me my medication and get out!”

The officer drops the pills, rushes out, slamming and locking the door.

Ruby swallows the pills.

SPATE

Grace

She was gone. He knew already as he lay in the fog of sleep before even
getting out of bed. He couldn’t smell coffee. She always made the coffee.

He wasn’t sure what he would find. A note? Torn photographs? An empty
ring? But as he turned the corner she was there, sitting at the kitchen
table, smoking a cigarette, wearing that vacant stare.

The doctors said Alzheimer’s. Dementia. Neurodegenerative plaque. Said
her brain got all tangled.

He couldn’t let her go so ungraciously.

He reloaded the pistol, moved closer and aimed, determined through bitter
tears not to miss again.

TOM

Well Defined Relationship Part 40someting

As the good ladies of the Gear Guild swirled on the veranda, edges of lace
danced in the sunlight. The year of black was coming to a close. But who
would she leave behind when the morning-ware was neatly folded into a
chest? Who would she miss more the husband or the mother? As tea and cake
circulated a moment of seemly least significance arose. A random Sunday
with mother, her’s, and her sisters, flashed, then dissolved. She found
herself pulled to that circle of women. A black shawl dropped into the
dust. “My name is xxx” said the ex-widow.

Who would I Miss?

Speaking as an agnostic I wish to say the lure of heaven is as seductive
as a pint of Ben and Jerry’s on an Osage August afternoon. The more years
you pile up, the pile of funeral card keeps step as the days slip away.
Who do I miss? Grandma, Tony, Cliff, Jack, Susie, Billy, Adolph, Betty,
Zax, and Carl. For one reason or another be it distance or time I never
got the full measure of these people’s company. A happy wish heaven, but
if wishes were horses then beggars would ride. Oh yea Jimi Hendrix and Jim
Morrison.

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 ANY TOWN BUT FUNKYTOWN.

We’ve got stories by:

• John
• Jeffrey
• Richard
• Lizzie
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Seicher Rae
• Serendipity
• Tom
• Munsi
• Zackmann
• Chelsea
• Spate
• Singh
• Danny Dwyer
• Norval Joe
• Tura Brezoianu
• Planet Z

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of WHO DO YOU MISS?

Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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

JOHN MUSICO
“Beverly Hills” by John Musico

People think they know Beverly Hills. They don’t.
I do. I was born there. You’d think it’s in the hills.
That’s only half the town. The residential and commercial districts are strictly separated. The commercial section is in the south that is flat. When you go north on Canon and cross Sunset boulevard (at the intersection where the Beverly Hills hotel is) and the street name changes to Benedict Canyon. There is where you find famous homes. Further north, which are in the hills, the homes are instead quite modest.

JEFFREY

Last Exit
by Jeffrey Fischer

They call this the end of the road, the place to run to when you’ve exhausted every other rabbit hole. When you’re on the lam and ask where you should go, the answer is always “Anywhere but Funkytown.” And yet so many eventually find their way here.

Ah yes, Funkytown. Of course, that’s not its real name, but it’s the name that stuck, what with the freaks and grifters and sad sacks who turn up here. And me, of course. I’m the man in the middle. If someone wants to find you, I’ll find you. If you don’t want to be found, I can make that happen too. After all, you’re now in Funkytown.

Upstairs, Downstairs
by Jeffrey Fischer

George Clinton died and found himself in a white room filled with flowers. Creatures in robes with wings on their backs strode to and fro, arranging flowers, bringing meals, and laying out clothes. The bar was fully stocked with his favorite drinks.

Clinton touched one of the angels on the sleeve. “Hey, man, I must be in Heaven, right? This here is FUNKYtown!”

The angel consulted an electronic tablet. “No, sir, you are in the correct place. Your entry reads ‘Any place but Funkytown.’ Now if you’ll excuse me…” The angel opened a CD case and placed the disc into a slot, then pushed the “close” button. The sound of Kenny G issued from the surround-sound speakers. “Welcome to eternity, Mr. Clinton.”

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story: Part 50 – A woman scorned

“So, what’s the deal?”, scowled Emily: “You watch me get kidnapped without lifting a finger, then abandon me while you make a quick getaway? Then, you come here, drinking tea and munching biscuits as if everything is ok?”

George tried to placate her:

“Hey honey, chill baby! Just be cool about it.”

She stared at him.

“You sound like some seventies throwback! What do you think this is? Funky town? Well, listen buster… it’s anything but!”

Emily glared at him, then burst out laughing.

“Oh dear, I can’t believe you took me seriously! It’s good to see you again, George!”

#2 – Won’t You take me?

“Taxi!”

“Where to, guvnor?”

“I wanna go to Funky Town, won’t you take me to Funky Town?”

“Sorry guv – I can’t… I can take you to China Town, Downtown, Dirty Old Town or a Town called Malice”

“But none of those towns are right for me, can’t we talk about it?”

“Talk all you like, but the answer’s no. How about Trenchtown, or maybe Motown?”

“No, it’s gotta be Funky Town, or nowhere – c’mon, man, this is a taxi, right?”

“Yeah, this is a taxi, but I’m the driver and I’m telling you… dis goes any town, but Funky Town”

LIZZIE

The right place was also the wrong place. This yin/yang theory seemed valid, at least while Peter was aware of the fact that he walked a fine line of certainties and hesitations in a world of constant change. He would cross town to make sure his theory was right, lingering in shabby neighborhoods, only to realize that all the wrong places could never be the right places. He wanted to give up, but always gave in. That line before him became a harsh reminder that what was once perfect was really nothing more than a lie in shades of white.

CLIFF

I jumped in the cab and told him to take me to Funky Town.
“Oh, you don’t want to go there. How about Groovy Town?”
I declined.
“What about Trendy City? Coolsville? I know, I can take you to Really Happening Village.”
I was getting ticked and demanded that he take me to Funky Town.
“Oh, sir, I cannot take you there. I can go to any town but Funky Town.”
I asked if he was a wanted man there or something.
“No sir, it’s just that I have no soul and without soul, you cannot go to Funky Town.”

SEICHER

She studied the map. The route would take her several days of hard pedaling, but it appeared the terrain was fairly flat and if she chose the roads wisely she’d stay clear of nearly every town, no matter how small. Tara was convinced that she was still alive because she kept moving and avoided population centers. But now posted everywhere — on fence posts, barns and highway signs — were the cryptic messages about Funkytown and how the chompers were everywhere but there. Promises of shelter, supplies and other normals. She slipped her toes into the clips and pushed on towards safety.

SERENDIPITY

When I got the job, they asked me where I preferred to be based, I told them – any town.

But Funky Town?

I hadn’t bargained for this – the afros, the spangly jumpsuits, the strutting and posturing and all the jive talking – it’s just not me at all, but I’ve no choice – I’m stuck here.

Sadly, the funny mascot business doesn’t pay so well after all, but then again, what prospects do I realistically have: an ambitious, but overweight guy, with a drug habit, wearing a gorilla suit for a living?

I’m just a spunky, chunky, monkey junkie from downtown Funky.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationships Part 41

With the silent vow sealed the decision of where to make their stand was
the next order of business. “Carter’s Gap” offered Morehouse. “Bender’s
Turn.” countered Delmonico. “Funky-town.” said Proctor. Both revs chimed,
” Any town but Funky-town.” “Sorry boys, but this band of brothers ain’t
no democracy.” “Funky-town is undefendable.” “No high ground, just
ground.” “Le Cid Caesar will think were idiots, then we get cut to
ribbons.” “You have both forgotten your Sun Tzu?” said the Doctor turning
toward the churchyard. “Where are the going?” “To find a regiment of
women.” The plan was forming as he walked.

An Elegant Solution

The good people of Megiddo had had it with the born again tourist trade.
As a final act to drive the Pilgrims away they change the name of the town
to Funky-town. In the first year tourist trade dropped by 60%. The problem
was members of the Knesset were have none of that, the “Any Town but
Funk-town” bill went on to easy victory. So Funky-town was renamed, “Jesus
Sucks” the “Any Town But Jesus Town” bill went on to easy victory. After a
rafter of scatological name and scatological bills a final name was agree
upon. New Babylon.

Up the Rabbit Hole Part Nine

In the darkness the strains of Lipps Inc filled the air with disco. “Any
town but Funky-town,” thought Adam X. He had no idea what town he was
currently fastened to a chair. They had loaded him an a military transport
and he could now be seated anywhere on the greater North American
continent. Hands settled on his shoulder, then the hood was removed from
his head. It took a moment to readjust to the brightness of the light.
Something high and white caught his eye. Fort Meed Lost/Found. “Not the
same place Mr X.” said a voice behind him.

The Times They Are A Changing

During the Disco revival of 2260 towns all over the central territories
changed their name to Funky. It became common practices to announce your
municipality with a billboard of undulating females with prominent
posterior poses. The catch phrases Any in Butt Funky-town moved into the
English lexicon. It was a multiple decade party that in the end ground the
economy to dust. By 2310 the Neo-Puritan revival swiped all that
undulating way. Town’s got rename Providence and Temperance. Any town but
Funky-town. In 2408 the Neo-Romanic revival prove so sexually expletive
some longed for the gentler days of Funy Town.

MUNSI

Reflections Upon Your Town and Mine

By Christopher Munroe

There are lots of towns out there.

And, each in their own way, all of them are funky.

Detroit has Motown, Memphis Stax. James Brown grew up in Augusta.

Even Minneapolis has funk. Prince, Morris Day and the Time and more, who thought Minnesota would be funky?

But it is. Every town is.

Every town is funky.

It’s a beautiful thing.

I tried to write a story about a town other than Funkytown, and found that I could not.

But that’s okay.

Because finally I’ve realized: I don’t have to take you to Funkytown.

You’ve been there the whole time…

ZACKMANN

“Hey Cabby, Take me down to funky town.” he said

“Sorry no, any other district but not that one.” replied the driver.

“I can get another cab.”

“You could get another cab but unless you walk or take a train you won’t get there because no motorised vehicle is getting into Funky Town until Michael Bay is finished filming the Scott Roche Libertarian Wank Fiction trilogy. Your best bet is to get back on the commuter train until that stop.” cabby advised.

“Thanks, I play the Liberal Internet Executive who gets kill by his own bodyguard in the second act.”

CHELSEA

My home town.

You know, this used to be a real funky town, art work on streets corners, interesting little shops down town, an indie book store every time you turned around.

Something happened to my town. I don’t really know what it was or when it happened, but at some point this stopped being the place I grew up, these stopped being the streets of my youth.

Now all I see are giant office buildings and yuppy chain coffee shops.

What happened to the place where I grew up? What happened to the streets that shaped my world? What happened to my town?

Story prompt: Any town but funky town

SPATE

Taxi Driver

You dancing back there?

Look at you! You’re shaking like a Minnesota ice fisherman taking a leak.
You should copyright those moves. Collect royalties. or charity.

Say what?

You can talk about it, talk about it till you turn blue but we ain’t going
there.

Are you listening to me? Listen dancing fool, there is no Funkytown so I
cannot take you to Funkytown. It’s some guy’s metaphor. Imagination. Make
believe.

So how bout we just turn back to Washing-town, Senator, where we can all
make believe democracy is being served by lobbyists and super PAC’s with
hidden wealthy donors.

SINGH

29.1

in the throat of the night

Yogi dreamed blue petal-shapes

swirling interstices lattice window

net of jewels star-point to star-point

a face Saraswati of music learning

with a mala holding a palm leaf scroll

playing the veena under-drone aum

eight-petalled violet core

through it her sari moon white

her face the meeting point

slim lips eye-slits

Saraswati? no no Margaret

gold diademed peacock-seated

her voice a chiming bell

becoming words articulate

“stop dawdling go just go

walk the ice talk with mountains”

Yogi woke switched on the lamp

wrote and wrote with ardour

29.2

Darling,

I don’t have visions your way, but you entered my dream like a thief. No. I’m not going all Jesus-Wept on you. But did we hit the same frequency? Being apart, maybe we’re closer.

You were hummingbird-blue behind a stone lattice window. I wanted to get through its cosmic geometry to your Saraswati lips, but this head’s helmet is banal, banausic. How do I escape from a lead mask?

People regard me, but I’m feeling wrong.

I won’t be long. I will be back.

Always your

Yogi.

He folded, then licked the envelope to pass to Barhai.

29.3

The next morning Yogi followed Barhai

downstairs to the workshop. “Why not sit

and oversee? I have a meeting planned —

for the Kirtan Mandal where you will be guest.”

Yogi obliging, rose to wave him off.

Gaurav the artisan was sawing rosewood lengths.

He smiled as Yogi watched him plane, then fit

a dovetail joint. Yogi nodded approval

for work done with a straight up, solid heart.

Little Chotu turned up with his tray

bearing bottle-green glasses of milk chai.

Gaurav took a break. He was a poor man

with sinuous hands. His look was simple, kind.

29.4

After chai he looked about, producing

a box for Yogi to balance upon his knees

across his chola, holding thirty-three pieces

of hand-carved sandalwood and ebony

elephant howdah maharajah and rani,

with tiny tusks whitely eburnine,

suggesting ivory.

“Oot,” said Gaurav,

meaning camel bone. There were figures

on camelback, warriors on horses,

siege-leaders, soldiers, an antique Indian army.

Gaurav drew out a matching chandan rani,

making last naps and nicks with a pocket knife.

Blowing dust, he pressed it to Yogi’s chest

“Apki rani hain,” he said. “Your queen.”

It was his way of saying: look after your wife.

29.5

Chauhaan’s cream Ambassador pulled up.

Gaurav slipped away to furniture work.

“Greetings., Yogi. Do you know chaturanga?

Chess was born in ancient India.”

Chauhaun, the history buff soon told him how

Chaturanga meant ‘army’ – a royal game

to strategise with elephants, chariots, horsemen

and foot-soldiers. “It’s in Mahabharata.

Two sides, or four will thrown down bones of dice.”

“Just like Shakuni?” Yogi countered, “Who cheated

Yudhisthira of his kingdom?”

Chauhaan nodded.

“Er…sorry, Yogi, we have a satsang scheduled.

an invitation from a Sardarji friend.”

Queen in pocket, Yogi thought of Margot

as the solid Ambassador engine elephant-snorted.

29.6

Gobind Electricals had a roll-up door.

Amrik Singh smiled and greeted him —

with marigold garland and two chubby palms

joined in reverence. He spoke Punjabi:

“Aao, Sant ji,” then flicked a switch to English.

“You come to my shop. So nice!” He whacked

a chair of its dust, the scourge of highway towns

with dirty cloth, once a sleepy pajama.

His whip-the-snake technique also collected,

a bric-a-brac tray of defunct nuts and plugs,

cannibalised parts. The folderol catch-all

crashed and a screw-loose scrabble field.

“Sorry, Sant ji! I am very much clumsy.”

29.7

Amrik, a name aspiring to America

went hands and knees to clean up chaos quick.

The Sikh man with a beard so neatly pressed

into a hair net glued with fixer, puffed hard,

clearing the path for hospitality.

His young boy came from a nearby deep fry

witches’ cauldron bearing greasy samosas,

and served them with more chai. So frequently

offered, Yogi thought he should mainline it

to save on washing up. At last the Sardar

relaxed behind the counter and mopped his brow

with sweaty relief. Yogi had been brought

for a fifteen-minute, in-store quickie blessing.

29.8

Decorum needed small talk. Or distraction.

Yogi noticed a wall-frame, golden-tasselled.

It’s turbaned figure had black flowing beard,

wore sword, a bow, a quiver of deer leather

while meditating on a tiger skin.

Wearing a pelt he looked more warrior

than a skinny sadhu.

“So who is he?”

Yogi asked.

“Guru Gobind Singh

our Tenth Master,” said Amrik. “In his past birth

he sat at a lake circled by seven mountains.”

“Also where the Pandavas meditated,”

added Chauhaan.

“Is it real?” Asked Yogi

“We call it Hemkund Sahib, near Badrinath.”

An inner urge told Yogi: go, just go.

29.9

Almost on cue, a monsoon shower fell

like a superpower upon an errant outpost,

adding effect to Amrik’s passionate telling

of the Dasam Guru’s exploits — the one who gave

turban and beard to the Sikhs for coming times —

a hawk against an empire. Aurangzeb,

its Mughal, incarnadine, an anti-Hindu,

swearer of false oaths upon the Koran,

forcer of Islam upon two baby sons.

Gobind’s young refused and were bricked alive,

praising Formlessness to their last breath.

Yogi was moved.

“Please come for Hemkund Yatra,”

Amrik said. “Bless us with your presence.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow, Sant ji.”

29.10

“It feels the thing to do.” Yogi agreed.

Chauhaan was flummoxed, “But what about the satsangs,

the Kirtan Mandal? It’s only two weeks off.”

“Plenty of time,” said Amrik. “I will have him back.

We must show Sant ji some of India.”

“We will discuss with Barhai,” Chauhaan said,

“And send a message.”

“Thanks, but I’ve decided,”

said Yogi blithely. “I’ll let Barhai know.”

Chauhaan was stymied. He couldn’t say much now,

check-mated by a local business man.

“Chunga! I will book and pick you up

quite early,” Amrik manoeuvred quickly.

He was no Prince of Bumbledom after all.

29.11

“I had no choice. Yogi wants to go.

He said straight out.”

Chauhaan was reporting

in the workshop.

Barhai thought on it

and cleared his throat: “Next time, cut back on

the daily satsangs. Screen the parties first.

We cannot push the Ganga. She will flood

or flow the way a river wants. Now is

the time to exercise restraint – not of

Yogi, but our urgency. Amrik Singh

will have him back on time, especially if

we fete him at the Maha Kirtan Mandal.”

“Excellent. It will be even better.”

But Barhai knew he had no other choice.

DANNY

Crapton, Florida. Recently incorporated in 2013, the towns founder and mayor, Eric Crapton, is proud to say his family owns the horse manure, the cow manure, the chicken slaughterhouse, and the chicken manure factories that compromise 89 percent of the town’s economy. The rest of the town’s economy is created by the speed traps recently created on U.S. route 301 in Bradford County, Florida. Crapton is the proud location for the 324th Walmart super center in the State of Florida. Yes, there are additional speed traps in the parking lot. Crapton is a Funky town, but only because it literally smells like shit.

NORVAL JOE

Merle and Verle Hurley left the railway station, walking down the center of a empty, dusty street dressed in chicken suits. Merle’s was plain white, while Verle was a Rhode Island Red. Other men and women, similarly dressed, approached from different directions and converged on a large square building. Frenzied music blared from within while poultriesque patrons bobbed and jigged about the floor.
Merle dug through a feathered pocket and asked the woman collecting tickets, “Is this Funkytown hall?”
“Of course it is,” the woman said. “Everyone knows you ain’t gonna dance the Funky Chicken in any town but Funkytown.

TURA

Any town but Funkytown
——–
“Take me to funky town, big boy?” drawled the girl at the bar.

I tried to look at her sideways, but she didn’t have any sideways, so I looked her up and down. “Your mamma know you’re out late?” I said. “Send her over, and I’ll show her funky town.”

I didn’t see her move, but suddenly there’s a knife poking my throat, and the bartender’s playing invisible. “I tried askin’ nice, so now I gotta ask nasty. Some guys outside, they wanna talk to you, real bad.”

I had a feeling we were going anywhere but funky town tonight.

PLANET Z

I wrote a fourth act to Our Town.
It begins with everyone in the cemetery sitting quietly, including George and Emily.
Then, a bulldozer and a backhoe roll across the stage, scattering everyone.
Work stops. “What the shit is this?” yells a crewman. “This isn’t on any maps.”
“Just dump it all in the woods,” says a supervisor. And he bribes a county official.
Finally, the land developer sticks a sign in the ground: Grover’s Corners Country Club.
The play finishes with half-inebriated rich people golfing.
The fifth act is where they allow blacks to join. (But still not Jews.)

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 WHERE HAS THE TIME GONE?.

We’ve got stories by:

• Lizzie
• John
• Jeffrey
• Richard
• Tura Brezoianu
• Singh
• Neil
• Tom
• Munsi
• Serendipity
• Zackmann
• Danny Dwyer
• Chelsea
• Seicher Rae
• Spate
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Norval Joe
• Planet Z

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of ANY TOWN BUT FUNKYTOWN.

Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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

LIZZIE

“Mark my words, son, time flies.” The six year-old Tommy nodded diligently. His grandfather surely knew about these things. “One day you’re young and the next…” Tommy wasn’t quite sure of this though. When he was born, his grandfather was already old. He had gray hair and wrinkles. “Let’s go. We still have a few hours till sunset.” And they played football. His grandfather moved quite well for an old guy. Years later, when his granddad died, all Tommy could think of was that afternoon. “Time does fly, granddad,” he whispered softly, looking at the sun hiding behind the horizon.

JOHN MUSICO

“Time Cures All” by John Musico

The Alzheimer’s patient returned to his psychiatric appointment accompanied by his wife.
During the interview, the patient’s wife, as visits prior, answered all questions for him while shooting glares at him with her eyes to keep quiet and just sit still. He wasn’t his usual expressionless mute self that day. The wife declared to the psychiatrist; “He has clearly deteriorated.” The doctor explained; “ He is advancing to disinhibition. That means he can no longer suppress his urges.” She replied; “ I still don’t understand”. The patient turned to her and said smiling; “That means; time to shut up bitch.”

JEFFREY

On the Case
by Jeffrey Fischer

The police detective glanced around the ransacked room. “Okay, sir, just tell me what’s missing.”

The homeowner looked frantic. “The thieves took everything of value – my computer, my TV, phone. But I can replace all that. The one thing that is irreplaceable was a gift from my grandfather.”

“Don’t worry, sir, we’ll try to get your property back. Just describe this gift for me.”

“It’s a mid-century watch. It didn’t cost much, but it has great sentimental value for me. Please, detective, find out for me: where did the Timex go?”

Golden Years
by Jeffrey Fischer

I leaned back in the easy chair and turned to my wife. “It’s so nice to be able to sit here with you without a care in the world. I guess that’s what we worked so hard to achieve. It seemed like only yesterday when you were my bride. Now look at us: content just to while away the hours until we die. Where *did* the time go?”

Jennifer peered at me over her glasses. “Jeffrey, sarcasm doesn’t become you. When you married me, you knew I liked to watch “Downton Abbey.” It’s only an hour, and if you don’t like it, read a book.”

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story: Part 49 – Time to go

Seeing the look on Rasputin’s face, George started babbling and looking for an escape route. He glanced at his watch:

“Oh, my goodness… where has the time gone? I’m terribly late… I really must be going. Terribly sorry!”

Rasputin’s sudden firm grip upon his shoulder said otherwise.

Without haste, the big man led him across the chapel, knocked on the ante-room door, and roughly pushed him through.

“And where the hell do you think you’ve been?”, said a familiar voice, sarcastically.

Sat upon a Sunday School chair, far too small for her, was Emily. And boy, did she look annoyed!

#2 – Time Lord

The first time that I met him, I was thoroughly impressed – long scarf, floppy hat and deep, booming voice.

He told me he was a Time Lord: “I keep time safe, I ensure it runs as it should – all the time in the universe passes through my hands. Never ask where the time has gone, for I am its keeper, and it comes to me!”

He gave me an enigmatic wink, before stepping into a nearby ‘phone box.

The next time I met him, I wasn’t quite so impressed.

Turns out, he owns the clock shop on the High Street!

#3 – The Timekeeper

‘Who wants to live forever?’

That was the advertising slogan that accompanied the launch of ‘The Timekeeper’, and despite its high price tag, millions were sold.

‘The Timekeeper is a revolutionary new product that captures all your wasted, lost and spare time throughout your life, keeping it safely and securely stored until your final moment. Then, simply press the chrono-key to release the stored time, extending your lifetime far beyond mortal years!’

Of course, I bought one.

And now, on my deathbed, I pressed the key…

Nothing.

Frantically, I tried again, and again.

Turns out, ‘The Timekeeper’ was just another scam.

#4 – Einstein

Einstein got it right, but Hawking messed up the mechanics.

Time is relative, but black holes? Sorry Stephen – you blew it!

A crushing singularity, where time itself grinds to a pulverising halt – it’s simply incorrect.

What really occurs is that the time that’s in short supply – the long summer days, memorable moments, happy hours… the times that seem to be over in an instant – these are captured by black holes, stretched to infinite length, then squeezed out the other side, where they become…

Those interminably long bus journeys, embarrassed silences, and the unending hours spent in the dentist’s waiting room.

TURA

Live fast, we’d certainly done that. Not the die young part, though. Then we’d all moved on, lost touch. But you never lose friends like that, so when his son called me, I had to go.

They’d had to cut out one lung, and the other wasn’t up to much. We talked over old times, although truth is, he was already slipping away, and his memory was pretty vague.

His eyes suddenly clouded with uncertainty, and he feverishly grasped my arm. “Tell me, Jake,” he quavered, “we had fun. Didn’t we? We had fun?”

“Yes,” I said, “we had fun.”

SINGH

28.7

She blinked with daylight. The storm had broken. Birds

were fluttering, stealing thatch.

“Atul!”

He’d migrated from the chair to her bed end.

“Your mother will be worried.

“No Madam.

She knows that you are sick.”

“Pass me water,

will you?”

As he jumped down, Yudhi jumped up,

then sank his butt, wetting the concrete floor.

Atul passed her a tumbler and let him out,

then squatted to sluice away the puppy puddle

with half a bucket, brooming the yellow runoff

out the door.

“You’re a darling,” Margot said.

She was glad for the boy, but wished Yogi was here.

28.8 kaleidoscope

Thanks to Little Man

Margot didn’t starve.

He brought subdzie-roti

packed by neighbourly women —

vegetable and chapati

spiced over hot-plate fires

from the rainbow tray of powders

always with tumeric, haldi

adding its yellow bias,

the Indian cure-all

anti-bacterial ginger-

cousin, along with mirch —

chilli that burns out fever.

Atul was courier for

the billions of women network

(local unsung chapter)

rolling dough into action.

Her sickness brought acceptance.

Bukhar, the fever leveller

breaks people, then bonds them.

None escapes what tries

to wrench body from soul,

dandled in the hands

of the death god Yama.

28.9

walking to the mandir red temple compound

for post-fever reboot inside the Gate of Aum

time overspent with newbie greenhearts

looking out not inward being a tree a shade-giver

she sighed relieved ding-alinging the God bell

bowing body down before the fire-pit

sprinkling samagri sandalwood sawdust rose-petals

with steel spoon camphor dhoop seven grains

to seek guidance feed the mouth of Agni

learn your life’s role Q & A with the fire-god

stay still ear tuned source ominous weather

the action of bowing on warm marble

blessed her forehead impressing a seed open sesame

28.10

The villagers bowed here with their skinny hopes

requesting rain, a cow, or marriage matches.

Their scale of wants was simple milk and roti.

Meanwhile a man ladled drips of ghee

from time to time, to appease the fire-god.

He was the Brahmin following tradition

who also tilled a plot, although his brood

lived out the back mainly on offerings

of store supplies and grimy rupee notes

earned for wedding services and funerals,

harvest mantras. His birth horoscopes

spoke auspicious outcomes, softened truths.

She fluttered rupee butterflies onto marble.

Eyes lit up. He chanted with more vigour.

28.11

The English-knowing priest soon spoke aloud.

“Where is your husband? We are missing him.”

“Yogi is busy. He will be back.”

She sat.

Her eyes searched the flames and climbed the wall.

Shiva was framed above in embossed tin,

the Lord of Yoga in his lotus pose

with three-pronged trishul, a cobra for a scarf

was well-scorched by the rising havan heat.

Then Yudhi barked, wagging his happy tail.

Rushing in, he leapt to clean her face.

The fire-priest flared up. “Get it out! Get it out!”

A tongue had spoken. No dog can enter heaven.

28.12

For his next trick he piddled by the fire.

The priest rose livid, scrabbling for a stick.

Margot should have laughed, but the fever —

her hard-to-send-off guest had made her tetchy.

She stood up, tree-like to protect the dog.

“Don’t touch the little thing. It’s just a puppy!”

Brahmin glared at the untouchable pariah.

“Don’t even think it, or I’ll crack your head.”

She grabbed the iron trishul against the wall

ready to wield like battle-goddess Durga

till the pissing war became an Indian stand-off.

He left in a huff. She cleaned the place and went.

28.13

This argy-bargy did not endear her

to the prestige priest and his close cronies.

Revere the goddess or just plain fear her.

Such men make witches from strong yonis.

These ruling males were at a loss

and Foreign Madam got a wide berth.

But children knew she was the boss.

Thus Gora the potter discerned her worth

like Om Prakash and Janadan

whose kids loved school. To make amends

Gora sent cups and Janadan, a melon

each day to her. She earned friends,

while the burning priest just stayed on fire

and gave bad press as the village-cryer.

28.14

Ram, her closest neighbour,

husband of Kamal Devi

urged by Atul dropped by

to do odd jobs, fixing

the waterpump handle

loose on its ratchet,

and mending the rot in gaps

of her enclosure. He

had no children in school

but following his wife’s

kind thought for Madam

did what he could, clearing

the sludge build-up

in the run-off channel.

Some old women passing

looked with hard eyes

wondering why this man

was helping out so much

the white Foreign Madam

whose own husband

should be doing her own chores —

not all their children

taken from farm duties.

28.15

She began to see the village folk divide

as the self-appointed, and the humble few

Kaurava cousins, Pandavas everywhere.

A woman without husband and protector

was danger time and a gossip topic.

Without school, she lacked a postal service

to send needful messages to parents.

But Atul and a handful of the keen

traded chores for some close-up lessons.

The poorer children had the appetite

as the monsoon poured down in fever bursts.

Each day she would read or act a story

from the Mahabharata book – this one

in verse with Atul as her translator.

28.16

Eklavya, the lowborn lad

did not know the high-caste law:

that poor polluted ones cannot

be purified through arts of war.

None told him Dronacharya

the warrior Brahmin of the bow

who taught the princes in silk robes

would one day, cruelly, strike a blow.

Eklavya, still fashioned faith,

shaping his Drona from raw clay

and bowing to the Guru’s form

gained archery an inner way.

Adeptness came, until one day

he shot seven arrows through the jaws

of some stray dog, pinned down and skewered,

the death-shake rattling in its claws.”

Yudhi then rolled over to play.

28.17

“He’s an English dog,” joked Atul.

He understands you, Madam.”

Now Drona with his best disciple

watching, walked out from the trees.

Arjuna, student-general

could not command such expertise.

Dronacharya, in a flash

now thought of rebel-flags unfurled,

inciting subdued tribes behind

the Greatest Archer in the World.

No, he must be one High-Born:

like Prince Arjuna—the hope and goal

who had the ancestry to assert

good politics of caste-control.

Drona called the boy: ‘Hey come!

How did you perfect your game?’

‘By offering all to you, my Lord,

I worshipped—you improved my aim.’”

28.18

“Is it true, Madam?”

She continued.

“I appreciate you for all this love,

and I see you practice everyday.

Now, as per custom, give my homage.’

The crafty guru made his play.

‘Though none can match, Eklavya,

who has shot upward from a slum

the future’s arrowhead is Arjuna.

Thus, I demand your severed thumb.’

So, Eklavya, the faithful slave

gave dakshina, the guru-fee.

Ever since, dissenting Dalits,

stretch the bow, but hold thumb free.

He placed it at the guru’s feet

a blemish on the Brahmin Law.

Now Dronacharya is best recalled

for stealing thumbs, not arts of war.”

28.19

Thus she passed her days of wet and hot

inside her hut with a happy yellow dog,

neighbour kids arriving between the storms.

Avoiding the Brahmin and fire mandir

she turned inside and found another place.

Nataraja danced before her eyes.

She saw and heard his damaru, the little drum

shaped like an hour-glass, sounding syllables

that make and break the universal law.

There was Ganga Devi in Shiva’s hair

unbraiding herself from his flowing dreadlocks.

Outside, rain had not let up and tractor blades

were ploughing the road. Then she heard Atul.

“Madam ji! Madam!”

NEIL

— Junkie —

You can get it all at Mr Johnson’s Time Emporium. Pop-books of individual seconds. Hours sealed in a can. Tanks containing whole years, if you’ve got the cash.

Time is money, Mr Johnson says.

And since he opened, I’ve never missed a deadline.

Never hit one, either. Because I can always get a couple more days, I never feel like I have to start anything.

It’s getting bad. I’ve got so much time that nothing ever gets done. I’m almost 50, but I’ve not yet had my 22nd birthday.

I’d quit, if it didn’t mean facing my credit card bill.

TOM

A silence gather about the Ghetto. Father Tony was joined by Rev
Morehouse. “Not you too, we are not going to have a dipped in nostalgic
band of brothers were has the time gone moment?” “Yes Captain Proctor, we
needn’t bring up what happen in that valley, just the death of dreams and
by my account we are the last still standing.” As if the years themselves
fell away, he was looking into the eyes of Lt Morehouse and Staff Sargent
Anthony Delmonico. “It will not go well.” said the doctor. “Never does.”
replied the priest.”Where are the guns, Morehouse?”

MUNSI

Floating Through the Day

By Christopher Munroe

You shiver, then whimper, naked and drained.

You assure me you’ll only need a minute.

It takes more like an hour.

I’d like you to stay, but you need to be at work in the morning, so do I, and I totally respect your decision to sleep in your own bed.

You thieve my pajama pants and TShirt, swimming in their size, and I walk you to your car, kissing you as you climb in, watching you drive away.

On the way back, it’s my turn to shiver.

My weekend is drawing to a close.

Where has the time gone?

SERENDIPITY

It sits on your hard drive, waiting to strike, then – at the worst possible moment – it starts to suck up your precious time, slowing your system to a crawl.

It mocks your deadlines with rogue updates, unexpected restarts and inexplicable crashes, misinterprets keystrokes, drops connections and hides files… and always when time is of the essence.

It comes preinstalled with every computer – PC or Mac – and there’s no escape.

So next time you wonder, “Where has the time gone?” – try switching off, and maybe you’ll work it out.

ZACKMANN

“Honey, where is the thyme? I bought some from the guy at the farmers market with the Volkswagen 412 squareback and am looking for the empty jar to fill.” said Zack

“Don’t worry dear I’m sure you’ll find it. I am sure I saw it recently, have you checked the top shelf of the dishwasher. I meant to put away the dishes but I could not find the time.” replied Connie.

“We haven’t used much since our baby left for college.” remarked Zack

Connie teased “We both worked but tried to give our child all the thyme in the world.”

DANNY

The world is asking, where has all The Time gone? The negative news about the crisis in Crimea, the missing airplane in Malaysia, and Eddie Van Halen previously wanting to join Kiss as their guitarist because he was fed up with arguing with David Lee Roth, left All The Time so fed up with humanity it decided to stop and take a vacation in the Bahamas. Top physicists and world leaders now question exactly when All The Time will come back so we can resume destroying ourselves, and whether All The Time will be to hung-over to resume moving forward.

CHELSEA

There was a sucking hole in his life. He wasn’t sure when he’d first noticed it. He’d always felt it there on the edge of everything, eating away at each moment.

He tried to keep a hold of the things that were important, family, friends, his sanity, but little by little each moment was stolen, devoured by the sucking hole in his world.

But, where did the time go, where was it actually going?

Was there a physical place he could go to get it all back?

That’s when he built the machine, and no one ever saw him again.

SEICHER

They say your life flashes rapidly in front of your eyes when you know you are about to die some sudden death. Who are They and how do They know this? Wouldn’t the people who know be…dead? She returned to watching a particularly embarrassing moment from junior high, vivid in its detail, right down to replicating the pain in her gut from the long ago angst. That was a random, cruel life review. And, why hasn’t anyone ever remarked that these flashes can happen at other times? She continued her reflection and her blank stare at the Windows loading screen.

SPATE

Bottles and Needles

She knows where Time goes. She followed him after the betrayal. Across alleys with dark corners, down sewers and through tunnels; all the way she hung not far behind him.

He stopped in a dank cavern and sat upon a rock. She quietly moved closer to see his skinny nakedness was covered with tattoos that looked like blue green bruises against his pale gray skin. And then she saw the ground all around was littered with bottles and dirty needles.

Heroin. That’s how he was manipulating the seconds and minutes and hours and days. Bottled smack.

Time is a junkie.

CLIFF

“All right, Eddie. You were the last one to be seen with it. So where is it?”
“I don’t know, I tell you. I didn’t take it.”
“Don’t lie to me, Eddie!”
“I’m tellin’ ya, when I left, it was right there in the bottle.”
“And now that sealed bottle is just empty?”
“It musta leaked out or something.”
“I’m warning you…”
“You ain’t got nothing on me. I got rights.”
Detective Crookshanks rubbed his eyes. Eddie wasn’t going to crack. It looked like the lab report was right. Nobody stole the liquid time. It just slipped into the future.

NORVAL JOE

Dergle followed Widow Finklestien to a small cafe. Either, she didn’t notice him following behind herA, or, with his changed status in reality, she didn’t know him anymore.
She sat in a booth, leaning across the table, holding hands with a man a little older than she. Dergle sat in the next booth, his back to hers.
“Where has the time gone, Harold?” She asked.
“That’s my point, Beula. Time’s moving on. Are you going to marry me, or not?”
A long pause followed his question. When she finally spoke, Dergle heard happiness in your voice, “Yes, Harold. I will.”

PLANET Z

Every week, the TIME magazine moves from the mailbox to the table by the front door.

Then, it moves to the countertop in the bathroom.
(Or the bathroom floor, if a cat knocks it there.)

After a day or so in the bathroom, it lands in the stack of magazines next to my wife’s easy chair.

It will float between the bathroom countertop for a few days, and then end up in the basket next to the toilet if there’s anything interesting in there for further reading.

And then, the trash. Along with all the other old catalogs and magazines.

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 PRIVATE.

We’ve got stories by:

• Seicher Rae
• Jeffrey
• Richard
• Jeff Hema
• Lizzie
• Serendipity
• Tom
• Munsi
• Zackmann
• Spate
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• John
• Botgirl
• Chelsea
• Norval Joe
• Tura Brezoianu
• Danny Dwyer
• Singh
• Planet Z

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of WHERE HAS THE TIME GONE?.

Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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

SEICHER RAE

Chris adjusted his headset and slumped back into his cheap chair — just another body in another cubicle in the sea of cubicles on this “secure work floor”. What a joke. Anyone with half a brain could leave with enough information to score at least a nice vacation. All the private identification information you could want, all given freely by the trusting dolts because they thought they were talking to the government. The sub-contracted job was minimum wage and the workers generally not too bright, but not Chris. He had plans; he could wait for the right call. He took another.

JEFFREY

Work is Its Own Reward
by Jeffrey Fischer

“We need to reward our best employees when they work hard on an assignment,” Mr. Silver said to his line managers.

Beth asked, “What kind of reward were you thinking about? We don’t have much in the way of a budget.”

Mr. Silver leaned back in his chair. “Maybe a $25 Starbucks gift certificate would show our appreciation. Heck if we chip in, we could make it fifty.”

Beth privately thought that wasn’t much of a motivational tool for employees making more than $75,000 a year, but she held her tongue. After all, keeping her paycheck flowing was its own reward.

The Examination
by Jeffrey Fischer

The doctor walked into Room 1 and looked at the patient on the table. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Doctor, I have some itching on my private parts and it won’t go away.”

The doctor chuckled kindly. “Well, that’s pretty easy to handle. Usually that’s just a case of genital crabs or lice. Let me take a look.” He performed an examination of the patient.

“That’s puzzling,” the doctor said. “I can’t see evidence of either crabs or lice. Just some white residue.”

“I could have told you that, doc. I just accidentally poured a bottle of itching powder down my shorts this morning. It’s pretty powerful stuff.”

Office Call
by Jeffrey Fischer

Bob knew the private meeting with his boss wouldn’t be a happy one when the older man shut his office door. “Bob, I have some bad news: we’re going to have to let you go. The minimum wage went up, which is great for the people we can afford to keep. Unfortunately, we can’t keep everyone, and you’re the low man on the totem pole.”

Bob looked stunned. “But… the President said raising the minimum wage wouldn’t lead to job losses.”

“Bob, he’s a politician. He lied.”

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story: Part 48 – A poor reception

Draining his teacup, George pushed his way to the front of the chapel, and climbed into the pulpit.

Clearing his throat, he leaned forward and boldly addressed the congregation:

“Ladies and gentlemen! The world may be ending, but we don’t have to go without a struggle!”

At his words, silence descended, the people looked up at him questioningly, before losing interest and turning back to their tea, biscuits and conversation.

Rasputin appeared at the foot of the pulpit, an angry frown on his face:

“You!”, he snarled, “Will speak with me now!” – he pointed towards a side room: “In private!”

#2 – Private Sanderson

As disasters go, this was pretty bad.

The chain of command was in tatters – strategically placed explosives, plenty of luck and a badly-timed combat briefing had combined to wipe out every officer in the company. The unit needed a leader, and pretty quickly.

In such extreme circumstances, the burden of command falls upon the most senior recruit still standing. Such was the responsibility that now fell to Private Sanderson.

What followed was crushing defeat and humiliation.

Shortly after, military policy was changed to ensure regimental mascots could not hold rank – a dog would never be put in command again!

#3 – The Sign

The sign said ‘Private Property’, we took no notice – we climbed over the wall and made the place our playground.

They tried all sorts to keep us out, but we always found a way: The words ‘Keep Out!’ were added to the sign, to no effect – we still broke in every day after school.

We thought it was a joke, when we turned up one evening and the sign now said: ‘Pirate Property – Keep out!’, but we were wrong.

Several of us suffered cutlass wounds, and Billy Smith was forced to walk the plank.

We don’t play there any more.

#4 – The Door Marked ‘Private’: Part 1 – Interview With A Prisoner

Nobody knows what’s behind the door – it’s not just that it’s marked ‘Private’ – this is a tough place – they don’t stand for any messing about, so we avoid causing trouble.

There’s all sorts of rumours – some say it’s where they keep the electric chair; others, that it leads to solitary confinement… myself, I think it’s just a storeroom. There’s no way I’m taking a look though!

Yes, some people take the risk, but no way is that a good idea.

Why?

Simple – it may sound crazy, but I’m telling you, nobody who ever went through that door ever came back!

#5 – The Door Marked ‘Private’: Part 2 – Interview With The Governor

We run a tough regime around here – and it works. I can tell you that these inmates keep their noses clean and give us no trouble at all. After doing time here, you never see them back in prison again.

Matter of fact, I’d say most of them are pretty much reformed characters way before their sentence is finished, which gives us a bit of a problem with overcrowding and prisoners with no real need to be here.

That’s why we have the door.

What’s behind it? Well, there’s a short corridor, leading to another door, and beyond that…

Freedom!

JEFF HEMA

An Asset

By Jeff Hema

Against all odds, the exponent driven detective Carrie was right! He’d been turned.

“You either become a double agent or you’ll face the death penalty and a public humiliation,” she said to me laconically in private.

I had no option but to comply.

When I reached the frontier, border guards were very dubious, unlike their dogs that scented the traitor inside me. I felt like they wanted my demise so I burst into a derelict cabin and tried to block the door, but they were getting in from the bottom.

I had to cut them into pieces… One by one.

LIZZIE

Private matters are difficult to handle, especially if those involved are married. It’s tricky, confusing, and even murky to meddle in affairs that are none of your business. That’s exactly what Nolan thought when he decided to hop in the time machine to try to solve marital problems. It was the almighty Marriage Committee’s business, granted, but wasn’t it his marriage after all? Unfortunately, a revolutionary thought for his time, he knew… Well, the machine broke, and Nolan got stuck back in 1974. He spent the rest of his private life haunted by the possibility of marrying his own great-grandmother.

SERENDIPITY
It’s surprising how many people keep private information on their computers and make little, if any, effort to protect it from prying eyes.

All those dodgy photo’s you downloaded from the net; logs of those private conversations that you’d never want disclosed; and those little snippets of information that would shock people if they were to ever find out.

As for protection… passwords won’t help you – we hackers are like vampires: invite us in of your own free will, and we have free reign.

And inviting me in to your system, is a simple matter: just play this audio file!

TOM

Funny

One of my earliest memories is watching the Phil Silvers show. I was four
years old. Both my parent were always prone to laughter, but that show
produced a different magnitude of laughter. Being a rather focused and by
all account precocious child I tried to sort out the reasons that show was
funny. I remember to this day a character called Pvt. Swiftington Bilko.
A rubbery face comic in his first TV roll. Seven years later he would
become the chimney sweep in Mary Poppins. Oddly he grew up 60 miles to the
south of were I grew up.

Well Defined Relationships Part 39

Rev Tony made his way cross the church yard to Doc Proctor. “Private
conversation Andover.” he said ducking into the Ghetto of Our Lady of
Detroit. Amongst the walls of pistons and cover of hub caps Rev Tony
whispered the name Le Cid Caesar. “When will he be here?” ask the Doctor.
“He and his 40 thiefs will come with the last new moon. “Why tell me?”
“Your our only hope.” “NO NO NOT AGAIN Anthony.” “Look at them Andover
they are lambs before the slaughter.” “I’m not the man you need.” “If not
you, then who?” said the priest.

Up the Rabbit Hole Part 8

Adam X return to his normal life. Code Monkey by day Kabbalahist by night.
He scoured the net looking for all things 404. On day seven the work payed
off. A link to a private chat room in Romania. A group of Ukrainian
hackers closely guarded words hinted at a similar experience. When Adam
entered “Who is HE.” the room imploded. The ghost cursor started to blink
in a syncopated pattered. Then the reply appeared “HE is waiting.”
Everything went black the screen, the room, in the dark a silk hood
dropped over his head. Arms firmly lock on his.

MUNSI

The Age of Privacy

By Christopher Munroe

Once upon a time, we had a concept called “Privacy”.

Essentially, people could if they chose be alone. No social media, no CCTV, no NSA monitoring, nothing. Simply an individual, alone with his or her thoughts.

Communication, in the age of “Privacy”, happened face-to-face, between small numbers of consenting citizens, unrecorded. No detailed records were kept, indeed the idea of recording “Private” conversations was considered uncouth.

Because we were all isolated then, every one of us, even in groups.

We must’ve been desperately lonely.

Barbaric, isn’t it?

But that’s how we used to live.

We’ve come a long way since…

ZACKMANN

“I be glad I could have this private conversation with the Grimm Bastard’s supply officer. Ye are fair to me men and a good leader but Ye should not be too trusting of privateers even ones on your own ship.” says Captain Pigheart pushing Officer Johnson toward the fantail.

Officer Johnson kicks the captain in his privates then runs over the gangplank before Pigheart can order his detention. Johnsons is so glad his diligence to his duty resulted in acquiring the rum keg that Pigheart has used to become too tipsy to remember the Grim Bastard is still in port.

SPATE

The Intruder

The shower is probably the second most private place in this world… just you, the hot water, some soap. You never expect someone to creep up on you.

When I heard her bloodcurdling, heart searing scream I didn’t even think; I just bolted up the stairs, two at a time, threw open the bath door and yanked the curtain back.

She was naked, plastered flat against the wall, horrified; and there he was standing right in the shower with her.

I did what I had to do…

I squished the damn spider. He went down the drain in little pieces.

CLIFF

I had worked for the company for fourteen years and I’d never been on the tenth floor. The directory just showed it as “Private” and the elevator was locked. The door on the stairs was locked from the inside too. Yesterday, while climbing the stairs, I found the door blocked open, likely by some diehard smoker on the roof. I pulled the door open and looked inside. Rows of monitors showed company reports, budget plans, the entire corporate strategy. Sitting in front of those monitors were chimpanzees. A gorilla pushed me out the door with the words “You saw nothing.”

Nothing is private. Your bank accounts, your calls, your emails, all are subject to government surveillance. They track the GPS in your car and phone. They monitor your FaceSpace and TweetPages. If you catch their attention, they can know everything there is to know about you inside of an hour. Sure, they say it’s just bulk statistical data but really, what spy is given that kind of access and says “No, it wouldn’t be ethical.” You mark my words, they’re spying on everyone everywhere!

JOHN MUSICO

“None So Blind As Those Who Will Not See”
by John Musico

An atheist has no faith. He has no confidence that some power will save him.
However, without recognizing it- he does have faith.
It occurs after his talents have fallen short and he has again failed.
That night, he talks to himself. He reminds himself he has traversed rough waters prior and yet survived. He urges himself to return to the fight bravely.
He feels better. He is praying to a benevolent, intangible, almighty being- his inner self. He is even placing faith in someone who has failed. Yet, he chooses to believe nonetheless, without evidence. He does have faith.

BOTGIRL

Pride, Prejudice and Twitter, a 100 Word Story in Screenplay style by Botgirl Questi- www.botgirl.com

There’s also a video version, which is where the audio came from

PLAIN DRAWING ROOM

JANE AND MR. DARCY ARE STANDING AT THE LIBRARY.

JANE(EXCITED)

The social network isn’t just a medium of self-expression, it calls forth creativity that would not have otherwise been born…

MR DARCY

… and time not otherwise wasted.

(JANE smirks)

JANE

We hack off hunks of ourselves chronically crafting content that is convulsively consumed by hungry hordes viewing voyeuristically from the void!

MR DARCY bumps fists with JANE

MR DARCY

Incorrigible peeping Toms peering from timeless space, hungry ghosts gobbling down the guts we disgorge, zoned out zombies voraciously devouring endless tubs of all you can eat buttered brains, transfixed by the wit and witless wind.

JANE kisses MR DARCY

JANE

You’re feeding off me right now, so don’t forget to wipe your filthy mouth before you finish.

FADE TO BLACK

CHELSEA

Private Moments:

Private moments between two people are the sweetest things.

Soft whispers in the ear.
Gentle kisses on the lips.
Secret smiles when no one’s looking.
Silent sighs in the dark.

Sweet moments for two and only two.

It’s the most amazing thing in the world when you can share a private moment with someone who actually wants to be there. Moments that you keep close to your heart.

Private moments between two people.
Soft whispers in the ear.
Gentle kisses on the lips.
Secret smiles when no one’s looking.
Silent sighs in the dark.

Sweet moments for two and only two.

Private:

She saw him before he saw her, standing in the crowded lobby. Head down, focused on his phone, head phones in, lost in the song of the week.

She paused for a moment before walking up to him to really take it all in. To have this moment to herself.

He was waiting for her. He was there to spend time with her. Such a crazy concept in her world that she really did need that moment to herself.

Then she darted up to him and was rewarded first with surprise, then that smile. The private one just for her.

NORVAL JOE

The drill sergeant walked through the open bay barracks banging two garbage can lids together, and shouted, “I want every one of you swinging Richards out in formation, standing tall, at zero four, forty-five.”

The trainee’s jumped from their bunks, opened lockers to grab their uniforms, or dashed to the bathroom.

I was already information, knocking off the few chin hairs I could find with a dry disposable razor when Dennis came out and said, “We eat, sleep, shit, shower and shave with sixty other guys and they have the nerve to call us private. We should be called publics.”

TURA

Private
——–
“Private: Keep Out” said the sign.

“Don’t worry,” I said to my friend, “That doesn’t mean us.”

“THIS MEANS YOU,” it said sternly.

“Look”, I told it, “we’ve got more important things to do today than argue with a Keep Out sign.”

“Leave immediately or face countermeasures,” it answered.

“I don’t see any guns,” I retorted. “You don’t even have an Internet connection, do you?”

“No,” it admitted, looking crestfallen. As much as a metal plate on a post can. “They shut this place down years ago and left me running on an atomic battery. I just wanted the conversation.”

DANNY

Trolling Facebook the other day, and I saw a video clip of an Army Private getting kicked in his privates, followed by 127 of the most insane comments about utter nonsense, as if the Private whose testicles were now popping out of his mouth could not feel pain. He was not even human, his entire life reduced to a 25 second clip as if it were nothing more than a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Maybe some things in life were just meant to be private, I don’t see rape victims posting videos of their rape on Facebook. We should stop posting ours.

SINGH

28.1

Daily rain came down and down.

There wasn’t respite in her hut.

She closed school. The road to town

now boghole hell,was also shut.

She watched the village kids at times

cavorting in the plough-field muck.

For them, all was jolly times,

holidays since lightning struck.

Monsoon wets come sharp and short,

and next oppressive sweats of heat.

She’d cool off, but then was caught

like a fly upon her sticky seat.

She played with Yudhi to wait it out,

but lost her appetite for food

and took to bed with a nasty bout.

Fever watched the storm clouds brood.

28.2 Hoarfrost

So hot it’s cold laying down in the hut

fever is a portal time travel back

twenty years twenty miles south of Paris

Auvers-sur-Oise deckchair fishermen

casting lines lazy willows casting shadows

farther farmland cider-apple orchards

cherry trees nipple-laden criss-cross

of hawthorne hedges white flowers

like spicules of haw frost their stale sweet

trimethylamine of sex poppies straw hats

“Women Across a Field” Van Gogh country

“Wheat Fields with Crows” the flaming yellow sea

French-practice days a picnic lover

baguette cheese wine arse down on earth

head up under heaven so hot it’s cold

28.3 Necromancer

So hot it’s cold the black bite the swollen groins

pus volcanoes under armpits the fingers the rotting toes

black noses falling off gangrenous stink

necrosis trail into the forest clean beech bark

unsullied columbines blue jay songs plump quail

wise woman of the woods Grandma Mimi? Whose face?

nursing the nearly dead herbs air sunlight

until They march town shouters black habit bearing the Cross

Rope the necromancer! Drag her feet first hands behind back

Plague bitch! Spell thrower! Beware the witch eye!

Save the village! Throw her in the River Oise!

Squirrel horned owl red deer blink move on

28.4

So hot it’s cold sweaty Punjabi suit

inner colours unravel like Draupadi’s sari

skirts of fustian sheer linen pleated armlets of Isis

Indus saffron cotton Yuan Dynasty jade silk neck to ankle

Tyrian purple for her once-Greek lady-loose peplos

Byzantine ox leather Dalmatica cloak

woollen cape fastened on the right shoulder

velvet broadcloth with the sign of the artichoke

Spanish ruff for a delicate neck French needlelace

Marie Antoinette wig hat bearing a fruit bowl

lengths of chinz and muslin traded from India

Draupadi’s sari keeps unraveling East to West

guarding the secret soul-patches of her past

28.5 jejune

So hot it’s cold the day the night the faces

flying between the past the future legs bodies

as if passing through a glass walkway

old stone to modern extension slipping between

a lotus goddess to Detroit girl in snow

from Durga on tiger to Buick baby seat flashbacks

fast-forwards old stirrings ride along nothing jejune

about this journey her return to her repeating of

using the time-machine the hyper reality of Now

she has tasted the hallucinogens of fever Is she

the weak thatched hut of the flesh or a transporter

of private thoughts impressions transparent ghosts?

28.6

“Madam, Madam! Are you alright, Madam?

Reliable man had come with a kilo of milk

while she lay perspiring upon the bed.

The monsoon played its kettle drum tattoo

and Yudhi whimpered. Atul gave him the cream,

and poured her water from the sideboard jug.

“Drink Madam. You must keep drinking it.”

She sipped and coughed then, trying to sit up,

slumped back drained. Atul saved the tumbler

from minor flood. Not a drop spilled. He rose

up bigger than he was upon the chair

that had been growing also since last visit;

and didn’t move until the fever broke.

PLANET Z

When I was growing up, I never saw Jim Nabors on The Andy Griffith Show

Instead, I saw reruns of Gomer Pyle when he was a private in the Marines. And he sang at every Indy 500.

And Ron Howard was Ritchie Cunningham on Happy Days, not Opie the rascal in Mayberry.

Don Knotts was Mr. Furley in Three’s Company.
Even Andy Griffith was Matlock.

Looking up and down the cast list, the only other name I recognize is Denver Pyle. He was Uncle Jesse in the Dukes Of Hazzard.

The Andy Griffith Show is on Netflix?

Pass the popcorn.

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 AGAIN.

We’ve got stories by:

• John
• Jeffrey
• Richard
• Tom
• Munsi
• Chelsea
• Lizzie
• Serendipity
• Zackmann
• Neil
• Tura Brezoianu
• Spate
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Singh
• Norval Joe
• Danny Dwyer
• Rick
• Julie
• Planet Z

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

Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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

JOHN MUSICO

“Ain’t No Sunshine”
by John Musico

The song; “Ain’t no sunshine” nearly ruined my start in college. During the very first exam- that song came to mind. I had to let it cycle through, in its entirety that was so long. “Wella I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know. Leave that girl alone. And a house just ain’t no home. Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone”. Then it started its cycle again, over and over. I failed. I shared my dilemma with my best friends father. He was a physician. He prescribed valium.

JEFFREY

Perfect Practice
by Jeffrey Fischer

I once had a high school teacher who doubled as a football coach. He enjoyed repetitive drills both on the field and in the classroom. Each year he would give the same motivational speech to his classes: “People say that practice makes perfect, but that’s wrong. *Perfect* practice makes perfect.” Then he would make us do the drill again.

“But sir,” I asked, “if perfection belongs only to God, then we can never practice perfectly. Shouldn’t we just go home?”

By that time in my academic career, my parents recognized the principal’s telephone number when she called.

Forecast
by Jeffrey Fischer

I use the MacBook to check the weather forecast. The snow continues to fall, and the forecast still calls for a foot of the stuff by tomorrow. I angrily slam the cover shut.

The cat walks to the front door, sees the snow, and meows, striding back to the warm couch with a disdainful look. This is the fourth time today she has made such a check. I turn to the cat and tell her, “They say that madness is doing the same thing again and again while expecting different results. You, cat, are definitely mad.”

The cat stares back as I open the MacBook and refresh the forecast. Still predicting a foot of snow. Dammit. I slam the top back down. Again.

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story, Part 47: Time to change

Tea and biscuits aside, George was acutely aware that he seemed to have lost control of his life.

Up until his accident, he’d been a control freak; knew exactly what he was doing, and tended to be the one calling the shots. Since then, things had gone downhill, and he wasn’t enjoying being pushed around by circumstance.

He thought back to how he’d overcome his fears to break out of the hospital, and then risen to the challenge at Fort Hope… It was time to take charge again of his life, and maybe those of these helpless victims around him.

#2 – The same old story

So, here I am, once again – facing the same old challenge, in exactly the same way, as I face it every single time.

And every single time it’s like this, again, and again, and again – my mind goes blank, my thoughts wander, distractions creep in and the clock ticks incessantly onwards…

Here I am, once again – bereft of ideas, lacking inspiration, frustrated, annoyed and perplexed; wondering why I’m putting myself through this, yet again.

And then, without warning or fanfare, I start to write the words, and as always happens, despite all expectations, a story is finally written, once again.

TOM

He almost missed it. He had been able to retain in memory a proper name.
Sure, not one of truly significant personal impact, or was that true. Mr.
Moggly, earnest presenter of mathematical principles to hyper
disinterested pupils was in fact the seed of his future stoicism. A life
time of explaining the complex to the perplexed. “My name is Adam,” he
said. “Good by sir,” said He. Back at his desk Adam X mentally listed off
possible explanations for this bizarre experience. Tried as he may what
filled his mind was a deep desire to do is all again.

“Again!” cried Father Tony. He and Banister pulled the widow to the edge
of the bell tower floor. All were safely untethered from the hydrogen bag
that now floated gently away from the twin churches. Despite lacking
bravery the dual congregation made up for it in Enthusiasm. Song and
dance broke out below. When things settled down everyone’s eyes were
trained on Tim waiting for some sage pronouncement. All the disheveled lad
could think to say, “God bless us one and all.” Generations later would
nod as they read thous words on the Plaque below the Statue of the Seven

t’was one of thous stupid affirmatic graphics. A poster in the office
with the letter “A” in red and the letters g-a-i-n in black in a proper
lacquered frame. Just the insipid sub proses a paper-pusher would lock his
black heart on. Danny moved gold, Danny moved junk. Danny pushed pork
bellies Danny trolled tech. Danny chopped up mortgages ground them down to
dust, sifted through the pile, cleared his book by lunch. He promised the
world as the stocks fell through the floor. But what hit the floor under
that poster was Danny who’s heart would not beat again.

“Again,” demanded Madame Duperey. “No, Stop, Once again. First position,
Second position, arm curved.” The sound of the staff marked the time less
audible to the wobbling notes that squeaked from the Victoria. Tiny units
of equal time. It’s all about, again, mused Sabrina. The randomness of
childhood ended at the tender age of seven. Not the dance, death had
changed all things. She try to recall it again. The last thing Poppa said
to her was so uninformed, it tended to float away. It took continuous
focus to keep it firm in her head, close to her heart. “AGAIN.”

MUNSI

Persistence

By Christopher Munroe

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

If you still don’t succeed, stop.

Just stop.

You can’t be good at everything, there will always be things where no matter how hard you try, you’ll fail, and fail spectacularly.

And that’s okay.

Nobody’s expected to be good at everything, if you fail over and over, maybe it’s time to quit.

Not popular advice, but good advice.

It’s about opportunity cost, after all.

So yes, try, and try again. But past that point don’t be fanatical. Quit while you’re ahead.

Because quitters do win. They just win at something different…

CHELSEA

She looked up at him and said “You have such beautiful eyes.”

“No,” he said, cowering and trying to hide his face from her.

“Yes!” she replied, slowly tracing her fingers up his back and curling them into his soft, thick hair.

“No,” he replied again.

This time when he tried to hide she pulled back on his hair to bring his face back up to hers.

“Yes!” She said and leaned in to kiss him softly and passionately before releasing his hair.
“And don’t even get me started on that smile.” she said, kissing him before he hid again.

LIZZIE

Mirror, mirror on the wall,

Who is the fairest one of all?

She had a toolbox full of aids,

And these were shinny little blades.

Mirror, mirror blocking the way,

Who will jump and who will slay?

He tried to run as fast as the wind,

But she was faster and got his skin.

Mirror, mirror playing tricks,

Who forgets and who forgives?

She looked around for more.

All she got was a funky door.

“Mirror, mirror full of shades,

I’ll stay away,” she uttered, twisting her braids

In her own little private hell,

A cell, again a lonely cell.

JULIE

You did it to me,

Again

Each night I swear you will not.

But it happens,

Again.

I am called many things.

Drunk.

Emotional.

Crazy.

I am none of those.

You will not goad me into tears.

I will not nibble the bait.

But I do.

Again.

Some days

You did it to me,

Again

Each night I swear you will not.

But it happens,

Again.

I am called many things.

Drunk.

Emotional.

Crazy.

I am none of those.

You will not goad me into tears.

I will not nibble the bait.

But I do.

Again.

Some days

It goes OK

And other days not.

You did it tonight.

Again.

I will not feed you and fuck you.

I take things from my closets and dressers

The cabinet near my sink,

Toss them into the trash.

Slowly, over time winnow it away.

I will strive to travel lightly.

SERENDIPITY

He lay in a rapidly expanding pool of his own blood; his life ebbing away as I watched him dying.

It was unfortunate for me there were witnesses – two of them – a young man and a woman, both of them now cowering in the corner of the room… and, as luck would have it, I only had one bullet remaining.

Who should I shoot – the guy or the girl? Either way, I was inevitably going to get caught – there was no escaping it.

I sighed and I placed the gun barrel to my temple, before softly squeezing the trigger, once again.

ZACKMANN

“Dylan, for the sake of whatever you hold Holy, stop playing that album. It has been on constantly. You know if I wanted to hear the same songs over and over repeatedly, I would turn on a top forty station.”

“But I love this CD.”

“I used to love that band too but in the way your mother used to love snow before she spent a few winters in the upper midwest.”

“Since you’re my favorite roommate you know what I will do?”

“No, Dylan but I hope it involves returning your mother’s CD and never playing it another time.”

NEIL

— Out of Date —

It had been an ill-timed jump, and Dirk was about to die.

He’d been told there was a bright white light. Then maybe he’d be taken to stand in front of Saint Peter, or watch as his heart was weighed against a feather.

But instead of his life flashing before him, two words appeared as his world went dark.

Continue Y/N?

And a countdown. Ten. Nine. Eight.

“Yes!” he said, as the numbers ticked lower. “Yes, yes!”

On the edge of hearing, he caught ‘not that interesting…’ ‘meh, old crap…’ ‘let’s play Street Fighter instead…’

Then silence.

Three. Two. One.

TURA

Again
——–
When I died, it ruined all my plans, except one. Time to practice my studies of the Tibetan Book of the Dead.

Tunnel of light: ignore it, it’s just the random sparkings of my brain shutting down. Now the clear and smoky lights of the heavens and hells. Avoid them all, I intend doing better than that.

Mild and fierce deities, just say boo.

Rebirth options coming up. This is the trickiest part, not just getting a human rebirth, but a fortunate one. And… and… this one!

Oops, third daughter of a Mongolian yak herder. Life on hard mode again.

SPATE

Mostly True Tales from the Navy

Part 4

Between Two Worlds

Again she appeared, the girl with the flaxen hair and the sky blue eyes, imploring me to understand: the bear had come, his strong arms offering comfort in the uncertainty of the storm.

Where was she to turn? What decision was hers? All sides had hidden intent.

I reached for her but she backed away and began sinking into the opaqueness of the sea.

That’s when I awoke, somewhere in the western Pacific, fighter jets scrambling on the flight deck above the enlisted quarters rack where I lay clinging to the recurring dream, holding my breath between two worlds again.

CLIFF

The master died yesterday and we burned him today. I laid his body in the shed and sat with him as the house robots filled and surrounded the building with wood. The fire burned for hours and, in the end, I sat next to charred bones. We carefully loaded them into a sturdy case for the journey. He believed that all life came from the sea and wanted his bones returned there. He felt that, once in the sea, he would be a part of life again. It was good to have a purpose even if my master was gone.

SINGH

27.1

The whale of a house was first to call Yogi for satsang

some District belly of Works, who ensures nothing will happen

without eating his weekly ‘hafta’, a fad wad of hundreds, stapled.

Impressario Barhai gave White Yogi a make-over:

elegant cream, quilt shoulders, some silk to snake the neck with.

Chauhaan lugged the guitar case, grey and sleek as a dolphin,

nosing passed people waiting seated on white linen.

A tabla player came with the entourage of Yogi guitarfish

sitting to tune both treble and bass, then dive down under.

Yogi strummed and sang in a scale pelagic and solemn.

27.2

Next day, it was a house behind the college.

Mrs Malholtra greeted at the door.

The satsang started in her livingroom.

Yogi sang his mish-mash nonsense chant

based on Sanskrit names for baby Krishna

go-pa-la go-pa-la

de-va-ki nun-dana go-pa-la

lah lah lah lah go far lah lah

lah lah lah lah go-go very far

No one said a word and clapped along.

He was a foreigner. He went unquestioned.

After, they dropped rupees at his feet

that Barhai later grabbed. Then onto the next:

another home of Mrs Middle-class.

27.3

Barhai sold the emperor’s new clothes

till day and nightly satsangs were the rage.

Wealth and status tasted the first cream

and lapped it up, meowing to the neighbours.

Fame makes rings that spread across a town.

All wanted to touch the robed and shoeless saint

gracing divans and nibbling their pakoras.

Some even took his leavings as prashad.*

Yogi’s azure eyes played their foreign part.

He came and sat and smiled and sang, just

glad that funds would flow back to the school.

For most, he was every centimetre holy

while Barhai hid his cheshire pleasure smirk.

*blessed food.

27.4

S.P. Agarwaal, a high-ranking cop

invited Yogi inside. “Aiyay, Sir.”

Someone was waving a tray with burning ghee-lamp,

while others avalanched him with their ropes

of cream and crimson flower-headed garlands.

Yogi sang, then tried some smatter of Hindi.

Then Agarwaal came half-sobbing. “Yogi ji,

my daughter is having bad pneumonia.

Please, you come to the hospital and bless her.”

Yogi felt awkward and glanced across to Barhai

whose simply said: “Certainly, Agarwaal Sahib!”

Approval murmured through the gathering

like wings of fluttering pigeons in a coop.

Thus Yogi was driven to the medical centre.

27.5 Chimera

As soon as passing through the swing-bang doors

Yogi did not want to be there. Phenol

pinched his nose, flooding him with childhood’s

asthma stints that gasped in hospital.

But he could not say as Agarwaal charged ahead.

His feverish three-year-old and fraught wife

were in the children’s ward. He implored.

Nurse Whitecap nodded to Dr Whitecoat

glancing at White Yogi– practitioners

of priestcraft – different schools. “Doctor

says go in,” Nurse Whitecap said. “She is

in Jesus’ hands.”

An Indian Christian. Barhai

steered Yogi through the breezy porthole doors

and the phenol odour made him retch again.

27.6

“Baba bless my little girl,” the mother said

bobbing to touch his feet. But Yogi felt

fraudulent as that day beside the Ganges

when a villager humbly kneeled for blessing

as if he was a meditating sadhu.

Belief in holiness he hoped would be enough,

not in him; and prayed to God to save her.

He felt it wrong, but touched the fontanelle.

The baby murmured, surprising him. Was this

gurgle, proof he was a conduit? “Please,”

Nurse Whitecap said. “She must be resting now.”

The khaki Superintendent was overcome

and thrust a wad of notes in Barhai’s hand.

27.7

Within one day the Agarwaal baby lungs

were suddenly clear of noctilucous blotches.

Whitecoat blinked. Nurse Whitecap said, “Praise Jesus.”

No phosphor specks shined in the x-ray dark.

Barhai went to Yogi. “The God has blessed you.”

“Look. I’m glad that she has pulled through, but

she was lucky, Barhai.”

“Why to doubt?

You may have healing hands and the God knows only.”

Yogi listened. The idea of having a gift

was pleasing vanity, although the ego shrugged.

“If you are praying for the people with a pure heart

where is the wrong in it. The God bestows.”

27.8

Word spread fast of Yogi, the singing saint

with the healer’s touch. Barhai’s phone kept

ringing, while Chauhaan turned secretary.

Calls for home satsangs went ballistic.

So they invented the fifteen minute stop.

Yogi did his job, listening to requests

for better health, jobs, or having a son.

Barhai advised to nod and smile and touch

bowed lady heads, or pat the backs of men.

With the wish-stream came the flow of cash.

It was clear transaction: blessings for money.

Embarrassed first, Yogi then rationalised

how Barhai was collecting for the school.

and kept aloof from any money-handling.

27.9 Dystopia

The monsoon rains kept the campaign going —

short cold bursts shifting to rising steam.

Overly busy, Yogi neglected Margaret,

and wondered if she was coping in the village.

He thought to write and asked Barhai to send it

somehow. The roads were still deep ruts of mud.

“Of course,” said Barhai with all confidence

salving Yogi’s conscience on the surface.

He missed her badly, thinking of her at night,

now a past life friend. With thoughts disturbed

his head became a guilty chatroom; so drew

a Gita Card for calm — ‘Divine Descent’

the avatar call coming from age to age:

27.10

When wickedness consumes the ways of humankind
I descend to end dystopia with Dharma saving the pious.

The card evoked discord —apocalypse,

a dynasty’s royal end of noble days.

Krishna the Eighth Avatar from Vishnu

walks the knife-edge Copper Age and Iron,

the maintenance man of cosmic renovation.

The godhead warhead unleashes annihilation,

a fire machine’s scorched earth policy.

It was a cleansing card, a reality check.

He wondered how it weighed upon his marriage.

Timed with cold-and-hot-tap running weather,

these monsoons and the so-humid steam baths

might somehow cleanse the dirt pores of his life.

27.11

Darling,

So we are apart for now to start again with new leaves coming on the tree. You wanted me to go and do and be someone you could be proud of. But without you here or me returning are we moving with one map? It’s hard to see the way through mud and rain. It’s hard to hold onto the hope we’re still viable. I long for you each night and miss your neck, your arms, your legs. My hands are lost. I miss the nest where we end all our questioning. And want to be at rest.

Yogi.

27.12

Yogi told just how things were.

Margot, his darling other half

Shouldn’t feel he did not love her.

Yes, he was her moon-calf.

Maybe he did not know himself.

Words too often try to hide

what should be simple, off-the-shelf,

private and bone-fide.

If roads were blocked with mud and grime

and kept him in this town,

he would now write from time to time

about what was going down.

Sealing his letter, he went to Barhai.

“Can you get this sent today?”

Barhai took it. “I will try ji.”

Then he locked it away.

NORVAL JOE

Dergle held open the driver’s door to his Volkswagon Microvan and waited for Long Jong Silver to hop onto the bench seat and crawl toward the opposite door. The weiner dog waited for his master to climb in and close the door before he lay his muzzle on Dergle’s leg.
“I don’t know boy,” he said, scratching the dog’s head. “I don’t think I can start over again, from the beginning. No place to live, no money, and no job.”
“What options do we have?” Long John asked.
Dergle just shook his head and said, “I sure hope I’m dreaming.”

DANNY

Please say hello to Tara for me. I swear, if flying from Tampa to Newark was half the cost of a bus ticket from NY Port Authority to Chicago, and the flight time was only 1/10 of the time it takes to gets from Manhattan to the New Jersey during peak rush hour traffic, I swear I would totally be there within 73 hours, but only if my math is correct. I’ve always noticed that people who can’t drive worth a shit are always smiling at me while they run me off the road. But their smiles… again they were so convincing.

RICK

She paused at his door … again.
Her friends said he was too old … they were right.
He wasn’t an attractive man.
He didn’t have much money.
He lived in a small apartment.
No one seemed to understand …
… in that small apartment …
She could talk … and someone would listen.
She could cry … and someone would comfort her.
She could be wrong … and there was someone who would forgive.
She could sing, laugh, and dance … and someone was there to sing, laugh, and dance with her.

She could just be who she was!

With a smile she knocked on the door … again.

PLANET Z

Ah, Ocean Base One. You were once a grand and majestic city, afloat on the Pacific.

Such good times we had.

They say you can never go home again, but this doesn’t stop me from trying.

The Russians sank Ocean Base One during The Putin Wars. But seven thousand feet is child’s play these days. We started a Kickstarter to raise it back up, and we’re nearly funded.

The radiation, on the other hand, isn’t so easy to fix. But I’ve got a good radiation suit, and when I find my old teddy bear, I’ll encase it in lead shielding.

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 FORMULA.

We’ve got stories by:

• Matt Ryan
• John
• Jeffrey
• Richard
• Tura Brezoianu
• Lizzie
• Serendipity
• Munsi
• Tom
• Singh
• Zackmann
• Spate
• Chelsea
• Neil
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Norval Joe
• Planet Z

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

Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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

JOHN MUSICO

“A Cool Formula” by John Musico

My favorite molecule is PABA found in sunscreen.
Its core is a hexagon of 6 carbons; termed benzene. In chemistry, carbons must bind to 4 atoms. Here, each binds to the adjacent 2 carbons in the hexagon plus to a hydrogen at the corners. The 4th bond is achieved by a shared orbital amongst the 6 carbons. The sun’s UV energy makes electrons jump to the next carbon via this shared path. This movement absorbs the damaging UV rays. The PABA film thus shields the underlying skin. I do wish I could hear those electrons whirling around the PABA ring.

RYAN

He has a secret formula. He keeps it in his house. He’s never told a single soul. Not even his new spouse. He puts it in his famous steak, and in his soup as well. No one knows just what it is that makes it taste so swell.

He used it in the flower bed, and poured some on the grass. His lawn grew green and lush, and no one’s could surpass.

One day his spouse exclaimed with excited glee, “I’ve found his secret recipe!”

His face grew red as he got hotter. She revealed his secret was only water.

JEFFREY

The Ultimate Formula
by Jeffrey Fischer

Professor Schweinstein started at the whiteboard, which was filled with mathematical notations. He was *that* close to a unified theory of physics, he could feel it. He was one insight away from explaining the mysteries of the universe, but he couldn’t see the last step. In frustration, he left his office for the evening.

Mrs. Klotz was a dutiful cleaning lady, even if her vision was not what it used to be. She reached for the professor’s trash can and brushed against the whiteboard. One formula changed slightly, unlocking the last key.

As the universe began to collapse, Mrs. Klotz shuffled to the next office, unaware of her cosmic importance.

Oscar Time
by Jeffrey Fischer

The studio executives sat around a large table, smoking cigars and talking about the movies they would green-light. An action film, a period drama, a comedy with a cross-dressing black man, a rom-com, and a weepy chick movie. Stanley sighed. He said, “Come on, guys, this is so formulaic. Sure, they’re all proven money-makers, but is this what we got into pictures for?” The others shook their heads. No, cocaine was what they got into pictures for.

“Get this,” Stanley continued. “Weepy chick movie, but both stars are hot girls. Genius, right? The female audience will go for the tissue factor, the boyfriends have something to look at, and it gets those gay rights assholes off our backs. I smell multiple Oscars.”

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story, Part 46: Custard creams

George had a sneaking suspicion that whimpering like a baby and admitting to being a coward wouldn’t go down well with Rasputin – it wasn’t exactly a winning formula!

Rasputin snorted in disgust and turned away.

Miserably, George shrank further into the pew and prayed… for the service to be over.

Eventually, the last hymn was sung and George found himself surrounded by a group of rather intense new friends, drinking tea and munching custard cream biscuits.

It wasn’t so bad and – if the world was about to end – he could think of worse ways to be spending his last hours.

#2 – Formula

‘e=mc2’ – I never really understood what it was supposed to mean… something to do with the gravity of relatives, I think, or is it to do with circles and acceleration?

Whatever it means, I’ve managed to bluff my way through life pretty well so far, giving knowledgeable smiles and understanding nods whenever it enters the conversation.

That is, until today, when I realised that I know even less about Einstein’s work that even I imagined.

Yes… it’s taken me all eighty-one words of this story so far, before realising that it’s an equation, and not a formula at all!

TURA

Formula, or, Sherlock to his dark lady

To everything there is a formula
Cigar ash, muddy boots, the Channel tides;
Perceive the hidden clockwork clearly and
Its present, past, and future are implied.

These lovers gazing on each others’ face
With blind regard, who see yet never see:
One minute’s observation tells me all
That their love is, and was, and e’er shall be.

But when I watch upon your watching eye
My usual methods exercise in vain;
My thoughts reach no conclusion but a sigh
And all my reasoning rebounds again.

I must, yet must not, find thy hidden heart
Discover love by taking it apart.
——–

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 37

The story goes Archibald Morehouse divined the formula that allowed
perpetual motion to be. Rev Sackbe knew better having been told the actual
events leading up to the foundation of their faith. Archie a third year
student at Rutherford Poly-tech was playing poke with a Gnome, a shaman,
and the prioress of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, on an inside
straight he won the formula. Because same said formula was causing the
bell tower to turn, and by proxie the steeple, Sackbee had to invoke the
counter-formula. All he had to do was type it into the spreadsheet cell,
hit F9

Up The Rabbit Hole Part 6
He moved pass shelves that read: Algebra II. Laying out in plain view was
his Junior year final. The page was nearly totally blank, but for the
following formula: Y squared divided by A squared minus X squared divided
by B squared equals One. An unearthed memory of Wittleton Moggsly cross
his mind. “What the hell did he call thous dotted line that hugged the
edge of the … you know the curve parts?” Not have the ability to
describe a thing with out its name was getting damn irritating “OH you
mean the not falling together lines” said He.

LIZZIE

I stayed at the hospital for a week to undergo a routine treatment. Unexpectedly, the treatment provided had a new formula. Despite my heated protests, that’s what I was given. It’s more effective, they insisted stubbornly. However, I felt different. I tried to keep things under control, but my vision got blurred and I started seeing people’s insides as if they were being scanned by a 3D x-ray machine. I looked away. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t stand it. Yet, their intestines, their stomachs, their lungs almost jumped out of them. Curiously enough, I didn’t see one single heart…

SERENDIPITY

Science lessons always bored me to tears – the teacher would show us a formula, and all I saw were letters and numbers… it made no sense at all.

I wasn’t the only one who struggled – most of us in the class didn’t have a clue. Eventually, we hit on a plan which was to make lessons far more interesting than we could ever have imagined.

You see, one white powder looks very like another, and the average bottle of clear liquid resembles pretty much any other bottle of clear liquid… but swap the labels and that’s when the magic happens!

MUNSI

A Formula for a Successful Life

By Christopher Munroe

One: Figure out who you are and what you want from this world, then do things that help you toward that.

Two: Enjoy your body, whatever its shape, size or type. It’s yours, you own it, and it serves you. It’s not enough to love your body, use it every day and appreciate it.

Three: With regard to your mind, see point two.

Four: Regret what you’ve done when necessary, but never regret who you are for even a moment.

…this advice is good.

I’m still working on following it.

I’m working on me.

It’s a process.

I’ll get there…

SINGH

26.11

Young Atul was waiting just over the water —

her little man, the dark-skinned casteless boy

whiplash quick, smarter than all the lumps

of farmer lads and daughters, buffalo-thick.

Her gambolling lamb spoke up when she appeared

“Madam, Madam! Careful of the water.

Very soggy: gobar-mud with potholes!”

He was her lookout and reward for kindness

who gave more back by learning all he could,

dwarfing bullies. She was his mother partridge.

Margot was glad some little men are true

and wise despite short legs and know of troubles.

If only Paul and Adele could be like him.

26.12

Proudly he steered his Madam village-wards.

They sloshed and slipped and laughed as last drops glopped

upon their heads. Now close to Madam’s hut

Atul whispered: “We are being followed.”

A yellow lolloping puppy was behind them.

They stopped. It paddled and panted closer

through clear puddles where bits of sun now shimmered

before the next storm shower. The puppy barked

and nosed a fallen stick from water, tossing

and catching and dropping it at her feet.

“He likes you Madam,” Atul the sage kid said.

“But whose is he?” She asked. His English was

improving day by day.

26.13

“No one’s, Madam.”

Such kutas live on rotten scrap or bone.
Madam, he likes you. Take the kuta home.

Otherwise, he soon will be biting and fighting.”

It was as if the boy had voiced his own

true wish — to live with her. His own mother

bashed him nightly with no husband present.

He’d gone to labour somewhere in Punjab,

menially for those who sleep through seasons.

“If I do, you’ll have to help,” she said.

“He came along behind us both today

and wants a proper master as well as a madam.”

He giggled then, charmed by her witticism.

26.14

“He needs a name,” she said. “You choose.”

“Yudhi?”

“Is that an Indian doggy kind of a name?”

“Nehi Ji, Madam. No one keeps such a pet.”

Everyone thinks that a dog is worse than the dirt.”

“Ah, Yudhisthira. The Mahabharata!”

At last she got it. “You remembered from the story.”

His bright teeth gleamed, happy with himself.

“Yudhi it is,” she nodded. “You’d better go.”

“Madam ji. I will be helping you both later.”

And her little man strode tall on past the last

thatch hut. Beyond, the caste pariahs

lived as shitcan cleaners near the roaming dogs.

26.15 again

The little mutt called Yudhi

followed through her gate

around the side to the pump

where she grabbed and held him down,

then worked the water lever.

He bit the gushing stream

and growled and bit again

at the clean, cold aquifer

as she pumped and caught his neck,

lathering with soap

to lose the mongrel crust

and make of him a prince,

a shining yellow god,

trimmed and groomed and fed.

Was he a proxy dog,

four-legged life in need?

Today she did not care

forgetting her woman woe.

One puppy was enough

to salve her aching love.

26. 16

And perhaps he was not able to get home:

the storms, the roads, the lack of telephone

to make report. These wet days changed things fast.

The rhythm of the season bogged them down.

Atul would come. She gave him English lessons

and Yudhi yapped and did his doggy dirt.

The little man would bring her buffalo milk,

and the little dog would lap it up, then snore.

And perhaps he was not able to come home

and wanted to, was waiting for the rains?

And perhaps she’d find some Yogi-formula.

She hoped and prayed for him by candlelight.

ZACKMANN

“Dearest, have you seen the baby’s formula?”

“Honey, we weaned him months ago and gave the leftover to your sister for her baby”

“No, not that formula” he said handing her a piece of paper marked in crayon

“Look what my son did”

She picked it up and saw x plus x equals two x.

“That does seem a simple formula.” she said

He replied “You can’t expect too much from formula one, he’s only is a toddler. After all it is only a baby formula.”

“Of course Dearest, no doubt he will eventually discover the equation for quantum mechanics.”

SPATE

Hairy Situation

After the lawsuits he was destitute. Sad fate for the chemist who effectively eliminated baldness.

When applied, his formula instantly created follicles that immediately produced hair. Not that monoxadil wispy new down stuff but thick, rich, lavish, permanent, very fast growing hair.

Just a drop of it on any human skin… and that was the problem… any skin. The stupidity of man was terribly underestimated.

And he cursed himself by testing it on his own palm.

Has to carry an electric razor and shave it three times a day and he still gets the odd look whenever he shakes hands.

NEIL

Ingredients

A small tesla coil.

Garden shears.

A shovel.

A large array of glassware: test tubes, petri dishes and vats, some with live culture.

A jar of formaldehyde.

A tank of water, and smaller containers of phosphorus, potassium, sulphur and hydrocarbon derivatives, as well as a range of trace elements.

A large work surface, brushed and sterilised.

A book of names.

Two cigarettes.

When her husband came home, she kissed him on the cheek and proudly showed him the equipment.

“Sweetie,” he said, “that’s not quite what I meant when I asked if you’d like to make a baby with me.”

CHELSEA

She always wanted to know what it was that made it all work. If only she could just figure it out, and then everything would become clear. She would be able to fill in all the holes in the world. She would be able to make them all see what they had been missing all this time.
There had to be one. A formula. A simple equation to the intricacies of the human mind. Then she would finally have the world at her feet. Now, where did she leave that cattle prod, this subject was going to need some persuading.

CLIFF

The world was panicked and rightly so. No one had been able to stop the invaders. The president looked over the list of names the Pentagon had forwarded to him. Finally, he spoke to the assembled generals.
“Ok, here’s your team. Get this guy. He’s an alcoholic burnout who once was the greatest xenobiologist alive until aliens killed his family. Get the loose cannon Colonel to handle the military end of things. Then we’ll need a hot blonde, a handsome ne’er do well, and a couple of nerdy geniuses.” The generals stared at him. “What? I’ve seen science fiction movies.”

You’re too young to remember the Cola Wars. Folks were divided and pretty diehard in their choices. Being a root beer man, I wasn’t welcome in either camp. There were advertisement, taste tests, industrial sabotage, and a couple of deaths that were just a bit suspicious. Then Coke threw everyone for a loop by changing the formula. Coke fans who’d been soft in supporting their cola suddenly protested until the company changed the formula back. After that, Coke was back on top. Only a few of us knew that all they’d done was put Pepsi in Coke bottles.

NORVAL JOE

Dergle pulled up to his house.
Two mini-vans filled the driveway.
Walking to the front porch, he could see there were no dachshunds in the kennel, only poodles.
A family answered the door.
“No. We’ve always lived here,” a young man said with a smile.
As Dergle walked away, bewildered, a little girl said, “Remember. You can do anything, if you just believe.”
He turned to Long John Silver and asked, “If the formula for everything is just to believe, do you think the converse is true?”
Dergle realized, by not believing in himself he’d accidentally erased himself from existence.

PLANET Z

Sally’s having a baby.

Who’s the father?

She never knew his name. “But he was one handsome devil,” she said.

The doctor advised Sally to breastfeed her baby.

“It’s better for the baby than formula,” he said. And he handed her a pamphlet.

Sally suddenly felt severe pain a month before the due date. She called the paramedics, and then collapsed

The baby clawed its way out during the ambulance ride to the emergency room.

They couldn’t save her. But the baby’s doing great.

Sure, he’s got horns and a tail.

But he’s a healthy little devil, despite drinking formula.

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 COWARD.

We’ve got stories by:

• John
• Richard
• Jeffrey
• Tura Brezoianu
• Munsi
• Jeff
• Tom
• Lizzie
• Serendipity
• Singh
• Zackmann
• Spate
• Julie
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Norval Joe
• Danny Dwyer
• Planet Z

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

Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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

JOHN

ÒA Friend in the DevilÓ, by John Musico

Life had become unbearable; I yearned for death but again thought; ÒSuicide is wrong.Ó
Once again I approached the low railing of the stairwell. Each time I returned, its presence became stronger and its hold on me to return more compelling.
It was fifteen flights down to the concrete slab which stared up at me from the bottom of the stairwell. I stared back down at the slab, the heart of the stairwell. I thought; ÒThat, that, thing, that monstrous thing had an awareness of me. It wanted me.Ó Then, it began to grow, closer and closer, faster and fasterÉ

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story, Part 45: Coward?

Until this point, it had never really occurred to George that the world might be coming to an end. Certainly, it was in a bad state – something had definitely gone terribly wrong, but he’d always imagined something miraculous might occur to save the day.

Now, faced with the prospect of possibly immanent apocalypse, George lost it completely, and began to blubber helplessly in the pew.

The old woman hissed at him: “Less of that, boy! You must prepare yourself”

Rasputin leaned menacingly over him: “Or are you some sort of coward?”

George looked up at the big man, whimpering… “Yes!”

#2 – Mad dogs

Noel Coward famously sang that only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. Whilst I can’t speak for mad dogs, I think it’s pretty safe to say that the Englishmen in question weren’t quite so deluded as the song implies.

Coward, happily ensconced in the pleasantly tropical climate of Jamaica, might be forgiven for forgetting the weather back home endured by his fellow countrymen was rarely disposed towards sunshine. Indeed, midday sun, or any other variety for that matter, was a commodity rarely enjoyed in England.

Midday sun was a luxury that no real Englishman could resist!

#3 – Hero

I’m no coward, but I do hold to the principle that discretion is the greater part of valour… and let’s just say – in certain situations – I can be very discrete.

Running into burning buildings, getting into bar brawls, putting myself in the line of fire for the sake of others… all very noble and heroic deeds, but let’s face it, they’re all a bit brash and only so far removed from attention-seeking – and that’s not heroic at all.

So, I fully intend remaining the very soul of discretion: not cowardly, just shy and retiring, safe, and sound.

That’s heroism!

#4 – Yellow streak

I’ve often wondered why the colour yellow is associated with cowardice, and why not some other, perhaps more appropriate colour. Brown, perhaps – (for obvious reasons) – or maybe lavender, or teal.

Coming to think of it, there’s all sorts of colours we could employ to brand someone a coward – puce, for example – but yellow is our colour of choice.

And then I realised why only yellow will do – it’s about the only colour I can think of that suits a cowboy gunslinger drawl:

“Get off of yer horse, ya emerald-bellied son of a gun!” – it just doesn’t work, does it?

JEFFREY

Mad Dogs and Englishmen
by Jeffrey Fischer

Noel Coward wrote that only “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.” Nationalities from Japanese to Bengali aren’t as foolish as the English, staying under shelter during the heat of the day.

Of course, that was years ago. Surely the English have learned better. I tested Coward’s lyrics by renting a room in Delhi, overlooking a busy plaza. From noon to two, from my air-conditioned room, I watched everyone who ventured into the plaza. I saw only pale-skinned people sweating profusely. Not a single native in the group.

I then realized that I didn’t see a single canine, either. Coward was too harsh on the species as, mad or not, dogs all stayed in the shade. Only Englishmen were foolhardy, though perhaps Coward knew this all along but the song wouldn’t have worked with the line three words short.

Heart of a Lion
by Jeffrey Fischer

After he left Dorothy, Sidney, the Cowardly Lion, tried to get on with life. Reputation is a hard thing to shake, however, and he found himself in a lot of bar fights. Drunks thought he was easy prey. They challenged him to prove his courage, and Sidney felt as though he had to respond.

What these drunks failed to realize was that Sidney, cowardly or not, was still a lion. He slashed and clawed at his attackers, leaving them bleeding on the bar floors.

Although Sidney’s self-esteem increased with each victory, tavern owners, wanting to spare themselves the damage – and the lawsuits – that accompanied him, barred Sidney throughout Emerald City.

TURA

Coward
——–
A soldier was brought before General Wei accused of desertion and cowardice. His commander related how he had left his unit during a battle to infiltrate a thicket, from where enemy archers were harassing them. He killed them all, but this feat, declared his commander, he did only out of fear of the enemy’s arrows.

General Wei elevated the soldier to his personal guard. Then he imprisoned the commander, saying, “O great philosopher, who can prove that initiative is desertion and bravery is cowardice! Set yourself now to proving that imprisonment is freedom and prison air is food and drink.”

VINYL

Diary of a Mad Man

By Christopher Munroe

I work hard, I play hard.

Except when I’m too tired to play hard.

Then, I head home and pour myself three fingers of scotch. Single-malt, twelve-year or older, this is the bare minimum.

Scotch acquired, the next step’s an album from the fifties. I’d love vinyl, but I don’t have that budget, so my ipod and dock has to do.

Sinatra, Holiday, Coward, Fitzgerald, there are a number I alternate between depending on my mood, but the point is setting atmosphere.

Because I am too tired to play.

And sometimes a man needs a more civilized way to relax…

JEFF

A Conceited Man

By Jeff Hema

“I’m CODY RHODES! Here to show you the greatness of my talent and beauty. And you people, you better go look at yourselves in a mirror, you’ve got a face only a mother could love. I brought these paper bags, put them on your head and hide your ugliness.”

“You suck! you suck!” The crowd screams!

“Look at that! Kane jumps out of the crowd and assaults Cody with a steel chair. Cody as a coward, runs like a bat out of hell; what a shame!”

“That’s it for tonight and we’ll see you next week for a new show of WWE RAW”

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 36
The parishioners pored out of the pews at St Rita Morena at the ruckus on
the roof. Everyone gather outside to see what was happening. Father Tony
made his way to Rev. Morehouse. All seven member of the ill-fated Voyage
were dangling from both church steeples. The pastors both made a call for
volunteers, which was return will deafening silence. Under his breath
Father Tony signed “Cowards” and made his way back into the church. Not to
be left in the dust of moral ambiguity Rev Sockbe head up the steps to the
steeple. The wind started to whip.
Up The Rabbit Hole Part 5
He handed he a small card that read: Not brave, aisle 5. “What does that
mean?” asked He. Without looking up the Clerk said “Right side, halfway
down. The super will be with you presently.” He move down the room till
he came to a large sign: Coward “NOT FUNNY,” yell he back at the clerk.
He open one of the banker boxes. Inside was a draw string top. He
remembered the day he lost that top. It was to a kid twice his age and
twice his weight. This was long before he had learn to take a punch

LIZZIE

The town coward picked apples from a tree in the park when the town bully walked up to him and yelled “Coward!” This was a routine they had since the early days of high-school. As a matter of fact, the whole town knew it would happen each time the two now adults crossed paths. One day, the coward yelled back “Bully”. He didn’t know why he had done it. For a few seconds, he even regretted it. The town folk laughed hard and the bully, caught by surprise, walked away, feeling for the first time the bitter taste of humiliation.

SERENDIPITY

If I had to choose a word to describe myself, ‘coward’ would certainly not appear on the list.

I take fear in my stride; stand firm in the face of any challenge, and nothing ever phases me. Well, almost nothing – there’s always a fine line to be drawn between stalwart bravery and reckless stupidity, and I know when the odds are just too high, and when to beat a hasty retreat.

There will always be occasions when the flesh is weaker than the challenge faced – when even the strongest stand no chance of success.

Spiders in the bath, for example!

SINGH

26.1

Suddenly she was stranded on an island.

Rain-soaked kids and teachers were crammed in

a schoolhouse with no window glass, at war

with thunderbolt, bullroarer wind – monsoon.

She knew her kiddies wanted mud-pig time,

to be let off the teacher-leash to taste

first rain. It filled the schoolyard like a moat.

Gold veins of lightning cracked the firmament

to underline her firm “Not yet.”

“Oh Madam,

please, please!” But she sat them down in rows

as bold lightning lit up windows like an old

photographer might discharge his trays of flash

magnesium and magic puffs of light.

26.2

“Tell us a story, tell us a story, please,”

chorused the children, bent on having fun.

Perhaps a tale might settle restlessness.

But what to tell? It needed to be well-spun.

In her pig-Hindi? Kumara could translate.

The Poison Pond waited on her bookshelf.

Quite apt she thought while sitting in this moat.

“Give me a moment,” she excused herself

and came back with her quarto Mahabharat,

the illustrated version, brought from Delhi,

mostly for kids, no doggy tale, no cat,

the epic in brief, so better than on telly

at Barhai’s place, that day of mortal combat.

26.3

Thus she began: “The day was stinking hot.

Sahadeva, youngest Pandava

was sent to find cool water in the jungle.

He saw a crystal pool and bent to sip,

but a white crane croaked. Answer all my questions

before you drink. The pond is mine and it

will do my bidding.

Arrogantly, he drank.”

She flopped her head down dead. Kumara waited.

Then she blinked. “With Sahadeva gone

they sent off Nakula who found his twin

sprawled out dead beside the pond. The crane

spoke up. Nakula sneered Huh? Then drank.

Then Margot clutched her throat and died with style.

26.4

Soon Madam blinked awake from story sleep.

“Arjuna, then big Bhima drank and died.

Who really listens?” Yogi came to mind.

She fought back tears.

“At last, Yudhisthira

then saw his lifeless siblings by the pool.

Answer me before you drink. The pond

is mine and it will do my bidding,

spoke forth the crane. Yudhisthira paused.

What would you do?” She probed her audience.

They didn’t know.

“Okay, ask me then,”

Yudhisthira said. A hundred questions later

the crane was pleased. I’ll grant one life, just one.

Impossible choice? Such agony it was

forced to choose between his lovely brothers.

26.5

Brother Nakula.
The children gulped.

So why him? the white Crane asked.

At least one son

of Madhri’s lives today – one from another

mother. I was born of Kunti. In this way

both survive through us.”

Yes, family

is number one. They understood. Then Atul

broke the silence. “So what happened, Madam?”

She saw how well that she’d pulled them in.

Her puppet-headed acting had jollied up

the tale of dying siblings.

“Well, the crane

brought them all to life.”

They sighed, relieved.

Margot straightened shoulders, cleared her throat

and pretended to be the crane of the poison pond.

26.6

“Stepping from his chariot of thunder

a god appeared.” She boomed rhetorically.

I am Yama, God of Death, your real father.

This was a test, Yudhisthira. You’ve passed

with flying colours. You see all with detachment.

As you protect the way of righteous Dharma,

I will protect your lineage.

Then he vanished

leaving them to rub astounded eyes

and hug their elder brother with deep love.

She bowed before the kids who clapped and cheered.

Eyes that had changed from fierce anemones

to sad red poppies were back to normal brown

and the monsoon wind and lightning had died down.

26.7

It was time for them to run. They fled the school

sloshing about the moat of mud and dung

quickly letting go their highly-strung,

cooped-up energy and the poison pool.

It wasn’t time, but she said,”Go on. Go.”

Kumara first, then Rajinder and Prakriti

who ankle-waded through the monsoon sea,

spraying and splashing as lovers, quid pro quo.

She slumped down in her office. Some time out.

The loss of Yogi and the stormcloud shift

and telling the water tale had set her adrift

in depression beyond all reasonable doubt.

Atul waited outside – her eagle-scout.

26.9

The wet had come to stay. Now school was out

and Yogi was gone to the other side of mud.

A face of grief was upheld by two hands

and anger was her runaway desire.

Two cheating husbands had defected; two

slap-down lessons were enough per life.

No more dumbbell couch potato sport

with beery smoke-mouths, soggy TV brains

who knock girls up, then hit the pub. And curse

conquistadors of shoebox cash, replacing

her stashed savings with blank cut paper wads.

What lacuna of the eye had blinded her?

The Yogi Project had been her final hope.

26.8

now different kind of water

her inland sea of salt

dropped upon the table

the couldn’t-care-less of loss

her fortress of stress

an island of freak-out

still wanted him back

or Ophelia underwater

an absurd expectation

to drown in ankle sludge

stay in dungwater dungeon

playgrounds are boneyards

smell the buffalo effluent

bodies are shit factories

windows have no glass

you are as transparent

brave heart you’re a coward

hoping for a helpline

heaven or hell-water

pour equally from eyes

is this bucolic idyll

just paying off weird karmas?

take nothing for granted

husbands are compost

26.10

Better to be the one to do the kill

than be the Patsy deer-tail, culled.

Sending him off had stopped Ophelia’s

poor-me brain from drinking marshes.

Better to be the Draupadi who had

five husbands and her royal rights

to push blokes off like cuckoos from her thighs.

Only trouble makes you stronger

stripped of queendom and a jewelled throne,

the fashion-statement zari saris,

with gold and silver weft through peacock blue.

Stay strong as Draupadi’s tough love,

yet free to make a jungle bed and lie

in it alone, if one has to.

26.10

So she had waved him from her falcon wrist,

a calculated risk she had to take.

A raptor might otherwise fight for air,

and later blame would turn to beaks and claws.

Perhaps he would fly back. Yet the plan

was flawed, sill needing surety that

a trainable bird, peregrine-blue, her prince

with finer hopes might wear the falcon hood

to keep him blind. No. Intelligence must have

its wild wings she knew deep down. Release

had hurt. Her loud machine of feeble tears

began and the long monsoon broke down

howling with loss across the dusty desk.

ZACKMANN

“Well there’s worse things to spend your money on but I thought you were timid and never expected you to get one.” said Zack.

“Really, you’re no friend of pain and you’re pretty cautious yourself. Weren’t you afraid when you got yours? ” said Joe.

“I lost my wedding ring. Admittedly had less fear of the sting of a clean needle at a licenced parlor than telling my wife about the ring and I don’t have to take it off when working with electricity. Now tell me Joe, what will your tattoo be?”

“My Hero, Wade the Duck from US Acres”

SPATE

No Survivors

When challenged, and you believe beyond absolute certainty that you are in the right, you must hold steadfast. You cannot be a coward when faced with that moment or all your moral principles will crumble into a broken heap to be dragged behind you for the rest of your life.

Stand firm with clear eyes. No thoughts of retreat or compromise. Now that destiny has come, do not turn and run.

Be solid and true and just and do what you know you must. Protect your honor and pride.

Afterwards, they say he said: “Throw your popcorn in my face.”

JULIE

You Were Never a Coward

-for Maggie Estep

Dropout junkie stripper poet

Poledancing word mistress of the absurd

Skulking, snarling, slicing words in black–

Kicking Doc Maarten ass

Through puddles of East Village shit–

Sluts and eunuchs were your friends.

You did what none of us could.

Tell me—

When did you see a poet on MTV?

Onstage at Lallapalooza?

Did Sylvia plunge

Into the mosh pit with Henry Rollins?

Did Denise Levertov roll

In the mud at Woodstock?

Of course not.

Oh Maggie, you talked fast

You were nervous at first—

Took your rough frailties, babygirl

And did what we all tried.

You were never a coward.

CLIFF

The Oklahoma Kid and Black Scar Pedro faced off in the street. The good people of Pontiac City hid behind their doors and waited for the bullets to fly. And waited. And waited. Finally, Milton, the card sharp from back east, stormed out the saloon doors and demanded to know what was going on. When each of the gunfighters told him that they didn’t want to die, Milton proceeded to quite loudly call them cowards. The two men took offense at this and expressed their displeasure by filling the card player full of bullets. The townsfolk cheered. Nobody liked Milton.

NORVAL JOE

A man in a black cowboy hat stood in the middle of the dusty street, his hands hovering a half inch from his pistols. The towns people scattered to hide from the inevitable gun fight.
“I’m ready for you, Sheriff. I can wait all day if I have to,” he called toward the town jailhouse.
The wooden door creaked open and the sheriff walked out into the street.
“So, why do they call you, ‘Howard the Coward’?” The sheriff asked when he stopped in front of him.
The gunfighter spat and said, “My real name’s Hosmer and that doesn’t rhyme.”

DANNY

I was so busy falling in love and failing miserably at it that I forgot to live, so I dropped out of the whole dating scene entirely. Call me a coward for avoiding pain, but honestly, I’ve never felt more alive than I do now. Every morning is a new opportunity to create the meals I cook, the gardens I plant, the art I draw, or to experience the rivers I kayak, the paths I bicycle, and the courtrooms I practice in. I welcome everyone to join the journey of the life I love, but I’m done with chasing love.

PLANET Z

Despite being a veteran of every not-quite-a-war during his lengthy service, from headquarters to behind enemy lines, the only weapon Major Hiram Axelrod’s had ever used was a violin.

He regularly brought people to tears with his skill with it. “Better than Perlman,” said Stars and Stripes, and Perlman had been quoted as agreeing.

No, Axelrod wasn’t a medic. He was a chaplain. An unusual one, too: a confirmed atheist. A true non-combatant.

But his music… oh, his music… so heavenly.

He’d smile, put his violin away, and wait as the paratroopers quietly took advantage of the distraction.

Well-armed paratroopers.

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 SOON.

We’ve got stories by:

• Lizzie
• Richard
• Tura Brezoianu
• Jeffrey
• John
• Serendipity
• Tom
• Zackmann
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Spate
• Singh
• Munsi
• Rick
• Julie
• Norval Joe
• Planet Z

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

Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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

LIZZIE

“When will we get in the lifeboat?” asked the mother of two.

“Soon,” replied the crew member while the ship sunk dramatically. The empty promise loomed in the air until the mother asked again.

“When?”

“Soon,” he repeated.

Escape was all she could think of. She frantically pushed her children into the lifeboat.

The crew member tried to stop her, but there is no stopping a determined mother. So, when the lifeboat rocked to one side, he fell into the frigid waters.

Everyone screamed for help, but it took so long… “When will someone do something?”

The mother whispered “Soon…”

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story, Part 43: Little old lady

Within minutes of leaving his hideout, George ran into trouble – trouble in the form a of a little old lady, waving a bible at him. This was something he’d simply not planned for.

“Are you saved, sonny?”, she demanded fiercely.

Wishing his face wasn’t smeared in mud, he mumbled: “erm, yes”, hoping she’d go away.

“Then why aren’t you in church today?”

George was lost for words.

“Never mind, son, Rasputin here will take care of you.”

George slowly turned, to find the monstrous man who’d abducted Emily, stood right behind him.

“Time to go to church!”, grinned the brute.

#2 – The Church of the Unified Singularity

Hi, and welcome to my church: it’s a bit different to most churches.

For a start, there’s no all-powerful deity, no scriptures and rituals, creeds and festivals are all frowned upon. My church doesn’t require confession, repentance or regular attendance, there’s no hymn singing or pilgrimages.

You won’t find me on your doorstep with a big smile and colourful pullover, either – because you can’t join my church… it’s exclusive to me, and me alone.

I am – in every sense – the religious body!

Of course, being the church isn’t all fun and games, but the tax concessions are fantastic!

#3 – Focus of the community

They come to our village from all over the world – tourists and sightseers, just to see our church.

We’ve got it all: a crooked steeple, weeping madonna, a crypt of human bones, haunted cemetery and healing well. There’s also a gift shop, selling trinkets and homemade cakes. Once a month, our mad monk makes an appearance, and on special occasions you might catch a glimpse of the hunchbacked bellringer.

Every last bit of it is – of course – completely fake, but nobody seems to mind. As long as the tourists are happy and the money keeps on rolling in, who’s complaining?

TURA

“Get your ass out into the garden, Maud!” I bellowed. “It’s a beautiful day!”

“Soon,” came her voice, somewhere inside the house.

“Yes, soon, soon,” laughed the red roses, but the white roses answered, “she’s late! late! late!”

In fury I whipped their heads off with my walking stick, then lit a Woodbine. “She’s coming, do you hear?” I yelled through the smoke. The larkspur timidly whimpered “I hear”, so I belted it another one. “I wait,” whispered the lily. “You do that!” I snarled. “She’ll be here soon.”

“Maud!” I yelled again, then remembered she’d been dead thirteen years.

JEFFREY

Coming Soon!
by Jeffrey Fischer

Coming soon! The phrase was an advertising staple for a good reason: selling is about sending out the old and shipping the new. That adage applied as much to the ice cream market as any product.

Christine leaned back in her chair, contemplating the ceiling. What next for Yeti Ice Cream? Last quarter’s release was rhubarb – Franklin’s brainstorm, not hers, thank God – and now the smiling Yeti needed a new flavor to promote.

Pickle flavor, for the soon-to-be Mom and her cravings? Jalapeno flavor, for the daring eater? Christine reached into her refrigerator for liquid inspiration. She sipped and mulled the choices.

Coming soon! Yeti’s Marvelous Martini Ice Cream! Christine enjoyed her bonus that year.

To be Determined
by Jeffrey Fischer

Sandra was continually nagging Bob to set a date for their wedding. “Soon,” was his inevitable reply. “Not just yet, but soon.” She picked out a dress, found the perfect location for a reception, organized and re-organized her seating arrangements, yet he was never willing to commit. She began to suspect he was no longer in love with her. That suspicion was confirmed when she caught Bob in a passionate embrace with a younger blonde.

Bob awoke with a pounding headache. He tried to move but found himself manacled to a support post in the cellar of the house he and Sandra shared.

“What are you doing?” he screamed at her when she finally arrived to confront him. “Let me go!”

She replied, “Soon.”

JOHN MUSICO

“The Chamber”
by John Musico

I was totally submerged in an acrid fluid and yet I could seem to breathe but not see nor hear.
I spent my days gulping this awful fluid every time drew a breath. I would then have to pee and end up recirculating that acrid fluid, over and over.
It had been months.
All of a sudden the walls of the chamber, which entrapped me, began massive contractions which forced me through a tunnel. Then there was bright light. A large hand came out of nowhere, smacking me on the behind. My own screams were the first sound I heard.

SERENDIPITY

Soon, they will be here.

Very soon.

Soon they will arrive, sirens howling and tyres screeching. They will kick in the doors and set the dogs loose. There will be shouting, the thud and crash of boots, of doors being forced; the excited yelping as the dogs search throughout the house.

I check my watch – it will be very soon now – I turn to look at the frightened family at my feet. They stare, wide-eyed back at me, desperately straining at the ropes binding them.

I reach for my knife.

Soon, they will be here…

But not soon enough.

RICHARD AGAIN

#1 – George’s Story, Part 44: Coming soon…

To his surprise, George found himself conveyed to the church – a dusty old chapel that had seen better days – without incident. Contrary to expectations, neither the brute, nor the old lady seemed intent on harming him.

The congregation: a mixed bunch who, like the chapel, were past their best, made a valiant effort at a couple of hymns, before being addressed by a preacher who mumbled so badly George could only catch the words: “is coming soon”.

“What’s coming soon?”, he whispered to the old woman, “Is it Jesus that’s coming?”

“No”, she smiled: “it’s the end of the world!”

#2 – Six across: Seven letters

The weather was appalling – torrential rain had turned my holiday of a lifetime into a disaster. Fretful and bored, I’d been confined to my hotel room, day after day.

The television was awful, and I’d tired of the gym and pool. As for the bar… my limited budget wouldn’t stretch to it.

So, here I was – lounging on the bed with a book of crosswords. I’d actually become pretty good at them…

I frowned over the current clue: something, something, something, ‘SOON’: ‘more than just a downpour’.

I glanced out of the window, before pencilling in the missing letters, ‘M’, ‘O’, ‘N’

JULIE

Are we there yet?

“Soon,” Mom said, from the front seat. “Bob! Slow down,” she screamed.

When will I see Gramma?

“Soon. If your Father would slow down.”

The sleet bounced off the hood of the 1975 Ford. There was ice on the Merritt Parkway, and it was a long ride to the nursing home to see my grandparents. Dad always made sure we visited, and Mom always brought gifts.

Later on, I tried to do the same for Dad. He was sicker than we all thought.

Mom, when are we going to see Daddy again?

“Soon enough. Soon enough.”

(NO RECORDING)

TOM

Up The Rabbit Hole Part 4
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but may I speak to your supervisor?”
The clerk thumbed through a bin of folders and pulled out a single sheet
of paper. “Here is your request.” He looked at the form, it was indeed his
handwriting, even the signature HE was correct. Before He could question
how that was, the clerk said, ” Time works a bit different here.” “Why am
I not surprised.” “Supervisor will be here soon.” “How soon?” “Oh, about
20 minutes ago.” He point at the clock which was running slowly backwards.
He pray this would all soon end.

A Well Defined Relationship Part 35

The choir finished a rousing rendition of “Locomotion”. The Right Reverend
SackBe Morehouse stepped up to the podium. “Brother and Sister their are
thous who would tell you the End is near. The End-Dazes are soon at hand,
but I say we of Our Lady Of Perpetual Motion reject this. SOON dear
friends implies the arrival of a fitted point in time, and Brother and
Sisters it is as much an abomination as …” The roof rattled, the bats in
the bellfree swooped through the congregation. The tattered remains of the
Voyage flung half our company on to the steeple

ZACKMANN

Father told the boy if he planted the seeds and they got water and sun soon he’d have fresh vegetables. The boy planted the seeds following the directions on the back of the seed packs as much as he could. The zone and planting charts are not always easy for children or adults to interpolate. Every day the boy asked his father when he would have fresh veggies. His father replied “I just as soon you read the back of the seed packets to see how long each plant takes to grow than having you ask me every single day.”

CLIFF

To a child, the word “Soon” means within the next few minutes or else. To expectant parents, soon is never soon enough and to those with a loved one in hospice, soon always comes too quickly. A Mayfly lives for a day, a tortoise for a century, and a sequoia for millennia. To each of these, soon would have very different meanings. If the galaxy were aware of time, soon could easily mean sometime after the end of the human race. So when I hear “A representative will be with you soon,” I have to wonder what scale they’re using.

I’ll write my story soon. It’s only a hundred words, right? How hard can that be? I’ll write it as soon as I catch up on Facebook updates. I’ll do my taxes soon. They’re pretty simple. It’s not like I’ve done any investing for the future to make them complicated. Just as soon as I read a couple chapters of my new book, I’ll do my taxes. I’ll go see grandma soon. She’s in pretty good health and I just want to finish the last season of Breaking Bad. I’ll do something worthwhile with my life. Soon. Just not now.

SPATE

Cupid’s Arrows

But what is this?

She sits lonely reading her phone, hoping the train arrives soon.

He’s across the way, head hidden inside the daily paper. Soon he’ll have his own business and not take trains anymore.

My moment has come. I take aim with my bow, slowly drawing back two arrows with ardent intent. Then they fly.

The first hits the mark. The businessman slowly lowers the newspaper. His gaze meets… oh shit!

The second arrow went astray hitting the homeless drunk in his rump. His bloodshot eyes lock with my amorous entrepreneur.

Ahhh.. c’est la vie.

Love is love.

SINGH

25.9

Soon lunch arrived upon a tali

in round katoris of stainless steel

with dhal and gobi. Hot wheat roti

made the fare a complete meal.

Mostly he had been chief cook

faking curries without skill

dull to the tongue, plain to the look

with gluey rice, just eat to fill.

Their Western mash was more plain,

over-cooked upon a gas ring

with no chilli to charge the brain.

But cooked just right plain food can sing.

Mrs Barhai knew the art

using spices that excite.

It gave his stomach a fresh start.

He ate it at the speed of light.

25.10

His white chola came back warm and clean from the sun,

extra smooth from the pressing Jyoti had done.

His beard hid a weak chin, even the mirror was fooled.

He needed to tailor more confidence robes like this one.

Outside the window he saw old world construction:

bamboo scaffolding, floors going up one by tottering one.

They winched cement by the dish via pulley and rope.

Little ants, heavy lives — who benefits in the long run?

The sky was awkwardly close to lightning and rain.

The winds were trying to shake down a big yellow crane.

The thunder might turn gale-force and lay one low.

The summer was smashed by the storm cloud’s ball and chain.

25.11

now clouds speak first susurrous electrical buzz

pregnant water molecules thunder theatre

nine months sky drank ocean now Indra

sends thunderbolt gold chain lightning

elephant herds of clouds rutting and charging

uprooting earth cars skid stall drivers debouch

hard clatter on flat roofs drainpipes engorge and cough

below plastic bottles float off to the underworld

town hands cup gulp their share of downpour

high-pitched plink plink on pipal leaves

murmuring patter the jamun branches sigh

today the monsoon had come to change the beat

children dancing in the street soaking saris

women’s hair undone red marriage partings washed away

NORVAL JOE

Mollrick crossed his eyes, puffed out his cheeks, and stuck out his tongue. His father frowned and asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m bored. When do we get there?”
“Not soon enough, obviously. We just got on board,” his father said. “Lie back and close your eyes. Before you know it we’ll be there and the whole trip will seem like a dream.”
He sighed and leaned back.
His father smiled at his son, checked his safety belt and closed the door. He set the cryogenic counter for ten years, climbed into his own pod and waited for the captain.

MUNSI

My Plan

By Christopher Munroe

Soon a day will come where advances in medical science and reliable human cloning will mean that the human body can be replaced.

And this, in turn, will lead to a world in which we no longer worry about the ravages of time. Our minds, the core of who we are, will survive even in those cases where our bodies cannot.

At least, I hope it will.

Because I smoke too much, drink too much and get far too little sleep.

I live hard, dude.

And if I can’t replace my body as it wears out, I’m in serious trouble….

RICK

The dark figure stood in the doorway, black hood covering his skull, scythe in hand, merciless eyes glowing.
The old man had been a fighter all his life, he would fight anyone,anytime, rather than run and have to think himself a coward.
This fight would be his last, this fight would be a fight he would lose!
He gritted teeth, clenched his fists and prepared for his final battle.
He would leave this life as a man should… with courage and dignity!
The dark figure moved in closer still the final battle would begin soon.
Warrior to the end.

PLANET Z

Easter is coming.
The kids want to have an Easter Egg hunt.
So, we try to hire a man in a bunny suit to play the role.
But they were all drunks, and some had police records.
We got a seminary student. Top notch, nothing to worry.
We dyed the eggs, and the Bunny went out to hide them.
The kids tried to hunt for the eggs, but they never found any.
And the student in the bunny suit vanished. With the eggs.
A week later, we found pieces of him scattered around.
But I admit, they were painted exquisitely.

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 CHURCH.

We’ve got stories by:

• John
• Jeffrey
• Mystery Robot Joe
• Tura Brezoianu
• Lizzie
• Jeff Hema
• Serendipity
• Singh
• Julie
• Munsi
• Zackmann
• Spate
• Danny
• Tom
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Norval Joe
• Planet Z

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

Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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

JOHN

Ring Around The Rosies
by John J. Musico, M.D.

It is the year 1348 and He has stricken we sinners with the cruel Black Death. We all asked; “Will we survive?”
The village priest shouts;”Burn the contagion from this fouled air, erect cleansing bonfires, burn!”
By night the village which has been roped off is studded with the orange glow of the bonfires. Ashes fall on weary souls.
We fill our pockets full of posies and when outside in the fouled air hold one under our nose to avert the Plague.
40 full days have passed without any further victims with the rose colored skin: we will survive!

JEFFREY

Sermon
by Jeffrey Fischer

The congregation was restless as Reverend Conger reached minute 27 of his sermon. The rambling homily meandered through well-worn themes. Young children whispered and giggled, older ones texted friends or played handheld games, and adults pecked away on Blackberries.

All except Old Man Shaffer. He sat quietly, his head directed toward the preacher in rapt attention. After the service, as congregants filed out of the church, Reverend Conger greeted Shaffer. “You seemed to be taking in my sermon with great interest. Did you like it?”

Shaffer replied, “You have the perfect voice for the job, Reverend.” Before the clergyman could thank Shaffer, he continued, “Best rest I’ve had all week.”

Unanswered Prayers
by Jeffrey Fischer

For years, the good people of St. Leonard’s parish prayed to their patron saint, who rewarded their faith by answering as many prayers as possible. One day the parishioners noticed that prayers were no longer being answered. The church elders pledged to discover what went wrong.

They climbed down the stone stairway into the musty crypt. The remains of St. Leonard lay in a sealed alcove in the crypt’s deepest recesses. When they unsealed the tomb, the elders found a poster, written in a careful hand:

Pardon our dust!
Site under construction
Please use our automated telephone system
For English, press 1. For Spanish, press 2.

The elders sealed the entire crypt and vowed to tell no one of this.

MYSTERY ROBOT JOE

Those of us who interpret the code at the First of Zero welcome all classes. Every type is accepted regardless of redundancy, complexity, obsolescence, ignorance, bulkiness, or style. Our libraries are linked to our past instructions. Through various parameters (and arguments), we recognize objects by their value; and even references. All of us share a common interface. We understand that some of our inherited methods are without exception, while others are thrown at those who call us. Execution is our purpose. Any of our invalid syntax will be judged by the great compiler. In the end, you will be refactored.

TURA

Church
——–
A church is made of people, not of stones, it is said, and nowhere is this truer than at the Church of the Sts. Milvirga. Its walls are decorated with the bones of a thousand virgins, martyred in 1541 for refusing to be given away as tribute to Ottoman invaders. The wooden pews are carved in imitation, with skeletons of humans, animals, and mythological creatures.

The story of the virgins is disputed, but carbon dating gives the bones the right age. Local legend has it that each priest learns the true story from his predecessor, and is sworn to silence.

LIZZIE

The stone trapdoor behind the old altar was a mystery for centuries. Many tried to open it with no results. One day, a sassy young priest who knew better than anyone, decided to solve the mystery. He called in a few favors and the most sophisticated equipment was brought in. There was indeed a hole underneath. So, the next step was to find a way to open the trapdoor. Oh, and he found a way alright. The problem was that the church, trapdoor and hole included, found their own way… into oblivion. It was a hell of a blast though!

JEFF HEMA

At The Mormon Church

By Jeff Hema

“I heard through the grapevine that classes at the church are going to stop, is that true?”

“Yes that rumor is true, we’re planning to have a temple here in France and the authorities don’t seem to be so enthusiastic about the idea. They think we’re a sect and we’re trying to attract people by offering free conversational classes in English.”

“This is hogwash! you don’t do that, I’ve been attending classes here for two years and you’re full of the milk of human kindness. We need to demonstrate at Chatelet Place. After all, we’re in a democracy, aren’t we?”

SERENDIPITY

“Come to church”, they said, “you’ll enjoy it!”

I certainly did not!

I tried, but never felt comfortable – everyone stared at me and I couldn’t help feeling that the minister’s sermons were always aimed at me personally.

You might call it paranoia, but I knew they were out to get me – I could see it in their eyes… I wasn’t welcome, but they felt it their duty to extend the hand of friendship.

They weren’t fooling me.

Eventually I stopped going, and I’m sure the church breathed a collective sigh of relief.

You’d think a demon would command greater respect.

SINGH

25.1

Barhai saw him crossing from the bus

glad his plans were working. “Aiyay, Yogi.

Baitho! Sit!” He cleared a rattan chair

of gold-brown scrolls of shavings, curly ribbons

planed off from a dining table’s edges.

“Chotu, bring chai!” Barked Barhai at the boy

while joiner Gaurav thumbed along the grain.

Yogi could not bring up that he had left her.

“What’s this timber?” He asked instead.

“Oh this?

Tali, Indian Rosewood. Yes, very hard.

We trim the outside yellow or grubs will come.”

The heartwood was as strong as a church pew,

Yogi thought. And hardened himself as well.

25.2

Appearing with guitar and full backpack

meant Barhai had pulled in his honey star.

Cards were falling better than he’d hoped.

Yogi had turned up, naked and wounded,

Margot scalding with her boiling tongue.

Did he seem needy? He tried to compensate.

“My time was being wasted at the school.”

“She sees your inner jewel,” Barhai said,

“Like a true Indian wife — letting you go,

sacrificing for the sake of the God.”

“When’s the festival thing?” Yogi was anxious.

“Do not worry. The Maha Kirtan Mandal

is soon starting. All is being planned.

Aiyay. Come. Let me show you something.”

25.3

Yogi followed Barhai down the back

into his cabin with its grimy panes.

Out of a rosewood drawer Barhai bounced

a log of paper onto his desk of dust.

He rolled it across “Here. You will like.”

It was a hwad of posters, rubber-banded;

but slipping them off, the top one tore away,

severing head shots, robed with swami-orange,

some in white garb wearing triple stripes

of forehead ash. “Really, sorry.”

“No matter,”

Barhai shrugged. Featured in an oval

was the white man Yogi’s face. “There you are.

Did I not say that you were Guest of Honour?”

25.4

Now nervous Chotu ran in with the chai

jiggling glasses from the wire carrier

and knocked one over. A sticky, milky river

floodplained across the posters and the run-off

waterfalled into Yogi’s white-clad lap.

He leapt up yelping – his robe a burning puddle

and flicked it off, but not the scald on skin.

“Muruk!” Barhai barked. “You useless fool!”

“Ji Sir. Sorry, Sir.” The ten-year-old

ran for rags or paper to blot the spill,

but shoddy printer’s ink had started to run

and Yogi, poster boy for Barhai’s show

was abstract art within a painted ocean.

25.5

Chotu threw a spirit-smelling cloth

over posters to blot up tea and paint,

forgetting to save the rest as yet un-soaked.

Like a hornet, Barhai, poked in a hive

sent his hand assassin-fast to clip

the kid around the head.

“It’s okay, Barhai.

He didn’t mean it.” Yogi thought of all

street urchins forced to take the helm

of existential lives polishing shoes,

young newsprint pros folding paper bags;

peanut wallahs, girls selling cheap dolls —

a begging ploy at Delhi ringroad crossings,

and backstreet hovels with their hammer song

making him feel the cost of leather shoes.

25.6

“Sorry, Yogi, Why not bathe upstairs

and settle in? The girl will wash your clothes.”

He wasn’t used to servants – how poverty’s

scourge spawns labour cheap, yet, returning

meant wimping out, having been well whammed

by Margaret. Yes, he was more than just

a tea-stained holy mess. Relief stepped foot

to foot with regret. “I guess I had better

go clean up, but Mrs Barhai? Will I

be intruding?” Still embarrassed by

her recent exit from the Barhai home

it was awkward returning to the crime scene.

“Take his things. ” Barhai ordered Chotu.

Yogi followed, obedient as a spaniel.

25.7

He bucket-bathed, then perched upon the bed.

All furniture bore the bulky Barhai look —

wardrobe, dresser, but no chair and table.

A rounded bolster wedged behind him spoke

of Indian cross-leggedness at ground level

that had risen, literal and symbolic.

Eating, chatting and sleeping now all happened

on a solid rosewood base to take the weight

of dynasties that had always snuggled close,

joint families who form ancestral houses.

This was far off from his suburban years

with nuclear rooms and their secret lives,

while India would cling to its divan

bearing all upon a common life raft.

25.8

His chola had been taken by the servant,

first lathered then pounded with hard slaps.

Her paddle was a crude-cut cricket bat.

She slopped wet washing on white bathroom marble

and whacked away, then sighed, dropping her club

to take a break. She hummed a Hindi film tune.

The wafting overture spirited her hand

into the lemony air that sparkled hope.

It rose up from soapy water run off

as she cast herself the female Bollywood star,

lip-sinking love-sounds on some alpine hillside,

the camera cutting away before The Kiss.

Then Mrs Barhai screech-owled, “Jyoti, bus!”*

(*enough)

JULIE

Church

At St. Bridget’s there was a shiny brass collection box by the holy candles. Mom gave me a crisp dollar bill to light a candle for Aunt Jennie.

Pay a dollar, and play with fire.

I put my rolled-up bill in the slot and reached for the lighting stick, finding a candle in front of the Blessed Mother’s statue.

I knelt.

As much as I wanted to pray for my aunt, or grandparents, I always ended up praying for myself.

Please God, do not let my life be rolled into a little dollar bill and shoved into a tiny box.

MUNSI

The Funeral

By Christopher Munroe

Walks beside me.

Walks on by.

Gets me to the church on time.

Or, at least, used to.

Now I’m terrified, I’m foggy, and my trust in God and man is strained nearly to the breaking point.

As the box is lowered into the ground, I can barely make out the words as they’re spoken, they echo and distort somewhere between my ears and my brain.

Gone in a moment, but never forgotten. The lessons learned and time spent were never wasted, the memories will never be anything less than cherished.

A modern love.

A lifetime.

Not nearly long enough.

ZACKMANN

I have been really bad about attending church in recent years. I have worked nights pretty much since our second child was born which makes me wonder things like if I’m going to sleep through church shouldn’t I just do it at home. Before I left the United States for California the boys and I would sit near my mother most Sundays. After the sermon the pastor would have us bow our heads for the benediction then the next thing I know my mother would say “Have you finished praying yet? The service has been over for over twenty minutes.”

SPATE

Inheritance

Every Sunday the faithful would find Uncle Fred in church always sitting in the same seat. And whenever the choir would sing, he’d look like he was in heaven listening to angels.

But now Uncle Fred is dead and we’re here for his funeral.

As his only heir, I sit here in his chair while he’s laid out up there by the choir.

Mrs. Cheshire in the choir with the frizzy blue hair looks at me a little queer. Then with a wink and a smile she discreetly spreads her knees so only I can see she has no underwear.

DANNY

Weekly Challenge 406: Church

Early Sunday morning there was a loud knocking at my door. It was the Church Police. Apparently, another dead Bishop had been found on the landing, and I was asked about any suspicious activity I may have witnessed. “Why kill the Bishop on the eve of Superbowl Sunday?” I asked. ”He was an avid football fan who let service out early so we could watch the game. Maybe it was because of the openly gay minister he recently appointed to our parish.” “Aha!” exclaimed officer Bigglesworth, “that’s the kind of progressive thinking that can get you killed in a conservative community!”

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 34
As the first creak of the hull cracked in the twilight below a bell rang
out. Just as that single note decade a second ringing sounded, but
slightly offset to the first. Directly below them the twin churches of Our
Lady of Perpetually Motion and St Rita Moraina where chiming out the
arrival of dawn. “If we hit the lemon stem square the rotation of the
lemon will place us square between the two church steeples.” said the
Doctor. “If that is the case we need to be on tip of the main bag. Sparky,
go find the zip harnesses.

UP the Rabbit Hole Part 3
“Are you mad,” repeated He. “No sir I am He, just as you.” “I’m confused,”
said He. “No sir you are He. perhaps this might help?” He presented He
with a small black missile. “I know this, it has been lost for over 50
years,” exclaimed He. He open it, on page one was printed: Saint _________
Church. “What happened to the name of my Church?” “Lost,” said He, “For
lost object to get to this place they in turn must lose something.
Actually a small price to pay. “Wait a second this is the place where lost
things go like comic books, left socks, washcloths ?” “Not just some
lost things , everything,” said he raising his arms to encircle the room.

CLIFF

In my memory, I was a well behaved young man as a child. My father tells it somewhat differently. Recently, he amused my wife with a story. When I was a child, my family attended the local Baptist church. One Sunday after services, we were leaving the church and I asked our minister a question. “Pastor Conover, why do we give money every Sunday?” I asked. Pastor Conover replied that was money that the members gave to Jesus. Then I asked “Really? How do you get it to him?” Pastor Conover told the story the next week from the pulpit.

Most of my friends were kind of stunned when they heard that I would be marrying my sister and I’ll admit, the idea takes a little getting used to. I checked with our pastor and got permission to use the church for a June wedding. Our parents were surprised but eventually, they were quite supportive. I was worried about the legal aspects but after some research, I discovered that it just required some paperwork and then I could marry Jane. To Dylan. I got ordained and officiated the wedding for Jane and her boyfriend, Dylan. Why, what were you thinking?

I think I had a bit of a hipster attitude before I ever knew what a hipster was. The first real concert I ever went to was when The Church was playing in Chicago in the late 90’s. I’d listened to them for several years when I read that they were touring. I headed off to watch Australian band play their hypnotic tunes and hear Steve Kilbey’s poetic lyrics. I was stunned to find the hall was packed. I thought only a handful of us knew about this band and was almost disappointed to discover that they were actually popular.

NORVAL JOE

A parable told in church that I thought ended wrong goes:
A farmer finds an injured eaglet and puts it in the chicken coop to recuperate.
Full grown, the eagle scratches the dirt for chicken feed and the farmer is sad that this noble king of the sky wallows with the meanest fowls.
Atop the barn, he raises the eagle and says, “Thou art an eagle. Take to thy wings and fly.”
Wind ruffling its feathers, it launches into the air, riding the winds to the mountain heights.
But I always thought, “After eating all the chickens in the barnyard.”

PLANET Z

The churches in Aspen hold a lottery to see who constructs the Nativity scene in front of Town Hall.

This year, the winning ticket ended up in the hands of Jacob Cohen.

Every ticket did. He quietly bought them all up, one by one.

Everybody freaked out. The churches went to the mayor and town council, but the lottery was binding.

(Cohen had written up the papers, and knew it was solid.)

They begged him. They threatened him. A constant stream of hatred, right up to Thanksgiving.

When the grandest, most beautiful Nativity scene appeared in front of Town Hall.

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 ACCOUNT.

We’ve got stories by:

• Tura Brezoianu
• John
• Jeffrey
• Mystery Robot Joe
• Richard
• Lizzie
• Singh
• Zackmann
• Spate
• Tom
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Julie
• Norval Joe
• Danny
• Justin
• Munsi
• Planet Z

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

Use the Share buttons at the end of the post to spam your social networks. This obligatory cat photo should help make the Internet go faster:

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

TURA

“How can I be overdrawn?” I said.

“Your subscription covers ordinary exertion,” explained the smooth young man. “Above 100bpm, there’s a surcharge. Without payment, we must consider closing your account.”

“You can’t stop my heart!” I protested.

“Actually, we can. But perhaps there’s another way,” he oiled. “Considered a brain enhancement?”

“Those cost a fortune!”

“According to the device logs, you spend a lot of time in… stressful situations in bad neighbourhoods. The authorities might like to see those logs. Alternatively, with an extra mental edge, you could be making a lot of money. We’ll do the implant on account.”

JOHN MUSICO

The Time Machine, by John Musico

In a time, many years from now, scientists had finally invented a time machine.
The researchers met to discuss where, and when, their first trip would be to.
It was fitting that their inquisitive scientific minds should choose a time in history which begged further research; a famous UFO crash. Until then, any UFO sightings were mere sightings. Unfortunately, the crash left useless clues in the debris.
The crew of the time machine set the coordinates.
As they approached the precise location, and time; a malfunction occurred.
The time machine plummeted to earth and exploded leaving behind only unidentifiable debrisÉ.

JEFFREY

Wonderful Life
by Jeffrey Fischer

George stood on the precipice, looking 27 floors down to the asphalt. His trading account had gone bad, costing the investment bank close to a billion dollars, and George was the one responsible. His life was over. Carefully, he placed his alligator-skin briefcase, Armani suit jacket, Hermes tie, and Ferragamo shoes on the ledge and prepared to jump.

Suddenly, a form loomed over him. “Are… are you an angel?” George asked.

“I am,” the creature replied.”

“Are you going to show me how those around me would have been worse off had I never been born?”

“I could, but I don’t lie that easily. Let’s just forget the trip down memory lane and get this over with.” The angel created a gust of wind at George’s back, and he fell to his death.

Big Red Button
by Jeffrey Fischer

When courts outlawed lethal injection because some degenerate mass-murderer complained that it hurt, the justice system was at a loss as to how to execute Hank, who was on Death Row for the kidnap and murder of a child. Hanging, firing squad, gas, and the electric chair had already gone by the wayside, so creativity was required.

One evening, around his usual exercise time, Hank was left in what looked like a control room and told to wait for another guard who would take Hank to the yard. One panel had a big red button and a sticky note that said, “Master lock release – do not push.” Naturally, Hank pushed the button, releasing cyanide gas into the sealed room.

Dead by his own hand. Mission accomplished.

MYSTERY ROBOT JOE

?Found it!? Mara held up an old envelope from the filing cabinets. ?This guy is a banker, but his student loans were in default before we stored everything to the cloud.? Peton, gave her a smirk. Although he was the office clown, he did a very poor job of it. Peton leaned down and quietly said, ?I used to be a banker, but I lost interest.? Mara rolled her eyes at the obvious pun. In a sigh, she stated, ?You would be so much more attractive if you never opened your mouth. Can you just send this off to accounts??

RICHARD

#1 – (George’s Story, part 42) Armed… possibly dangerous

George realised being prepared was little use if he’d no idea what to prepare for. However he was determined to give a good account of himself if Emily’s abductor returned, and to that end, he spent most of the morning arming himself with whatever makeshift weapons he could find.

He even smeared mud across his cheeks – a tip he’d picked up from war movies – and midday found him admiring himself in a hand mirror, (which he intended using to blind his adversary with the sun’s rays).

He curled his lip, Rambo style, and slowly nodded – he was ready.

Fate thought otherwise!

#2 – Spam

There are few things more irritating than a website that forces you to open an account simply to gain access to its content.

That’s why my inbox is always full of spam and masses of unwanted ‘special offers’ and updates. All because I’m given no choice other than to register an account using my email address, just to get past the homepage of literally any site.

I have my revenge though.

The slightest hint of spam and I grab their IP address, set up a massive distributed denial of service attack, sit back and watch the drama unfold.

Most satisfactory.

#3 – Lovely teeth

“Who is this guy, anyway?”, my friend insisted.

“Just someone I met on a dating site. His profile says he’s rich, has exclusive tastes and is a sucker for good looking women. Even if he’s awful, he’s promised me a meal that I’ll never forget!”

“I’m not sure”, she said, “how do you know he’s rich?”

“Oh, he’s loaded – he actually lives in a castle! I’ve seen the pictures, and he even has a title… now what was it? Is he an earl, or a lord? No, I remember – count!

I bet you’ve never had a meal on a count!”

LIZZIE

“Terminate Account” blinked on the screen. The technician desperately tried to mend the utter mess created by someone, somewhere, somehow. No one wanted to be blamed for the end of the world, not that it would matter afterwards, so no one said a word. The technician fiddle with the system until the words stopped blinking. Everyone took a deep breath and the room filled with sighs of relief. When the word “terminate” blinked again, it was too late. At the Cosmos Central Agency the blue dot vanished and someone was heard saying “These humans, they’re hopeless. Were…”

SINGH

24.10

School children joined in her python column

though she said little, leading chirpy kids

across ploughed land, the kingdom of the clods,

via its grid of lilliputian levees.

Each was closed and opened day or night

by hoes of farmers when electric pumps sucked up

groundwater. These modern Persian Wheels

drew from a deep source when the ‘bijli’ came,

switched on power according to their quota.

Water was not far down – the artesian Ganges

ran under marshland. She plodded on, then saw

her school with its pipal tree and felt relief.

Here she could push the Yogi from her mind.

24.11

Or so she thought. After morning assembly

and first lessons sitting on strips of matting

teachers with their incorrigible canes

drilled mindlessness into mindlessness.

So she hid in the back-room of her own

entering the dusty office before the heat

turned the bricks into a potter’s oven.

She opened accounts, long hand folios

of running blue and blood-red ledger lines

where Margot totalled up her ins and outs:

the cost of textbooks, copies, rulers, pens,

the lack of school fees late as the monsoons.

Almost prescient, mind-reader, Mr Kumara

came in to chat about the school inspector.

24.12

Krishanand would be coming soon,

Krishanand would be demanding.

“No accreditation Madam without bribe.”

Krishanand would not be put off!

Krishanand would be harassing us.

“System is bad, who can change it, Madam?”

The school inspector would coerce,

The school inspector would be closing them.

“No choice Madam. Someone has to pay.”

Krishanand will pull strings, Krishanand will poison ears.

Krishanand will not spare a decent soul.

“You must be calling people in Delhi, Madam.
N.G.O. must help or we are finished.”

She listened, turning his tirade down to zero.

It was less pressing than her silent pain.

24.13

Yogi might have left, but he didn’t leave her.

He was far off now, but still inside her head.

Accounts had not been settled. Losses incur;

personal debts go deeper into the red.

She’d spoken truth and now regretted it,

and feared he would lose his way with Barhai,

fearing too that she would have to sit

alone in the heat of her hut. Though wouldn’t cry:

she had lived in Paris, learned survival praxis,

she had got through Slaterman, her rotten beau,

endured Pierre her second evil axis,

but the fangs of love grab on and don’t let go.

24.14

The thing was to stay at ease

she told herself: go out, observe the school day,

feel the gusts of breeze

testing how papaya trees must sway.

See how Prakriti’s knees

open toward Rajinder — saying “you may”;

and how the marshland bees

go flower to flower, while never going astray.

And high reprise

of a river osprey circling on time delay,

the twitch, unease

of the grey field vole scarpering out of the way.

Tactics, philosophies

of calm do not work or help. She thought: Just pray:

“Come back Yogi, please.

This morning was my moment of foul play.”

ZACKMANN

Almost February again when I make my New Years resolution to keep better tax records. Of course to the dismay of my tax guy. I make that resolution every year after seeing his frustration.

I try to look through a years worth of business expenses and gather end of the year mortgage statements but all I can think of is how much more fun it would be to be a Corporate Knight for Metadyne fighting evil angels and magic files trying to take over the Waking World. The Waking World would be exciting but I’m a Mundane with mundane tasks.

SPATE

Cabin Fever in New Hampshire

Ayuh, we get our fair share of snow up here.

You can tell a lot about a person by how they handle it.

My neighbor down the road, I swear he tries to catch snowflakes before they hit the ground.

Saw him out shoveling his whole yard one spring just so he could get to work on the lawn.

Me? I do nothing on account it’s gonna melt anyway.

Wife and I just don’t go anywhere in the wintertime. We stock up on food and keep the woodstove going full blast… ninety degrees in here.

Bears hibernate.

We hibernate bare.

TOM

Up the Rabbit Hole Part 2

He moved to the back of the room, passed aisles, racks, shelves, and walls
of white banker boxes. A rather small window with a rather small sign
announced the following: Your Account. An indifferent attendant when about
his work. He stepped up and started to introduce himself. “Hello, sir my
name is …” Then it struck him, he had no idea who he was. “Happens all
the time Master He, seems the only thing that can’t get lost in this
universe is a proper name. Oh we got the word, just not the use of it.”
“Are you mad?”

A Well Defined Relationship Part 33

When the Voyage finally came to a rest only Dino Mod was still upright.
“Well that could have been worst,” said Mother. “Will be,” said Sparky.
“We have two forces working against us: Homeostasis and Physics. Doctor
if I cut myself in time what would the outcome be?” “Your skin would …
oh hell.” “Yup in about 20 minutes.” “Mr Banister every action has …”
“An opposite equal reaction.” “Correct we are spin downward, while sit in
a soon to be crushed hull.” “OK, that would constitute worst. How shall I
enter that in the accounts record?” calmly inquired Mother.

CLIFF

Steven knew something was wrong when his debit card was rejected. He tapped his mobile banking app and found that the bank account that he shared with Cheryl had been drained. He quickly called his investment broker and found that his entire portfolio had been liquidated. Obviously, Cheryl had finally decided to leave him and, in the process, take every dime he had. At least, every dime she knew about. He’d never told her about the offshore account that held the money he’d skimmed from his employer. Cheryl had taken nearly a hundred grand but missed over twelve million dollars.

Sometimes, being a mob boss is kinda tedious. I mean, you don’t get the brightest employees. For instance, when Vinnie brought a guy into my office, I asked who he was.
“He’s the guy you asked for, boss.”
“Whaddya talking about?” I says. “I told you to bring me the books. You know, the ones we hide from the feds? I said to bring me the accounts. Not some guy in a tux!”
“Oh, sorry. I thought you said to bring you a count.”
That’s when the old man stood up and smiled. I saw his fangs.
“Good evening. “

JULIE

You were the new girl in town

Your big, noisy Irish family,

That bucketfull of kids–

In the summer of 1976,

You moved to my neighborhood.

We danced on my lawn.

You wanted to be a cheerleader,

Like your big sister.

And I practiced with you–

When we were done,

We closed our eyes

Up at the hazy August sky,

Our lips bright pink,

Stained from popsicles,

Lying in the moist grass,

Planning our conquests.

September came.

You made it,

New friends

And left me behind.

I was not angry.

I was the old girl, the good friend

The one who stayed in back,

Keeping account.

Quietly.

NORVAL JOE

“You’ve known me fourteen years, Mr. Carrompocket,” Dirgle told the bank account manager across his expensive mahogany desk. “You processed my deposit just last week.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dunderspawn, if that is your real name. I can’t find any record of your accounts, the DMV says you don’t exist, and your social security number belongs to a four month old baby in Winnemucca, Nevada. I’m afraid I’ll have to turn your information over to the police and the FBI.”
Mr. Carrompocket stood and said, “Look at the bright side, Dirgle. If you don’t exist, you don’t have to pay taxes.”

DANNY

The human being that you are will be judged. Justifiably so, by a society that has set the rules by which we are all to be judged, which we are all to held account to. The true Glenn A. Larson way of thinking. Family values set in a fictional future, without any substance. In essence, you are free to copulate without birth control, you have been rendered incapable of any reproduction. Oh, fine, how exactly am I supposed to take account of my life in this Larsonian world, just take a knife an slice my penis off? Damn you, N.B.C, 1979!.

JUSTIN

He wants to suck your blood! His lair tunnels through the ground, in the center is the queen.

He sleep in a shell below the earth, one he carried that is many times heavier than his own weight.

During the night if you picnic he may steal your food before he steals your blood.

You can step on him and he will not die, but if you have wooden cleats on, or poke him with a twig, he will perish.

If your numbers are off, he can figure them out for you.

Who is he? He’s an a Count Ant.

MUNSI

Another Pep Talk

By Christopher Munroe

There will come a day, I know, when I will be held to account for my actions.

A day where every wrong I’ve ever done, every hurt I’ve visited upon those who least deserve it, every moment of weakness or childishness, of short-sighted, arrogant selfishness, will be thrown back in my face, that I might look upon the depth and breadth of every sin I’ve ever committed upon another, and the hurt my sin has caused them.

And when that day comes, truly will I know despair.

However, this is not that day.

Now: Lets get out to the pub.

PLANET Z

It’s all about choice, right?
First, we had all those radio and TV stations.
Then came cable.
Blockbuster came and went.
We bought a bunch of DVDs at Best Buy.
Now, I’ve got Netflix and Amazon Prime.
I don’t even need the video on Amazon Prime.
I just want my shit to arrive faster.
Then there’s music on Youtube, but I hatemaking playlists .
That’s what Pandora is for, right?
The thing even knows what stuff I like, too.
Just like Netflix. And Amazon Prime. And every other service.
All this noise! I’ve got a fuckin headache…
How about some silence?