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 NOT FOUND.

We’ve got stories by:

• John
• Jeffrey
• Tura Brezoianu
• Tom
• Serendipity
• Zackmann
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Julie
• Justin
• Norval Joe
• Lizzie
• Vince
• Rezwerd
• Danny
• Munsi
• Singh
• Planet Z

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

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

The Land of the Lost
by John Musico

Losing something is maddening. All that is lost fills an invisible secret world called the ÒLand of the LostÓ. In this hidden land there are all things lost as airplane pilots, key rings, minds seeking to return their original body, and much more.
The occupants are not always permanent residents.
Items appear in the Land of the Lost and then return back to our world. They call our world the Land of the Lost. One day, after losing a sock I lost the remaining sock as well. I did not lament; I saw that that sock had finally gone home.

JEFFREY

Lost and Found
by Jeffrey Fischer

Suzanne wanted to look her best for her 20th wedding anniversary. She lost 20 pounds and dropped two sizes. Unfortunately, this made her wedding ring loose around her finger. At the bathroom sink at work, the ring fell into the toilet, which then automatically flushed.

At a romantic restaurant on their anniversary, Ray said, “Dear, you look fantastic. I can’t believe it’s been 20 years.”

“Haven’t you wondered why I don’t have on my wedding ring?” Suzanne asked.

“Aren’t you? I’ve been so busy admiring your figure that I hadn’t noticed.”

Stunned that he didn’t notice, Suzanne stormed out of the restaurant and later filed for divorce.

Close Enough for Government Work
by Jeffrey Fischer

Space exploration had become routine, but this launch was something special: the first manned trip to a planet outside our solar system, orbiting Alpha Centauri B, about four light-years away.

The trip was uneventful, with the crew in a state of suspended animation until the ship was nearly ready to land. As the crew awakened, Captain Morton opened the view screen to see… nothing. No planetary mass of any kind.

The communications officer said, “Captain, there’s a message from Earth that caught up to us. It reads, ‘Sorry, small calculation error in the course, but hey, it was only by a tenth of a degree. Pretty good, right?'”

“Dammit,” the captain replied. “I told NASA to stop hiring liberal arts majors.”

TURA

Not Found
——–
Marley’s web pages were dead: to begin with. No sooner had Scrooge returned from the funeral than he had deleted every page of Marley’s “blog”, for which he grudged every kilobyte.

That night he dreamed that a voice commanded: “The Library of Alexandria!” and Scrooge found himself amidst its burning. “404!”

“Plays and poetry!” retorted Scrooge. “Stuff and nonsense!”

“The archives of the Medici Bank!” it spoke, and Scrooge saw workmen carting away piles of ledgers as waste paper. “404!”

Scrooge shivered with fear.

Finally, it said, “Ebenezer Scrooge!” and there was nothing but “404! 404! 404!” and Scrooge awoke.

SERENDIPITY

It was months after the crash that the rescue team finally discovered the plane’s wreckage, and along with it, myself – unconscious and barely alive. As for the others – despite an extensive search in the area, they were officially recorded as ‘Not found’.

When I became well enough, I explained how the others had gone off into the woods in search of civilisation, and how I had remained alone at the crash site.

I knew they would never find the others, no matter how far the search extended.

After I’d eaten them, I made sure to bury the bones… very carefully!

TOM

Up the Rabbit Hole Part 1

The screen mocked him. Big old 404. He had multipul confirmations of the
page’s existence. Further the Shanghai Guy swore there was an Umber Easter
Egg on that page. The URI port number 808080 was correct, but all he got
was a 90’s code error page, not a single link or pointing hand cursor to
be found. Then it appeared at y314 x314. The cursor color changed by the
sublimest shade of off white. He Clicked and lost conscientious. Upon
awakening he found himself in a gigantic pink room with a giant sign:
Welcome to Fort Meade Lost and Found.

A Well Defined Relationship Part 32

The Voyage banked hard. For the briefest of moments it looked like they
wouldn’t impact the lemon. Sadly the keel clipped the edge of the peal
creating a 144 meter slice. Worst yet the same lead counterweight banged
into the stem of the Lemon snapping the ship backwards and at a reverse
angle of descent. As quick as you can say: yes we have no bananas, the
Voyage plowed into the pulpy part of the lemon. The ship took on lemon
juice, the monitors flickered and error code 404 flash on the screen.
Smith state, “May well be our epitaph.”

ZACKMANN

I can barely find anything because my wife hides everything from me. I mean puts things away carefully. Normally not a problem because I just ask her before she goes to work or call her on her way home. It’s okay she has bluetooth in her car stereo. Normally that is finew but she is visiting her mother for three weeks in Manila and I don’t want to bother her just to find out where a backpack is to take to the booksigning at Borderlands. I may just have to use a grocery bag.

All is lost until she returns .

CLIFF

The mystery of flight 404 has never been solved. It vanished from radar and radio contact on April 14th, 2004 between London and New York. The flight recorders were recovered in a pawn shop in Mayor’s Income, Tennessee three years later. They showed a normal flight up until the time of the disappearance and then go blank. The pilot was found in a nursing home in Toronto, suffering from Alzheimer’s. Several people from the passenger list have been located but all of them swear they were never on that flight. And where is the plane itself? It’s never been found.

She spent her youth dreaming of true love. She had a mental picture of the perfect man. He would be kind, caring, ambitious, and most of all, he would love her more than anyone in the world. We’d been friends since childhood and I heard all about Mr. Right. At her request, I introduced her to co-workers, some college friends, and one fortune 500 CEO. None of them were him. She finally married Oscar. He was good to her, but she confessed that she never found her dream man. Somehow, she never noticed me, the coward who loved her.

“Where is my pudding cup?” I demand of my dog. He looks at me with his soulful brown eyes and says nothing. He seldom does. I look everywhere for my pudding cup. It’s butterscotch pudding, my favorite, and I had just opened it. Max, my golden retriever, simply watches as I search the house. He doesn’t help me look. I check the kitchen counter, the refrigerator, the shower, the couch cushions, even the attic. I can’t find it. Max is laying in the living room licking something from his lips. Strange, I haven’t fed him yet. Where’s my damn pudding?

JULIE

You can have your little fits,

And turn them against me–

It does not bother me just one bit

They show your frailties.

I no longer look for you at night,

Or give you further thought–

You tantrums have become a blight,

And in that trap you’re caught.

You once were lost, and now you’re found,

And now you’re lost again

But if you come again around

I shall not call you friend.

******

I’ve grown

Tired of your tantrums,

Your narcisscism,

The insecurity.

Your moods and jealousy—

And quite frankly darling girl

You are quite dead to me.

JUSTIN

I dialed the number, area code 404. It could not be completed as dialed. I didn’t know it at the time, but Atlanta was gone.

Yes, the building were there, except the ones that burned. It wasn’t nuked by Korea, or shattered by an earthquake.

I don’t know still for sure what happened. I never got there to find out. I saw the smoke from a distance, and met some people who had come from there. What they said, I didn’t believe it.

At least until I saw them myself, when first nearly died.

When I first saw the Walkers.

NORVAL JOE

Long John Silver pushed through the doggie door at the back of the house.
Dirgle, sitting in front of the TV, heard the click of toenails crossing the kitchen before the wiener dog appeared at his knee and dropped his food dish on the floor.
Pouring the last of the bag and barely filling the dog’s bowl, Dirgle hurried off to the grocery store.
As the cashier scanned four large bags of dog food, he slid his card and punched in his PIN. The little window read, ‘Account Not Found’.
Apparently, Wiener Dog Man had pissed off the wrong people.

LIZZIE

The waves hit the side of the small fishing boat while the men tried to put on their life jackets. It came out of nowhere, one of the survivors would say to the media later on. When the boat capsized, they struggled to stay together until the helicopters came for them. Happy to have survived, surrounded by their families and love ones, they went back home after a few days in the hospital. One man stood at the pier though, waiting. He had to file a report and write the words he hated the most… One man was not found.
VINCE

I hear the sounds of silence are quite noisy if you turn them all the way up to level eleven.

Can you hear them too? Can you understand what the sonance is trying to say by not saying anything at all?

When we close our eyes, our ears become more aware of the melody around us.

When we still our lives and find a place of meditation, we can focus on that melody and the harmony of sounds not found in our everyday thoughts.

Take the time to listen to your silence and you’ll find it has plenty to say.

REZWERD

The astronauts neared their destination, Mars. The lifeless red planet grew in front of them until it stretched from end to end of the spaceship’s bridge viewport. Rusty spires rose up around them as they descended increasingly fast through the thin Martian atmosphere. The rocky surface loomed below. It was a new milestone for humanity, and it was all very beautiful, except for one fateful blemish: three dirty words flashed on the landing controller’s computer screen, where the digital map file had been programmed for a safe touchdown. Three fatal words: FILE NOT FOUND.

DANNY

Today I received the following letter from the N.S.A. “Dear Mr. Dwyer; We regret to inform you that your entry for this week’s 100 Word Story challenge has been classified as “not found.” Our agency has searched all of your internet and phone records, and cannot find any trace of your story. We apologize for your loss, yet we disavow any wrongdoing for the loss of your story. Do not make any inquiry’s, or you risk your entire WordPress page being classified as “not found”. Yours truly, the N.S.A.” Unfortunately, I will not be submitting a story on this week’s topic.

MUNSI

The Body

By Christopher Munroe

The body was never found.

I know, because I still have it.

I keep it in my walk-in freezer, hanging from a meat hook. Nobody questioned me buying the meat hook, which is weird since I followed it up by not buying meat at any point.

Vegetarian, don’t you know.

You’d think that would be suspicious, wouldn’t you? Buying a walk-in freezer, a meat hook and zero meat? I’d find that suspicious…

But nobody else did, nobody came around to search my walk-in freezer, and thus the body was never found.

But I digress: You wanna buy a human corpse?

SINGH

24.1

yet she suffered half-awake elephant skeletons
night in the village Yogi asleep
trumpeting pachyderms mountains moving
houses of moonlit bones trapped in her head
unable to bathe Ganga seven flooded kilometres
from Hastinapur Chauhaan’s report
at old Ganga Budia Ganga one lane bridge
last trickle leaving the city of elephants her bus load
responsibility trapped in her head Chauhaan’s cruel
parting shot Pity Madam you could not go
Draupadi’s Well below Pandheswar Fort
jungle track married women visit many snakes
in this season draw bucket of water
and feed the earth with barley
to bless marriages Pity Next time

24.2
“When are you leaving?” She said to him next morning.
“Yes, get an early start. You may as well.”
“Why are saying that Margaret?” Using this name
to peak her hard sarcasm, turn the arrow.
Yes, it had started, a micro Mahabharata.
A war brings out the best or worst in family
through disagreement, combat of pride with love,
arrows shot from the bow, the curving sneer
aimed to nail the eye of the bird, or hack off a thumb
when love demands it’s tribute. “I’ll pack your things?”
She would shoot true and kill the boy in the man.

24.3
“What about the school?” He tried to counter.
“That is the point. Everyday you’re lost
in marble temples. Wearing white is just
a step from nakedness. Listen, Yogi,
you cannot give up the kingdom you do not own.
And the kids? They’re no excuse. I had to handle
the lot without your help, while you and Chauhaan…”
She broke off there, not wanting to jab more.
“I won’t cling to you. I’m not so weak.
Anyway, you have your music gig.”
There wasn’t much he could add, hang-dogging his head.
“Find out Yogi. The thing that you don’t know.”

24.4
He did not know this tough tongue in command.
What could he add, except a neutered nod?
He felt the cold of a club, not touch of a hand
cupping his cheek. Pity? He felt a chill

and pulled away. “Please, hands off, will you?
I’m dead weight, it seems.” He felt the cleave
of steel-cold reality — were they through?
Too numb to know exactly how to leave

she tactfully wandered out back to the hand-pump.
It coughed, spewing its guts onto the concrete.
He stuffed backpack, straightened up his slump.
He and guitar left carrying their defeat.

24.5
Squatting naked
a slimy slab
head under spout
to block out sound
trying to crank
so he’ll just leave
the one-armed bandit
squeaking crying
downspout trunk
the idea of nature
reborn as machine
no baby elephant
dribbling mucous
this isn’t bathing
with your river herd
they’ve long gone
she’s trying to crank
and revive inside
a pillar of water
feebly pumping
it will not stand
her houses fall
eyes go to wate
what’s wrong with me
the pump is crying
another man leaving
another pillar down
nothing to hang onto
no one to draw water
for a lousy bath

24.6
She waited till he had gone, then towelled and dressed.
The air smelled musty. Yesterday had laid
its dusty paw on everything. The concrete floor
wore grittiness like a tray of beach sand.
Sri Ganga changed her mind and course providing
silts, but shifting fortunes. With time before school
she wet a rag and wiped down all her things
and consecrated the floor before the battle
armed with a hand-broom, whipping up her own
vendetta against the demon in the dust,
coaxing it over the threshold, a lame attempt
to sweep him like an old cough from her lungs.

24.7
The things that she then found were the old things:
past-life Australian clothes still in the suitcase,
most of his books picked up in Delhi stores,
aftershave left, acquiring his beard,
a fold-up chess set they had never played,
elephant Ganesh carved from sandalwood.
On his lined yellow pad beside the bed
She did not find a note, just some song verse:

“Take me in a boat to the river mouth
take me beyond all storms on out to sea,
be my compass East to West and North to South.
You are my true companion on the journey.”

24.8
Had he written it for her?
She hadn’t seen it there before.
He scribbled things from time to time.
She hoped it wasn’t de rigueur.

She’d sent him off. Was she glad?
Her dust devil was no longer mad.
The hut clean, she made some tea,
but drinking it alone felt bad.

Truth should not be oversold.
Anger blurts out over bold.
He had believed her at her word.
Yogi had done what he was told.

The gate squeaked. Her heart shone.
He was back! They’d carry on.
Atul was calling “Madam! School!”
Her heart sank. Yes, he was gone.

24.9
Walking the sugar cane road, the bad morning
didn’t release it’s swallows. Where were they hiding?
Girls balancing cow fodder on the heads
crossed to the other side, staring and giggling.
The jamun-wallah rang his bicycle bell,
swerved away, spilling some purple bullets,
then attacked her with unforgiving words.
He’d curse bad-luck as a woman, local or foreign.
“Crazy man, Madam,” said her little Atul,
bending to retrieve the spill of jamuns —
the colour of Krishna and this low-caste boy
with shining whites of eyes and brighter teeth.
He wiped a jube with his shirt, offering comfort.

PLANET Z

One day, The Internet and The Phone Company got their wires crossed, and 404 error codes got mixed up with the 404 area code.

Instead of being told that the web document you were looking for didn’t exist on the server, you were connected with Atlanta, Georgia.

Which wasn’t all that bad, considering how friendly most Atlantans are.

But every now and then, you get a drunk fuckhead in a Buckhead bar.

Once, I looked for a document at The Carter Center website, failed, and got The Carter Center.

They told me to paint my finger purple and hung up.

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 LEMON.

We’ve got stories by:

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

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of NOT FOUND.

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

“Return to Goose Island” by John Musico

Sunday, 5:00 AM; “ I remember that summer at Goose Island.”
Monday 2:00 AM; “I remember that summer at Goose Island.”
I have typed those few opening words for my novel for what feels like forever.
Just as obvious: this is a bad start, I am rigidly convinced to the point of obsession this novel will be a winner. And so, I hold my guns…
“I remember that summer at Goose Island.”
If I can just get over this first hump, fame and glory will be mine. Then it came to me!
“I can’t remember that summer at Goose Island.”

JEFFREY

Cruel Fortune
by Jeffrey Fischer

“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” Good advice, right? Only I got a whole lot of smelly durian. I made durian-ade and opened a stand in front of my parents’ house. Cars would stop, a well-meaning adult would head toward my stand with a big smile, intending to reward a child for his entrepreneurial reach. Then the adult would get a whiff of the durian and leave, usually mumbling something about not having any change.

Then I realized I misunderstood the old adage. Dumping the durian-ade in an open grate in the street – a day later, the sewage department sent a crew to investigate the stench – I walked to Jason’s house. Whereupon I hit him twice, took his lemonade, and set up shop again.

Lost in Translation
by Jeffrey Fischer

When Robert Plant sang, “Squeeze me baby, ’til the juice runs down my leg,” I sang along with him. Like many rock lyrics, I had no idea what it meant – my pre-teen self assuming that the words conveyed deep meaning, while my teen self assumed all nonsense lyrics were written under the influence. My parents, hearing the racket coming from my cheap stereo, couldn’t understand the lyrics and wanted to hear as little as possible of the noise their son called music. Unfortunately, my own voice, while not particularly on key, was very clear. I found myself singing “The Lemon Song” to myself while sitting down for dinner. The shocked expression on my father’s face was almost enough to make up for the loss of my stereo for a month.

TOM

Lemon Tree
Ever wonder why the lemon gets such a bad rap in the Trini Lopez songs,
well so did I. So I filed a Freedom of Information Act petition 10 years
later I found out the following. The song was commissioned on the behest
of Orville Lothrop Freedom Kennedy’s Secretary of agriculture. He had Will
Holt insert the line: “poor lemon is impossible to eat” on the behest of
Thomas E Wislon of the Wilson Packing Plant a major stockholder and member
of the interlocking director of the United Fruit Company. Company
memorandums point to an active program of lemon misinformation.

The Uncola
I was never much of a cola fan. I preferred lemon lime. Drank 7-up by the
case. Didn’t care for Sprite. Just like the folk who can distinguish the
subtle differences between Pepsi and Coke I found Sprite a bit too sugary.
Or it might have been the cocaine they keep dumping into the syrup.
Nothing says market share like addictive opiates. Coke had a stock pile of
cocaine left over from 1903. Won’t find it listed on the label, the
Coke-a-Cola Senator makes sure of that. Stop doing 7-up. Now I do Minute
Maid Lemonade. Just can’t escape Coke-a-Cola

Meadowlark Lemon
What the man could do will a basketball was amazing. Got to see to see him
at the end of his career, but a real showman. Pumped three haft court
shots in a row, no net. He played in more than 16,000 games for the
Globetrotters and was inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame in 2003.
He lives about three miles from my parent’s house in Arizona. My dad said
he would drop by the local VFW, but never saw him drink anything stronger
than a ginger ale. Work with teens through his ministry. Still going
strong at 81.

A Well Defined Relationship Part 31

“Banister what’s the story on Dino/Matt over here?” ask the Doctor.
Banister swung his head back, but keep a tight hand on the wheel. “Little
busy up here, we have a sizable problem.” Over the bow an edge of yellow
rose and rose and rose. It was straight ahead and getting closer. “Oh
hell” cry the Doctor, ” That’s the Great Owens Lemon. During the drouth of
27 a mom from Patterson pray for rain, what they got was a billion ton
floating lemon that rained lemon juice.” “Over or under?” yelled banister.
“Up” replied the Doctor. Up they went.

RICHARD

#1 – Lemonade

“When life deals you lemons, make lemonade!” – It was a phrase that George’s mother was fond of repeating.

Emily’s abduction was a particularly sharp and unpalatable lemon, and one for which George could see no happy outcome.

He knew his mother would have been ashamed of him as he decided his next course of action. There were no plans to rescue Emily, only to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

What else could he do? He had no idea where she was, and was in mortal fear of her kidnapper.

There would be no lemonade today.

#2 – Tequila

Salt.

Tequila.

Lemon.

Repeat.

Salt. Tequila. Lemon.

Repeat several times more, then lean very carefully against bar.

Slur badly.

Salt… tequila… lemon…

One. More. Time.

Vision blurry, perched uncertainly on bar stool, gazing glassily at bottle: concentrate… concentrate on reaching for the salt.

Damn – dropped it.

Tequila… just gimme the bottle – forget the salt!

Lemon.

Tequila.

Tequila.

Tequila.

Slide to floor in a sodden, drunken heap.

Found the salt!

Just pass me the bottle – forget the lemon.

Tequila. Tequila. Tequila… worm!

Did I swallow the worm?

Are you joking? I’d have to be drunk to do something stupid like that!

#3 – Just a hint of lemon

“I give you a simple, job and you can’t even get it right.”

I protested – yellow she’d wanted, and yellow she’d got!

“Yes… I wanted ‘Lemon Breeze’, or ‘Lemon Parfait’, and I get ‘French Custard”

Again, I protested – it was yellow, dammit! They were all yellow… rows and rows of paint, all with stupid names; every one of them, quite clearly YELLOW!

She wasn’t having it, I was sent back to the store where the assistant peeled the label off my tin, replacing it with one that said ‘Lemon Breeze’.

“Isn’t that a better colour?”, she gushed on my return.

#4 – Fifty Shades…

My local bondage club used to use the classic traffic light system of safe words – ‘Green’ meant OK, ‘Red’ meant stop, but no-one really knew where to draw the line when it came to ‘Yellow’.

After some rather painful misunderstandings, the committee decided to introduce more colours with specific meanings to ease the confusion.

Between ‘Green’ and ‘Red’ we now have a whole spectrum of hues – everything from ‘Aquamarine’ through ‘Lemon’, all the way to ‘Zinc’, each of them with their own highly specialised definitions.

It hasn’t really made anything easier, but it certainly leads to some colourful language on club nights!

#5 – Elemontary science

I had a teacher who believed any law of science could be illustrated using just lemons and household ingredients.

He’d make batteries from lemons, invisible ink from lemon juice and demonstrated how to make copper coins shine like new. One lesson, he created a lemon clock and a self-inflating balloon.

The kids loved him, but his unorthodox methods brought him into conflict with the governors. They fired him after he blew a hole in the science lab window with his lemon rocket.

When asked how he felt about his sudden dismissal, his response was typical:

“I’m not bitter”, he said.

SERENDIPITY

Disposal of bodies isn’t as easy as fiction suggests.

If you’re not particularly strong, manhandling a corpse into a car isn’t an option; even if I could, there are limited locations suitable for a shallow grave.

I’m not into dismembering, and my building skills aren’t up to making concrete boots, or hiding corpses behind cavity walls.

So it has to be the old standby: the acid bath.

Unfortunately, even that’s not as easy as it seems – the strongest acid I can find in any quantity is lemon juice!

At least, if it doesn’t dissolve the body, it’ll be nicely marinated!

TARALYN

Today I was at the store, looking at what I found out were a lot of lemons. They can leave a real sour taste in your mouth. But they look good on the outside, pretty color, even the insides on most have a refreshing smell. But until you get it home and actually try it, do you really get a true idea of its worth. The entire experience could leave a bad taste in your mouth. Whatever you do, don’t let it stop you from trying others, and don’t lose your temper and take it out on the car salesman.

LIZZIE

He wasn’t much of a drinker so when they told him “bite on this”, his dormant urges became overwhelming. When the party was over, he roamed the streets, hiding in the shadows to calm the demon within. As he got home, he rushed to the computer and browsed unrelated sites for hours. However, it was hopeless. By morning, he had 10 lemon cheesecakes, 7 lemon tarts, 1 lemon pudding and a large number of mutant lemon squares that practically announced the end of the world. The whole building stank of lemon. The neighbors complained. Once again, Lemon Man was back!

SINGH

23.14

“Look, a jamun tree,” Chauhaan alerted, alighting

from his cream car and crossing to the bus-bay

outside Jambudweep.

“A big one there.”

His message was meant for Yogi and he pointed,

but Kuldeep Singh off the bus, overheard

and was first to fly, running toward birds

and bees in love with clumps of dangling purple.

So many had fallen, ready, sweet and astringent.

A jamun tree and children like each other.

Soon infected, others were quickly chasing

for their share of contraband. “They just can’t go,”

said Margot to Prakriti. “Bring them back!”

“Ji, Madam,” and conscripted her Rajinder.

23.15

The converts to the tribe of purple tongues

were rounded up to face their Madam’s music,

but the number of inky digits was too funny.

“Those jambu fruit, the jamuns have fingerprinted

you forever. The guards won’t let in,” looking up

to the Jambu-emblem marble gates to Heaven.

Kumara translated, sucking out all the truth,

“You cannot steal the jamuns. It’s not allowed.

You’ve given the school and Madam a bad name!”

The children were confused between her smile

and Kumara’s nasty scowl. Finally

Atul knowing his Madam better, opened a fist

holding three fat jubes. “Madam, for you.”

23.16

Her mouth received the stolen goods with pleasure.

“It’s healthy for the…er hmm… ladies cycle,”

Chauhaan blurted, adding on quickly “Gout also,

good for sugar problem.” To stop embarrassment

he stepped gate-ward. “Chello! Yogi Ji.

We should go in.” “Alright, Chauhaan,” he answered.

His arm was being hard-yanked. “We’ll wait inside,”

he yelled to Margot still embroiled with kids.

Deeply angry, they were a good excuse

for not following wifely when she could lead.

After all, the kids were off the leash

before this lolly shop of the Jaina cosmos —

Jambudveep with a jamun tree its centre.

23.17

The jamuns’ sweet and sour reminded her

of backyard fruit-trees in the Adelaide Hills.

She missed the weeding, plucking winter lemons,

Packham pears and woody apples in their prime;

she remembered Paul and Adele shrouding themselves

like Casper the ghost between the strung-up bedsheets.

Yogi was wandering into his marble cosmos,

yet she was still an earthbound mum with a job

to shepherd them through the so-called Gates of Heaven.

Kumara ordered the children double-file,

Prakriti ogled Rajinder at the back.

“Chup karo,” Madam told her brood.

“Be quiet kids and we will have some fun.”

23.18

an ornate marble playground

the Jain universe

of big fairground attractions

buildings bridges boat ride

lawns and lotus temples

thirty scrupulous acres

managed with acumen

India’s merchant elite

a salute to Jain know-how

no primal Sculptor story

no end-of-the-concert Bang

panelled halls life episodes

kings renouncing thrones

carved friezes gilt-edged paintings

worldly duties concluded

shedding cotton loin cloths

to seek forest moksha

human end divine start

twenty four tirthankaras

elevated siddha buddhas

the invisible Jain deities

worshipped with coconuts

sculpted in lotus pose

standing bolt naked upright

children giggling and pointing

at their marble genitalia

23.19

A gondola ride around the universe

upon the circular moat of Jambudweep,

Foreign Margot was glad to play wet-nurse

to her jamun thieves. “The water isn’t deep,”

said Atul, perched proud beside his Madam.

Three flat-bottomed boats skimmed three sixty degrees,

a convoy of innocents far too young to fathom

any old Hindu or Jain cosmologies.

Meanwhile Chauhaan led Yogi up the tower

a pinkish marble Meru — cosmic mystique,

one and hundred one feet high, the bannister

guiding hands inside to the parvat peak.

Inside, three tirthankars in lotus bliss.

Below, Jain World on earth — a marble kiss.

23.20

Rajinder was sent to find the elephant rides.

“May I go also, Madam?” Asked Prakriti.

Madam refused, sensing sure romance

and trouble ahead: Mr Vulture’s marriage.

“We should see now Heerak Jayanti Express,”

said Mr Kumara. This was a first for him —

no sour lemon or jamun attitude

in good mood despite his scheming mind.

He took them to the steam train chugging nowhere.

Each carriage housed its paintings, dioramas,

Jambudweep Theatre had daily screenings

telling of the sixteen tirthankar birthplaces

and Sri Gyanmata’s saintly woman story.

Rajinder returned: “Plaster elephant-ride!”

One was waiting, pulled along by a tractor.

23.21

“Now where’s Yogi?” Atul the sparrow hawk,

her aerial perspicacious eyes replied,

“In there,” pointing to a marble structure.

Teen Lok Rachna, Madam. I read the sign.”

It seemed a pinkish ocean liner balanced

on its stern in three-tiered marble segments.

“Let’s go and see what’s cooking in there.”

‘But Madam, Madam! Elephant ride, please,”

chorused the others. So she split the group

under Mr Kumara, taking away the others.

They navigated pavements, past the sculpted-

woman drinking fountain and Dyan Mandir,

an eco grass-roofed dome for meditation

until they entered ground floor —Teen Lok Rachna.

23.22

three lokas worlds below between above

an elevator round-trip ten rupees

starting in hell green ghouls shit-brown demons

torturers wielding clubs among the tortured

pot-bellied devils in miniature leering on

the next button push for Madya Lok

a carnival-coloured Here a Middle World

among the wish-fullfilling jamun trees

toy gods kings people tigers birds

level three to gold-throned siddha souls

then highest tirthankars in a lotus cup

god-smacked kids thought this the ultimate

doll shop of all playdreams perhaps Prakriti

gasped concerned for her romantic future

Yogi and Chauhaan had looked and left

23.23

“Shall we take tea, Yogi?” asked Chauhaan

nodding a head to Kumara, herding kids

to and from the tractor-elephant.

“They will know to find us at the tea-stall.”

“What about Margot? We can’t just up and leave,”

said Yogi. “We brought them.” It was the first

time he’d given her a thought. “Don’t worry,”

coaxed the Gharmukteshwar man.

“The children are playing.” Yogi wasn’t certain,

but felt tired with so many temples waiting.

“I never thought of Hastinapur quite like this.

A seat of warriors now the seat of saints,

from the age of holocaust to non-violence.”

23.24

Chauhaan walked him through the ornate gate,

the metal jambu wired green above.

They weaved through blaring buses, car horns, scooters

to a waiting fruit-box tea-stall opposite.

The tea-wallah pumped his kerosene stove

to jet-heat hard-boiled, sickly-milky chai.

Yogi looked out for Margot and the kids

still riding the elephant tractor, a demon train.

Chauhaan was talking about some future plan

with he and Barhai, but Yogi was distracted.

He glanced across the road to Jambudweep.

Why did he feel that he had missed his chance?

Then he saw Margot looking. She didn’t wave.

CLIFF

They called it the Life Emulating Machine-ONline. The idea was to feed in data about your life, your hopes, and your abilities. Basically, this website could simulate your life. When it was wrong, you corrected it and it learned. Eventually, it would know the users so well, it could offer advice on schools, careers, even love lives got the LEMON touch. Eventually, there was no topic on which the LEMON didn’t advise. The church was happy when the LEMON started encouraging more spirituality among its users. That is, until they realized that there was a new god on the block.

Two days after I drove it off the lot, the windshield cracked. The used car salesman said that it wasn’t covered. The faulty gas gauge wasn’t covered either. In the next month, the locks stopped locking, the fuel pump stopped pumping, and the pistons stopped… well, they stopped working too. None of it covered. I brandished the paperwork and asked what a ULT warrantee was supposed to be. The salesman told me that ULT stood for Unlimited Life Time. I told him that I assumed that ULT stood for Under the Lemon Tree because that’s where this car came from.

ELISSON

LEMON: A 100-WORD STORY

Miles Davis wanted a new sound.

Kind of Blue was a classic, and he had recently taken steps into electronica with his landmark A Tribute to Jack Johnson. But there was so much more he wanted to do. “How?” he wondered silently.

As he lay awake in bed, an unbidden memory of an old Our Gang comedy short came to him. In a flash, he knew just what to do.

Two weeks later, the group was in the studio to record Bitches Brew… with one extra.

“Kid, here’s a quarter. When I start playing, you start sucking on this lemon.”

SPATE

Fruit Salad

Auntie Rita always said:

“When life hands you lemons,

And it will dear,

Don’t frown

Look around

We’re all on a steady diet of fruit here.

“And lemons are not so bad.

Be grateful it’s not a gangrened grapefruit

Or a wormy apple

Or not fruit at all but a vegetable

Like kale.

“Have you ever seen anyone handed kumquats perchance?

Pomegranates? Or even one persimmon?

Never!

Are your grapes being delivered peeled?

Certainly not!

And nobody, NOBODY, is given a bowl of cherries!

“So dear

Just suck on your lemon because

Only the top monkeys get any bananas here.”

ZACKMANN

Sheriff Jack Lemon had orders from Mayor Ryan Smith Orange to get rid of Kelly Kumquat who was putting the squeeze on the good citizens of Citrus Town.

Jack was a good man and he was John Law of Citrus Town but people called him Lemon Law. The Sheriff took his lemon car to the Citrus Bowl Stadium where John Lemon was doing a Lemon Aid show for families hit by the early freeze. Jack saw Kumquat in the ticket line thinking his deputies soon will have gathered enough evidence to put Kelly away for the zest of his life .

JULIE

Eleni Recalls Her Lemon Trees

The lemon trees will grow–

If you are there, or no.

The grey roots,

They twist

Deep into the acrid soil

Steeped deep in your village.

The sun, the sea—

Your yearning to be free.

Fragrant memories,

Sunny bitter smiling sweet treeflowers–

The lemon trees

Have been there before you–

And will remain,

When someday you finally

Fail to return.

The nostos–

It takes hold each spring

That homecoming, preceded

By your leavetaking…

My restless white-haired mother

She gazes on her stained glass lemons

From the mahogany dining room

In the cold winter of New Haven

Waiting for her return.

JUSTIN

When I was a kid, I ate a lemon and everyone thought my face was so hilarious.

Naturally, I don’t remember it at all, too young.

However, while eating at Local Ocean in Newport, Oregon, my daughter grabbed a lemon off a plate. Now I would never give her a tart lemon, I’m not a monster, but I wasn’t going to stop her. I was too busy turning on the video camera. Now she, unlike me, can see how hilarious she looked.

Just remember to experience the moments now, and don’t miss them because you were too busy recording it.

NORVAL JOE

When I got my driver’s license the main family car was a Dodge Monaco station wagon. It was a smaller than the Queen Mary but needed as much space to turn around. The 440 cubic inch block and four barrel carburetor made it jump up and fly when you put your foot down.
Since my twin brother and I wanted to go out with our girl friends, but not with each other, one of us had to drive the 1964 Studebaker Lark. Some people called the Lark a lemon, but it was still running long after the wagon was gone.

DANNY

In 1988, the now defunct General Motors division of Pontiac decided to revive the LeMans nameplate with the rebadged 1986 captive import, the Daewoo LeMans. As if the Classic 1968 version of the LeMans was not ruined enough with the crappy 1973 and 1978 remakes of the once classic nameplate, they just had to finish it with this pathetic remake. I worked for a rental car company at the time that rented the 1989 Lemans, the head gaskets on the engines would completely blow in less than 10000 miles. They should have called this version the Pontiac Lemon, the idiots at Pontiac were only one letter off.

MUNSI

Lemons
By Christopher Munroe

When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.

If you’re five years old.

If you’re an adult, and life gives you lemons, find salt, tequila and somebody to share it with, body-shot style.

No, tequila’s not for everyone. Some are made ill by the liquor, and many find it bitter. But that doesn’t matter in the end.

Because you have to make the best of what you have in this life, whether you like it or not.

And sometimes it will be bitter, because life is sometimes bitter.

Like a lemon.

And when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.

TURA

Whenever I get home, I take a lemon and bite into it, hard. The neural simulators always get better, but they still can’t reproduce that intensity. It’s a way of reassuring myself I’m back in base reality.

I was out of lemons. At the local shop, I found a citrus fruit I’d never seen before, lemon-yellow with knobbly green-tinted protrusions. “Take one,” said the shopkeeper. “New variety, very intense!”

I bit into it. When my eyes cleared from the sledgehammer blow, I woke up surrounded by blue-skinned humanoids waving their ears excitedly. “Great to be back!” I said, waving mine.

PLANET Z

I remember going to see The Harlem Globetrotters when I was little.

That was when they had Meadowlark Lemon, Curley Neal, and Sweet Lou Dunbar. Curley was the bald guy who was an incredible dribbler.

I have no idea who’s on the team these days. Heck, I have no idea who’s on any basketball team now. I’m from the Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley era… players like Shaq and Yao Ming are newcomers to me, and they’re retired already.

Maybe this is good? Instead of following the players, I can just enjoy the competition.

Or the clownery of the Globetrotters.

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 HORN.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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

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

The husband wearing horn-rimmed glasses sat in the car, waiting. His wife was chatting with their hot neighbor while lightly touching his arm and smiling a pathetic smile. The husband blew the horn and waved for her to hurry. They were late. The orchestra rehearsal was starting in ten minutes. She gave him that look of disgust, and he knew. That night, when she was fast asleep, his friends came over with the gear. The husband blew the horn, the orchestra horn that became the hunting horn. No one ever saw her again. Next on the list was the neighbor…

JOHN

Heaven Heaven by John Musico

Harold led a Christian life, died, and awoke in Heaven. He reclined back on a small cloud like a pillow, arms folded behind his neck. An angel approached and said hurriedly; ÒSit up straight, fix up your wings!Ó Harold, bewildered, asked; ÒWhatever is wrong?Ó The anxious angel replied; ÒDo you want to go to Heaven Heaven or not?Ó É Resigned, Harold sacrificed every joy.
Then, he awoke to yet a new place. It was clear he would have to endure perfection for all eternity. Harold asked; ÒIs this Heaven Heaven?Ó His horned escort replied bleakly; ÒCall it what you willÓÉ.

JEFFREY

French Horn
by Jeffrey Fischer

Eugene always moved to the beat of his own drummer. Instead of taking on the trumpet, as so many children his age did, his instrument was the French horn. He knew it looked silly, and other kids teased him mercilessly, but Eugene didn’t care. He loved being the odd one, and the French horn was his baby.

The orchestra director stopped the rehearsal again. “Eugene!” he roared. “You’re out of sync with the others – again!”

“Sorry, Mr. Dobson. I guess I just move to the beat of my own drummer.”

“Well, move to the beat of *this* drummer –” Mr. Dobson pointed to a shaggy-haired boy poised to bang on the bass drum. “– or get out of this orchestra.”

Eugene continued with his instrument, but after that his heart was never really into it.

Unclear on the Concept
by Jeffrey Fischer

Hank traveled to Africa and found an unscrupulous hunter. Together, they tracked a rhinoceros, killed it, and took its horn. Back home, he ground the horn and slipped the powder into Sarah’s drink. He watched as she drank it all, giddy with anticipation of the night’s amorous activities.

“Gross,” Sarah said, spitting out the drink. “This glass must have been dirty – there’s some powder still in it.”

Once again, Hank left early, with only a goodnight kiss for his troubles. No amount of evidence could convince him that consumption of horn didn’t cause “horniness.”

RICHARD

Hangover

The hangover was the worst I’d had for some time – with head pounding and acute nausea, all I wanted to do was sleep. It was a rotten day too – the howling wind and driving rain outside the window conspired to make me feel even worse.

I switched off the light and, without its glare, felt an immediate improvement. Now if only that wretched noise would stop… what the hell was it? Some sort of horn? The alarm clock maybe?

Fumbling in the darkness, I found a button, pressed it and… silence!

Bliss.

Even us lighthouse keepers need a break occasionally!

SERENDIPITY

The sound of the horn came ever closer at his heels: the terrified victim plunged headfirst into a thicket and sat shivering, hoping desperately that the hunt would pass him by.

All too soon, the noise of hoofbeats, shouts and the baying of hounds filled the forest and the pursued shrank deeper into his hiding place.

The horn sounded again – a victory blast – followed by a thrashing of the ferns hiding him.

The cowering creature looked up at his pursuers in terror…

The fox, peering down at him laughed, before letting the hounds loose, tearing the defenceless human to pieces.

TOM

There’s 12 Step for That.
I have a rather odd hobby. I collect television set props from a show
called the lost room. Damn good entertainment that was. There are about
100 objects that are listed as must have. They vary from an Eight sided
glass ash tray to a Bakelite 17t13 Motorola. All these items were readily
purchasable in 1961, but today they are referred to as Mid-Century
antiques. The maddening thing about this search is the wide array of
differences in production runs. Take the Ray Ban Eames Era tortoise shell
safety glasses has seven different types of studs in the horn rims.

Old Four Eyes
In 1962 anyone wearing glasses were in horn rims. From LBJ to Uncle Walter
to poor Mary Elizabeth Sullivan, big old industrial black frames sat on
your nose. How I got my first set of glasses was quiet accidental. A
teacher had told my parents my brother Dave was having difficulty reading
the black board and he should be tested. Somehow I got drag into the
Ophthalmologist’s office after major complains. Not an appealing
proposition signing up to look like a raccoon. I can still remember the
smell of heated plastic, the warmth as they got propped on my nose.

In Sharp Focus.
As I recalled the Ophthalmologist’s office was on a second story. A small
window in the front of the building faces onto a city street. For reasons
unknown looked out that window. For the first time in my life an infinite
field of focus appeared. It is hard to Philosophize at Nine, but at 60 I
can safely say my view of the world changed that moment. Before then
everything just beyond my reach was unfocused and discountable, after that
moment everything leap up and demanded inspection. Armed with my horn rims
I was ready to engage with the universe.

A Will Defined Relationship Part 30
“Your in-tell is shoddy Master Tim.” rebuffed Dino. Senator Smith reached
into his coat pocket and removed his cobalt horn rim glasses. From his
hand stitched wallet he pulled out a titanium card. He read the following
“Crusnik 02 – Power Output 1% Activate” Dino’s Mod froze in mid sentence
and fell forward. Stiff as a board his head propped upward on the tip of
his nose. “Matt Helm override 3.1415926535. Dino disappeared. Mat did a
back spring came up with a Walther PPK barrel resting on Timmy’s forehead.
Smith snapped his fingers and Mat fell backward on the deck.

ZACKMANN

Zack walks through a pasture. It seems like a bull thinks Zack is trying to horn in on his cow action. Zack wishes people had not spread those rumors that were untrue of most Bronies. Not that he doesn’t love animals but he doesn’t LOVE animals. Although the bull has no horns it is quite ornery wishing some alone time with his herd.

Zack remembers how the motivational speaker told him when there was an unexpected problem, all he has to do it to take the bull by the horns but here Zack is getting charged by a polled bovine.

========

I love posting online

like to do it all the time

it would fine to use CAPs all the time

but I can’t type in ALL CAPs

I love ALL CAPs

typing in ALL CAPs

my peeps tell me I’m shouting

but I’m not shouting

I love ALL CAPs

I really love ALL CAPs

but I can’t use ALL CAPs

My friends say that I look angry

but I grew up in the 80s

when it meant you hate the shift key

and I can’t type in ALL CAPs

I really love ALL CAPs

but I can’t use ALL CAPs

SPATE

Mostly True Tales from the Navy – Part 2

Millington

————————————————–

I called him Red because of his fiery hair and disposition.

We were in his white Chevy pickup blowing down highway 51 from Millington into Memphis.

He was exceedingly animated, ranting about a solid horn section being essential to the blues and how I was bat shit crazy for favoring electric guitar.

The dead on headlights and horn blare of a Piggly Wiggly semi caught him mid tirade.

With manic laughter, Red cut us off road into the mud, escaping certain death by inches.

Grinning in the dashboard light, Red actually looked crimson and I could’ve sworn he had horns.

JULIE

Horn

Yesterday, I stepped into my past.

I rang the bell.

Your small white haired mother,

She opened to door to our lives.

That old Victorian dining room.

Unchanged—

Bert’s Morris Chair, the wobbly table–

Every book in its place,

Thirty years later.

But, the candle on the breakfront,

Is new.

Floating in oil,

By a Byzantine icon

And a black and white photo–

Of a blonde bare child

Laughing on the rocks

With his wild-haired mother

Smiling.

Over the old wood cabinet,

Mounted in the wall

Are desert horns—

Arizona.

The 1960s.

Remnants from a past I will

Never know.

CLIFF

It had been hard times for the village’s crops. What the drought hadn’t killed, the locusts had eaten. It’s no surprise that, when a traveling man passed through the village, no one wanted any of his wares. Love potions and alcoholic panaceas were not what the people wanted. But when he offered an enchanted Horn of Plenty to guarantee successful crops, the villagers jumped at it. They combined their meager savings and bought it. When the crops came in, however, it was all in the form of candy. The vile charlatan had sold them a Horn of Good N Plenty.

I used to see a unicorn in the woods across from my grandparents home. No one believed me, so eventually, I stopped believing it myself. As I grew older, I convinced myself that it had just been the imaginings of a child and that it had never really happened. When grandma died, she left letters for each of us. My cousins all got sentimental notes of encouragement. I bought out my cousins and now I live in the old house. I haven’t seen the unicorn, but I keep looking. My letter from grandma had simply said “I saw it too.”

JUSTIN

If I had my own horn, I’d toot it. For example:

I was recently published! Sure, I’ve been in benefit books before, but this time someone decided to pay me for it!

Here’s what happened.

I backed a Kickstarter campaign for Kaiser’s Gate, an RPG setting where before WWI, magic entered the world.

In a backer update I found there was a setback with an anthology I previously hadn’t known about. Turns out some writers backed out. So I replied that I was a writer. I got the Go ahead, and the rest is on sale now at Drivethrurpg.com!

SINGH

23.7

Love tells the fragrant round

to mark time. Ennui rolls

it’s singularity and sounds

a bleating horn of thought:

watch yourself! It’s out

of your hands. And other

beads drip saltiness

despite her will. It is a test

to let go hope or outside

help. But why? She thinks.

Don’t I deserve a man

to stay and give and not

just take? If love is more

than what is lived, where is

the rest? I want the lot,

not the passenger seat;

and yet I mustn’t say

a word, or sound a note

of discord. Love lets go.

23.8

Now came a scruffy flock

of nomad sheep hard bleating,

clogging the black river.

The bus slowed down, a barge

with horn, a bully! Unsubtle,

the herald yelled all the way

from Delhi to Andhra Pradesh

at sixty million banjaras

in search of gypsy grass.

Who am I, she thought

the herder of greasy sheep,

driver with forced stick

no better than my teachers—

Queen Poonan, or Vulture

undermining from mid-seat,

or Mr Kumara, still bitter

for a chance to get his own

back at this Foreign Madam.

Was not she obsessed also

to rule her young White Yogi?

23.9

This need to grab at earth here stood upon,

and legislate as with a sky-high mandate

wasn’t this the Mahabharat theme?

As the bus diverted now to Hastinapur

she saw a fruit-seller with his river produce.

Tarbuja came to mind, in Hindi for

a watermelon grown upon the vine.

One slipped suddenly from the vendor’s

hands and rolled beneath the hurtling bus,

crunching to paste the red heart of its sweetness

beneath hard wheels and scattering black seeds

of action and reaction to the wind.

Hastinapura, once the golden city

had been the fruit sought through bitter feuds.

23.10

Arrival. The City of Elephants. Here
revived by Pandit Nehru, 1949

to conjure a dynastic India

(or author his). The city of elephants,

an emblem royal as the seal of rajahs

was scanty shops hugging to life’s path

stuck like flies to commerce. A road of hopes

nearby a hill and upward jungle track

and at its base Chauhaan’s ambassador car.

He was waiting there to lead their winding tour

to Pandeshwar Fort and its ruined stones

believed by officialdom to be

the last remaining archeological record

of Dhritarashtra, that old blind king

who’d perfected mis-rule’s art from here.

23.11

The bus drove forward, following its guide

with kids psyched up and teachers fearing outbreaks

of misdemeanours. They might rival monkeys,

leaping off the hill from tree to tree.

The mock Red Fort still held a Shiva lingam.

“From Pandav time,” the swami told Chauhan

as were the snake-like roots of an ancient banyan.

The children attempted reverence, filing in

and out of the temple. Released, they’d scream

away up concrete steps to view more vistas

than this official site of once-upon-a-time.

As for the ruined mounds and hidden caves?

All were off limits. By Government decree.

23.12

“Everyone back in the bus,” Kumara yawned.

He had been here before, but never told —

never one to be seen to help or hinder,

preferring the biding of time and pulling of strings

to see the fall of Madam. Poonam Goyal

was flirting openly with Rajinder. Kids or not,

this was a coming out to prime the fire

for their rendezvous inside a mango orchard.

Margot had walked about and told her beads

in silent thought, watching her White Yogi

walking and nodding beside Brijpaal Chauhaan

the talker. “Apparently, this isn’t the tour,”
Yogi reported. “We’re going to Jambu Dweep.”

23.13

The buses’ air-breaks grunted like a herd

of elephants returning to their riverbed.

An ancestral Ganga had once flowed from here

and flooded its banks, washing away the city

millennia ago. Here bus horns sounded,

trumpeting outside this marble entrance

to modern Hastinapur, now place of Jains,

soul-liberating twenty-four tirthankaras

inspired by the meditation of a saint —

the woman in white, Gyanmataji,

a modern muni. Her demesne of ahimsa’s

non-violent philosopher-kings had come

back to Rajah Bharata’s blood-stained land

and built a marble picture of the cosmos

of lotus halls, green lawns and waterways.

NORVAL JOE

My cat likes to sneak out the door every chance she gets. We don’t like her to get out because she always catches birds and brings them into the house. So, I got a bell to warn birds and put it on her collar. It’s not like she’s pure bred or anything, but she acted all offended, anyway. She sat in the corner and refused to leave.
I figured she wanted something more refined than a simple bell. I took it off the collar and attached a French horn instead. She still just sits there. I can’t figure her out.

MUNSI

At the Record Company Meeting

By Christopher Munroe

How about Ska?

The genre originated in the ‘50s, blended with punk in the ‘70s and came back in the ‘90s, twenty years appears to be how long it takes before each Ska revival, so the time seems to be right.

Let’s bring the horn section back!

I’m thinking it’ll replace Dubstep. It’s the same market, young, energetic people who want to dance.

Currently, they dance to Dubstep. But do they have to? Dubstep’s the worst!

They’ll grow to like Ska, I think, we just have to explain it to them.

Hey you, don’t listen to that, listen to this!

TURA

Horn
——–
The man paused at the edge of the forest, panting heavily. At last he broke cover for a distant clump of trees. He had almost made it when he heard the horn sound “blowing away”, and the riders’ tally-hos. Hiding was futile now, so he ran on.

He reached the estate wall, but the stiff paws locked over his fists made climbing impossible. The hounds pulled him down and snapped for his throat through the fur suit and the fox mask, until the master called them off.

Next time, they would handicap him with more weight, just to be sure.

PLANET Z

They say that the Secret Service keeps a brain-dead clone of the President in case he needs an organ transplant, but I think they got the two mixed up.

It’s not a perfect copy of the guy. Clone-president tends to cackle and drool a bit more, and his left eye wanders like that Mad-Eye Moody in the Harry Potter movies.

Then there’s the horn sticking out of the middle of his head. People call him the Unipresident, and cabinet members are reluctant to butt heads with him over policy.

We tolerate this mutant because the Vice President’s a fucking lunatic.

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 COAST.

We’ve got stories by:

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

(The song is “Texas In The Spring” – buy it on CD Baby)

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

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

John Musico, “Valhalla Beckons”

As every time before, the Norseman wondered; “Would this be the last voyage?”
For such men there was only conquest or the warm afterlife, both were good.
He sat in the lodge with a far off gaze, leaning over a wooden plate and horn of mead.
The wind outside was icy, as always.
The other journeymen sat spattered at the table, postured much the same, bearing the same distant stare.
As if signaled, they rose nearly in unison; it was time to go back to the ship.
Again the wind blew; it was an odd warm wind. The Norseman smiled.

JEFFREY

Drive
by Jeffrey Fischer

When others think of Christmas, they may think of the birth of Jesus, or gifts, or the aromas of cooking. Not me. Every Christmas I find myself on the road, driving up the coast, en route to visit my mother. She doesn’t recognize me. We exchange pleasantries, as if two strangers met. I press a gift into her hands and kiss her on the cheek, wishing her a merry Christmas as she gives me a bewildered look. Then I’m back in my car, tuning the radio to a station that promises to play anything but Christmas music.

Flying
by Jeffrey Fischer

Growing up, when snow fell, the big kids would take their sleds and coasters to Doom Hill. I could hear their screams of excitement and terror. I wished I could join them, but my parents refused to allow me.

The year I was fourteen, snow came early. I told my parents I would be at Jimmy’s house, the took my sled to Doom Hill. As I gathered speed, I coasted for a minute then launched into space, flying for a second. I was free. Then I crashed and broke my arm in two places.

ZACKMANN

“A gift for your husband, The Ramen Noodle himself. Coast deodorant soap.”

“Where is he? I heard the pickup coasting into the driveway.”

“Yeah, hypermiling isn’t safe but you know how he can get all Sargent Packet when he wants to try something. Like when he says “That’s a Sugar Glider? That isn’t what a sugar glider should be” then drags me to Costco to buy enough Corn Syrup to build a sugar glider to launch himself off the barn hopefully coasting safely to the ground.”

“Why Coast?”

“The ad said it’s the Eye Opener and we can always hope.”

RICHARD

Coast

I remember the last family trip we took to the coast – unaware that we’d never again have the opportunity. The sand, the sun, and – most of all – the sea remain forever etched in my memories… but I can no longer look upon the sea, or the coast with any fondness.

The world grew warmer; the ice-caps melted, and the seas rose: flooding inland, taking towns, cities, homes and lives indiscriminately and without mercy.

We are the ‘fortunate’ ones – those who survived: those who remember the world as it once was.

Today, there is no coast – only the endless sea.

SPATE

Christmas 1982

——————————-

Regret is a heavy burden.

Take it from me:

If you find yourself living on the coast in a cheap drafty apartment that is more like a shack meant for summer rental but you’re there in the dead of winter trying to save a few bucks.

And if you’ve stretched out those few bucks to put as many presents under the tree as possible for your family but your five year old gets up before anyone else and opens every present by herself.

Then just laugh. Laugh like a drunken sailor.

Then you will have one less regret to carry.

SINGH

An idea catches the bus,

a desire to do and please

a bumpy plan gets down

takes chai at the workshop

chatter and more chai

the sound of whittling wood

a call to Brijpaal Chauhaan

the white car, pulling up

“Yes glad to serve”

talk and wobbling heads

eyebrows twitching with code

a favour called in by Barhai

a phone dialled to the depot

“the day after, coming”

be ready, arriving early

the bright idea says thank you

“No mention it is our duty”

the bright idea nods and runs

to ride the manic bus

happily back to the village

23.2

“So you agreed to this without first telling me?
What about the parents?” She was not pleased.
They were in the office. It was after lunch.

The children were all lying under the pipal,

a collective unconscious snooze, with rapid squirrels

running up and down the trunk. “But it’s fine.

They will love it, surely, and there’s no cost at all.”

There was nothing she good do, the bus was booked.

“Trust me, honey. I was thinking of the kids.
When the rains begin we won’t be able to move,

The roads they say will be tractor tread and bog.”

23.3

The requests ran home, returning orally
next day, as girls with pink and yellow ribbons,

plus shorts and fresh shirts whirling leather satchels

like slings collecting heads. “Ow!” said Atul.

Big-boned Kuldeep, a growing Bhima wrestled

with another boy, until their Madam scolded,

trying her best with hands and crippled Hindi.

“Are you sure it’s coming?” said Margot.

“Eight o’clock,”

Yogi had made the plan and had full faith,

in IST, that unreliable god.

Excitement was a fever hard to cure.
Yogi waited, peering down the road

for a cloud of dust and proof of his faith in Barhai.

23.4

At nine forty five in Indian Standard Time

the bus pulled up, growling like a tiger.

Kids piled headfirst through the hissing door

and fought for front row seats, but were expelled

from Madam and Yogi’s first class privileges

on cracked upholstery and a bad spring

like a jack-in-the-box poking through white fibre.

Thank God for that, thought Yogi. It would have been

bad with a no-show. A lady leopard

might have taken him apart all day and night.
But Barhai had come through. And so the bus

now turned and steered head on to Hastinapur.

23.5

Passing a tall swastika shrine

they dodged depressions and decay,

gears clunked down a snaking spine,

horn trumpeting: get out of my way!

The modern Ganges’ river of tar —

of wobbly cycles, motor bikes,

tempo, truck, three-wheeler, car

went short distance, or on long hikes

while women sat and spread out grain

and husked it via the tyres’ zoom,

or farm boys snatched stray culms of cane

from a bouncing tractor trolley’s boom

hitting a pothole. The school kids shoved,

pushing harder with each bus swerve.

Around some bend awaits the beloved,

the angel of death, eager to serve.

25.6

Yogi remembered the coasts of long white sand

taking greyhound buses up Coffs’ Harbour way,

those long stretches of straight road, then a turn

revealing coastal blue, some sweeping cliff

with seabirds like confetti above the spume.

Such road-days, going it alone were gone.

A wife was here and now new tension grew,

bumping into the other with each mad swerve

of the betel-chewing driver. Chauhaan was to come

to Hastinapur soon enough and then to tell

its Mahabharat story and then Jain.

Margot sat in silence slipping the beads

of a sandalwood mala between her patient fingers.

CLIFF

When the virus hit, it hit fast. If people didn’t fall to the bug, they fell to what was left. Zombies. It wasn’t like the movies. They were fast, tough, and worst of all, they were smart. They didn’t shamble. They hunted. Eventually, we realized that the only safe place was near the ocean. Salt water drove them back. Soon, the last remnants of mankind all lived within a few miles of the shore. Eventually, we’ll take back the interior but for now, this is all we have. The land of the dead surrounded by the coast of the living.
—

We used to go up to the top of the hill on Fourth Street on our bikes. The steep hill made for a tough ride, but when we got to the top, it was worth it. We’d line up and push off, our feet stuck out to the side as we flew down the hill. We blasted through the stop sign at Rush Street and ended up at the bridge. Now that I’m an adult, I like to think I’m pedaling up that hill. I just wonder if I’ll ever get to the point where I get to coast again.

MAGGY

Evie could just see the coast. She didn’t realise the little fishing boat
had carried her so far. There was no sign of Jack. She started towards
the line of thick bushes. She soon reached the other side. Plain white
sand then more trees and bushes.
“Jack!” she called, “Jack!” There was no response.
The scene was very familiar. His sketches, his paintings,
even his prints all had the scene included somewhere.
Suddenly, there was a rustling of leaves. “Jack,” she said,
dumbfounded. He was wearing an apron, dripping with red…paint?
Jack collapsed on the sand. “Oh!My god!”

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 29
Timmy turned to Dino Mod, “Mr. Martin why are you here?” “Call me Dino. I
am an old friend of Mr. Banister. When he heard one of his last passengers
was in trouble he leaped straight into the thick, I am just in tow.”
“Sorry sir Sparky says your ID beckon is popping up all over Coast Net,
which means your a Troll Monkey from low places, or DX agent from rather
high places.” “Do I look likely to have a Coast pay grade. I’m just … ”
“Matt Helm. Seems Coast isn’t as secure as it uses to be.”

Professional Curtsey
“The coast is clear,” whispered Jack. “Doesn’t appear so, I would say the
coast is quite overcast,” return Frank. “Idiot, it’s a figure of speech. ”
Could have said something a bit less colorful, less chance to misinterpret
your intent.” “Shut the Fuck up. Can we get on with this?” “Don’t have to
get all defensive, you might seek out some anger management help when …”
“BLAM” Jack deftly stepped over Frank, eyeballed the remainder of his
second story crew. “The coast is clear.” Everyone’s heads vibrated in
recognition. Too bad Ralph took that moment to clear his throat. BLAM

Never Were a Red Uniform
Ivory sand was being lapped by cobalt waves. The horizon glowed with a
mixture of violent and vermillion. The twin suns dipped in the sea. Zax
PinderZal reclined on a beach chair a mere 20 yards from the Grand
Coastal. A regular circuit of cabana boys delivered Romulian Ale to his
up turned hand. Being the weapons officer on a starship did have its
perks. When your Coastal Ferengi resort has phasers lock on you, customer
satisfaction becomes paramount. When the twin Adorian hospitality hostess
arrive with the coco butter, Zax lowered his Ray Bans and said, “Make it
so.”

Not Pawnable
It’s odd the things we collect. In most cases the monetary value have a
inverse relationship to it sentiment value. Where I grew up was nearly as
far from any ocean as a person could be. So on my first trip to New York I
filled a glass aspirin bottle with water. During that same year I visited
San Francisco and armed with the same bottle fill it with water. When I
return to Chicago I mixed both oceans into a single jar. It sat in my
parents house for the next 20 years. Mom took it with to Phoenix.

SERENDIPITY

Clearing the reef, the lookout spied an unknown coast, not recorded upon our charts. We set to and launched a rowboat to the shore and, on making landfall, I claimed the new land in the name of king and country.

It was not long before we were surrounded by curious natives: we bartered beads and trinkets and were persuaded to visit their village, where it transpired a great feast was to be held in our honour.

Whilst we awaited the meal, the crew debated amongst themselves what delicacy might appear upon the menu…

The delicacy turned out to be us!

LIZZIE

The lighthouse swept the darkness of the sea and the vastness of the coast, alive in the distance, sparkling with tiny glow-worms. Being a tormented diva was hard work. So, when Millie ran up the stairs of the lighthouse with the intention of pretending to jump off, she didn’t really expect to see a man, struggling to swim ashore. Much to her surprise, Millie forgot about the diva plans and ran down the stairs. She jumped into the dark tormented waters and saved the dying man. That’s how she went from diva to angel. And somehow, she enjoyed the change!

JULIE

From my beach,

I see that coast—

The planes,

Circling, and returning again,

Waiting to land—

To the West.

The lights, the bridge

And in that dream–

The mushroom cloud imploding,

That shook me from sleep.

From my pier,

I remember

The smoky hole in the ground—

The fighter jets

Shaking the crystal in the case—

You and I, taking bets

On when the world would end.

Preaching your apocalypse

While I grilled fish.

I wish—

To be taken to the cliffs,

And scattered when I am gone—

Thousands of chalk tons melting

Into the sea

Crumbling my malaise away.

TURA

On an old map of Africa, you can read the names: Ivory Coast, Gold Coast, Slave Coast. Others appear only in the traders’ records. The Sweltering Boils Coast was to be avoided. The Angry Birds Coast was populated only by an alarmingly intelligent species of ostrich. On the Giant Hats Coast, it was absolutely taboo to go bare-headed, and the natives expressed their respectability by the size of their hat.

When the first European ship landed there, the captain doffed his hat to the local chief and bowed. The penalty for this deadly insult deterred all further attempts at trade.

MUNSI

Die Hard

By Christopher Munroe

I get that the premise eventually wore thin.

Guy trapped in place deals with whatever, with no outside aid. It was never the sort of premise that, however much Hollywood tried, was going to remain fresh. And yes, by the end of the ‘90s we were tired of the formula.

Nonetheless, man, Die Hard. It’s basically the perfect movie. Sharp, tight and witty, with just the right number of explosions.

If you’ve seen the film recently, you already understand what I mean.

If not, watch it with me!

Come out to the coast, we’ll get together, have a few laughs…

NORVAL JOE

I heard a guy justify sexual promiscuity by saying 100,000 years ago we had to spread our seed wherever we could to make sure our race would survive. By that same rationale, then, men should be allowed to rape teenage girls, since girls have no value to the tribe until proven they can bare children.
We litter because we used to live in trees. Out of site, out of mind. At least the tree was clean. Now, if you litter, you’re bad.
I choose monogamy because a hundred-thousand years of evolution should mean acting less like a monkey, not more.

PLANET Z

My friends in New York say that the East Coast is the best.
My friends in California say that the West Coast is the best.
My friends in Chicago say that the Lakefront is the best, but fuck those losers… that isn’t a coast.

If you want a coast, come down to Texas and enjoy the Gulf Coast.
No income tax, and low real estate costs. What’s not to like?
Hurricanes? When I last checked, the East Coast gets hit worse than the Gulf Coast.
Sure, it’s hot. But that’s what air conditioning is for.
And beer. Lots of beer.

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 ANYTHING BUT CHRISTMAS.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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

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.

MICK
It was foretold – by Mick Bordet (http://mickbordet.com)

“You’ve never heard of the ‘Horn of Bantillambous’?” Baljak asked.

“Should I have?” said Mullin.

“Legend says that when it is blown, the great beast Amhaliog will descend from the mountains, killing anything that stands in its way.”

“Baljak, you must have a thousand warriors standing outside your gates right now. Why have you not already blown the horn?” asked Mullin.

“I blew it this morning, when the soldiers first appeared.”

“And?”

“The great beast descended from the mountains.”

“And?”

“It raced towards the gates, but fell dead from exhaustion before it reached them. It was quite an old legend.”

SINGH
22.9

A buffalo cart was passing when he woke.

The wheel-clunk on dirt, the cursing driver

made him sit up. Margot at the pump

was pre-dawn bucket-bathing. Yes, he knew

her gasping splashes in their cane enclosure;

her cups of cold reality doused him too.

Yesterday’s words slapped him with regret.

Had they come to India to fire potshots?

The bird and arrow dream he had re-cast

from the old epic. And the meaning? To aim

with single focus higher up the tree,

or pull on, buffalo-necked with pride

and blinded power? Just who was driving?

22.10

“We need to talk,” she said, while towelling

her grey-flecked hair and sliding in to perch

upon their bed. “Look, aren’t you bored with me?”

He rose to switch on gas and make the tea,

avoiding her eyes. He did not want a fuss.

“No honey, I am with you. Please believe me.”

I simply scraped my knee and missed the bus

and then got stuck at Barhai’s. They were kind.”

Time for truth. She knew she was in the right.

“So, he forced you sit cross-legged and hold court?

Admit it Yogi. You love your holy white.”

22.11

He felt her claws, soft bites.

“The school’s good for you,

setting the world to rights,

but what am I to do?

I think the kids like me,

not so Adele and Paul.

I strum under the tree,

but really, that’s about all.

When I play and sing

I feel I am alive.

You think it’s an ego thing?

I want others to arrive

at a place of peace,

bring them together,

improve, lift up, increase

good vibes in bad weather.

Barhai said we could earn

donations for the school.

I’ll go sing, then return.

It’ll work out really cool.”

22.12

He’d already planned to leave,

she thought. He’d made his call.

I’m meant to basket-weave,

throw the alphabet ball,

put off the school inspector

accreditation for kickback,

play teacher lie-detector,

and hold back parent attack?

There was little she could do.

There was no bud to nip,

First, the flower thief said moo,

now he was abandoning ship.

A woman needs a lookout

alone in a village hut.

Thought of his walkabout

tightened the spring in her gut.

“So what’ll I do?”

he asked, “I feel your doubt.”

“Yogi, I say to you

dig deeper or opt out.”

22.13

She had suffered through the whims of restless men

and feared the sari sirens, the gifts of silk

ready for undraping like Draupadi.

Indian Christmas? Circumstances would

put him high on a flower-sprinkled dais

before gold-bangled clapping gopi hands

like teens before a rock god. Sacred showtime.

There was nothing wrong with God-song. After all,

she’d seen him at her Himalaya Centre,

with golden Krishna dancing on his drum,

yet something about Barhai did not gel.

She feared mis-purpose. Yogi was naive.

The river span between their seven years

and the crocodile Ganges was too wide.

RICHARD
#1 – Not Christmas

“But mummy, how will Father Christmas get in without a chimney?”

“Don’t worry, George dear, he’ll climb in through the window.”

Sure enough, a scuffling noise that night revealed Santa leaving his bedroom, one leg over the window sill, weighed down by his great sack…

Emily’s screams swiftly roused George from his reverie. Damn! He’d fallen asleep on watch!

Too late, he awoke to see a shadowy figure, weighed down by a struggling Emily, clambering out through the window of the house they’d hidden in overnight.

Too terrified to give chase, her fading screams haunted him for days to come.

#2 – Anything but…

This is not a festive tale of peace and joy and love: a time to celebrate the birth of baby Jesus from above. It’s a tale about greed, profit margins and excess; of commercialism, gluttony and giving in to selfishness.

So ring out the bells, uncork the wine, indulge yourselves and have a good time; eat till you’re full and drink till you’re sick; let’s raise a glass to good old Saint Nick!

Grab the neighbour’s wife under the mistletoe and have a friendly grope, no-one need know.

A time for self-indulgent glut…. Christmas it ain’t; it’s anything but!

#3 – Scrooge

Scrooge’s evening was not going well – a mild case of food poisoning perhaps?

What else could account for the bizarre hallucination he’d earlier had of his ex-business partner, Jacob Marley?

Now his sleep was disturbed by another apparition:

“I am the ghost of..”

“Bugger off!”, said Scrooge and went straight back to sleep.

Next morning, after emptying his chamber pot over the snowball-throwing youth under his window, he made his way to work.

Bob Cratchett was late, as usual – Scrooge would dock the time from his wages.

Just like any other, it was another typical day at the office.

TURA
Anything But Christmas
——–
My brother was waiting for me in the airport arrivals hall. “Happy—” I managed, before he roared, “Happy Solstice!”, drowning my voice. “Come on, I’m parked just outside,” he said, then muttered urgently, “and don’t say the C word!”

“But–”

“Just DON’T!”, he hissed, hustling me into the car.

“It’s officially hate speech,” he explained on the road. “Oppresses minorities, see? Anything else is ok, although Happy Holidays is so safe it’s suspicious. And as an expatriate– not that I grudge you that– you’re under suspicion already.”

“Happy Pomegranites!” I said. “Happy… Ponies and Unicorns!”

He chuckled, “That’s the spirit!”

JEFFREY
The Ultimate Weapon
by Jeffrey Fischer

The six spheres sat in a neatly-aligned row. Two men stared at them, eyes flicking from one to another: New Year, Valentine, St. Pat, Independence, Halloween, and Christmas, each named for an ancient holiday of the North American continent.

“Anything but Christmas,” Stevens said. “We can’t take that again.” Each sphere could release a mood-altering chemical onto the population: Independence created nationalistic fervor. Valentine created feelings of passion.

“No, we can’t,” replied Hogan. He picked up St. Pat. “Here. Alert cleanup that the two-week bender starts tonight.”

Stevens thought of the last time the ultimate weapon was deployed. An entire month of shopping frenzy, resulting in hyperinflation and a shattered economy.

“Agreed,” he said. “Anything but Christmas.”

The Closer
by Jeffrey Fischer

Kris Kringle was a mountain of a man, tall and wide. To call him fat would be a disservice – mounds of flesh oozed from him. He wore a furry red suit in all weather, apparently never washing it, the stink nearly visibly rising. His breath reeked of pickled herring and mulled cider. “Father Christmas” he was called for obvious reasons, and he was the best interrogator in the Bureau. Just being in the same room caused prisoners’ eyes to water, their stomachs to revolt in disgust. They confessed to any crime in order to receive merciful release from his presence.

“Bring in the prisoner,” the guard said.

They dragged the man into the interrogation room. When he saw Kringle, the hardened criminal felt his heart sink. “No – anything but Christmas.”

JOHN MUSICO
Petting George

My stubborn childhood dog refused to let me pet him. Broke my heart.
He hated the groomers. His pride could not tolerate it. He’d arrive home with a bow in his hair. This indignity shamed him such that for days he’d barricade himself under a table unseen. Ultimately he got his way and spent his remaining years a hippie.
Years later, he seemed to be staggering and concerned. I dared to pat his back. For the first time he allowed it.
Just as my hand patted his back- he collapsed dead. Broke my heart. I had finally pet my dog.

JULIE
Anything But Christmas

We melted into the earth—

It’s all your fault.

I loved every moment;

I don’t blame you.

We were vagabonds,

Wanting everything,

Having nothing.

We were called back home,

For Christmas–

Dreading the lights,

Presents, the tree,

All that family—

We tried to escape

In the boxcar,

Together.

But we melted into the earth,

And it’s all my fault—

Your anathracite eyes

Staring down at the pier,

Down by the ferry landing–

I tuck my scarf,

around your neck.

Those eyes, hands on my hips

Pulling me closer—

Saying don’t you cry,

Don’t you sigh

I’ll be back again someday.

TOM
A Well Defined Relationship Part 28

Through the night the temperature dropped a light covering of snow settled
on the air ship. Alone with his thoughts Doc Proctor tried fervently to
think of anything but Christmas. When that failed he tried to think of
any Christmas, but that Christmas. He had been a bit younger then Master
Timmy, that Christmas. His Father a doctor of renown, the personal
physician to the emperor himself, has just opened the door and cried out
Merry Christmas. Young Proctor leaped up into his arms. Fate cut the
father’s thread, they fell to the floor. “Anything but Christmas” thought
the Doctor.

Bah

I came to the Golden State with a small cohort of Chicagoans. Over time
they all drifted back east. Separated from friends and family and quite
well aware of government stats on holiday suicide rates I took up a
personal campaign of Yule cleansing. “Anything But Christmas,” became my
my motto. To this day I don’t address cards. Raise or adorn a tree. No
shopping beginning, middle or end. Not a sprig of mistletoe or holly to be
found. I slipped once during my first marriage attended my in-laws
celebration. A regular “Who’s afraid of Virgins Wolff Christmas, that was.

Best Christmas Party Ever

Dan from accounting was sitting next to Phil from manufacturing. “Pretty
Cool Christmas Bonus!” Dan squirmed against the red velvet and replied, ”
I would have preferred cash.” “Come On. A plane tickets to Nevada, A limo
from the airport, We’re knee deep in Champagne. The Company has seriously
out done themselves this year.” True, thought Dan noting smiles on even
the grimmest of his coworkers, who were engaged in conversation with women
of a beauty way above his pay grade. A red head winked at him. He glances
at the gold embossed invitation card it read: “Anything Butt Christmas.”

Merry Corporate Tide

Anything but Christmas, is the spirit of Christmas. View from any vector,
a nice analyzation would led to a jumble of inconsistency, a harsher view
would be a hypocritic pile of lies. Firstly: The guy we celibate on that
day, wasn’t even born on that day. It is unlikely he spent a year laying
in hay so we could crowd enough figures to fill out cardboard nativity
scenes. Secondly: We have conflated the Moorish Arch Bishop of the Spanish
Netherlander with a Laplandish white dupe, who somehow embody’s the true
meaning of Christmas by swigging down a bottle of Coke-a-Cola

ZACKMANN
“Look what I got our son.” father says taking a ten inch cube out of a box.

“What is that, dear?”

“It is the greatest invention ever, the Anything Bot.”

“What does it do?”

“Well almost anything hence the name. Plays games, videos, plays most major disk formats and can stream through the television.

“Is that all?” she asks with the proper amount of snark.

“Well no, it is not only a media device. It’s a transformer.”

“Really?”

“Anything Bot Derpy”

Anything Bot folds into a grey pony

“Guess what prompt words makes it turn into a plastic evergreen tree?”

SPATE
Tales from the Navy (Completely Unrelated to Christmas)

Sometimes legends are born from shallow unassuming moments…

So it was: mid 70’s; Naval Air Station North Island. We were off duty, sitting around the dorm room table, smoking dope and drinking beer.

Denny Freeman starts drawing on the tabletop. Young Kerr, Pritchard, and I join in. We liberate a paint set from the rec center and do a half decent nearly pornographic rendition of “Venus on the Half Shell”.

We sign our spontaneous artwork with blood red lacquer fingerprints.

To this day, sailors come from afar to view the table and imagine the fate of the four unknown painters.

SERENDIPITY
We don’t use the ‘C’ word in our office, the boss has banned it. Instead we have ‘holiday’ decorations, ‘festive’ parties and ‘greetings’ cards.

He maintains it’s a politically correct and culturally sensitive attitude to the season, and anyone who wishes to take issue with him is bigoted, insensitive and possibly not suited to working for the company.

We put up with it, and get on with the job.

He’s not fooling anyone though.

We know the real reason he wants to avoid the ‘C’ word…

He’s too damn tight to pay us a bonus and give the extra holidays!

CLIFF
Do you remember the children’s book “Are you my mother?”? It’s a delightful book about a little bird that hatches while mother is away finding food. He wanders the land asking everyone he sees the title question. He finds animals and a boat and even a machine that snorts and puts him back in his nest before his mother returns. It’s a very sweet book.

Do not attempt to recreate it by dressing in a giant chicken costume and wandering around the Pinedale Shopping mall asking people “Are you my mother?”

That was absolutely my most embarrassing mug shot ever.
———

If you’re waiting for the universe to give you a sign that it’s finally time to try something new and terrifying, then I have some good news for you.
Here it is. You. Yes, you. You know who you are. It’s time. Today, take the first step, just one step, towards that thing you have wanted to do.
Want to write a novel? Learn Italian? Travel to the old country and find your roots?
Do something today in that direction.
Then, repeat daily.
Don’t worry. I’ll be doing it too.
The future is waiting for us. Let’s not disappoint it.
———

The Emperor Duk Qua Kang is thought to have ruled China in the early fifteenth century. He was followed on the throne by his son, his nephew, and a grandson. This was called the Duk Dynasty. Modern historians are divided about this age in history. Some believe that the Duk clan ruled worthless swamp land or that they were only a legend. However, archeologists have uncovered countless relics of the era including hats, shirts, toy ducks and one much worn ceremonial tea goblet. In the end, their rule ended because people were just sick to death of hearing about them.

DANNY
The rich, the poor, the strange, the stranger. Christmas was a bottom of the barrel hooker on the lower east side beyond the lower east side of Manhattan, just south of the south street seaport. in the middle of the Hudson river, which is where her pimp wished she was buried at. Worst hooker in Manhatten, according to the underground newspaper located under Rockefeller Center. One day, some big shot pulled up to her street pimp and asked, “I’m lookin’ for the hottest hooka’ in NYC, whatcha got?” The pimp responded, “I got what your looking for, Anything But Christmas.”

LIZZIE
The state of affairs called for immediate action. A man in a black suit stood outside Ronnie’s door. The festivities had been canceled, all of them. “No, please… You can cancel anything but Christmas. The children will be devastated. We’re so close,” pleaded the most famous Santa in the whole world. But the authorities were ruthless. Believing in non-existent entities like Santa was destroying future generations. It was destroying the potential for obedience. “We don’t want imaginative minds, we want them blind.” Ronnie disappeared a few days later and on TV, they announced that Santa had died. Christmas was gone.

JUSTIN

The writer, lets name him “Tace Spurtle, sent 100 word stories to a podcast that was all about 100 word stories. Back in those days, everyone (well, like 0.001% of the audience) voted on which stories they thought were the best, and whoever’s story won, a topic they choose would be the topic for the next weekly challenge.

Sometimes Tace Spurtle would vote using different browsers and vote at work to manipulate the polls. But not to win! When the results were particularly close, he would cause the votes to align causing many ties and multiple topics. Hilarity ensued!

*hides*

Figured I should admit to it someday.

NORVAL JOE

Monkey Boy sat on a branch, picking at the head of an adolescent female and watched Esmeralda Flinch and the Burgerslovegan hit man leave.
“Hoo, hoo, hoo?” The female asked sadly as the super hero dropped to the floor of the enclosure, pulled on a zoo keeper’s uniform and morphed back to his normal size.
“I’ll miss you, too,” he said to the monkey, locked the cage, and grabbed his phone. He punched the number for headquarters.
“What’s up doc?” A voice asked.
“Anything but Christmas.”
“What’s your report?”
“Fly Paper Boy is a known commodity. Tell him to abort.”

MUNSI

Eggnog!

By Christopher Munroe

Eggnog season’s upon us, and as such the time has come to drink.

Not in a “degenerate alcoholic” way, though the argument could absolutely be made that I’m that, but rather more festively. In spirit with the season.

I like my ‘nog with Kahlua, though a good spiced rum can also be delicious. But really, what you drink with your eggnog doesn’t matter.

What matters is that you do drink eggnog, and who you drink it with.

Because really, isn’t that the true meaning of the holiday?

I can drink to anything, but Christmas especially is a time for celebration…

PLANET Z

The North Pole isn’t what it used to be.

Santas are on every street corner and mall. And toys are made in China.

So the elves took classes in biochemistry, and they turned the workshop into a weapons lab.

Santa still wears a red and white suit. A red and white environment suit, with a breathing mask over his beard.

“Just sprinkle the white powder around, says his Head of R&D. “Especially on keyboards and machine controls.”

The Chinese factories are deathtraps now. Can’t keep up with demand.

Too bad Santa tracked the plague back home.

The snow fell quietly.

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 SPY.

We’ve got stories by:

• Mick Bordet
• Lizzie
• Maggy
• Jeffrey
• John
• Munsi
• Julie
• Richard
• Tom
• Singh
• Serendipity
• Tura Brezoianu
• Zackmann
• Spate
• Norval Joe
• Justin
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Danny
• Planet Z

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of ANYTHING BUT CHRISTMAS.

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.

MICK

Quick Change by Mick Bordet (http://mickbordet.com)

“His face has changed, sir. I swear he was the double of the Maj Tupan Prackatt. Surely he must be the spy.”

“Good work, Kail,” said the sergeant. “Go prepare a cell, while I begin the interrogation.”

The deputy left without a word, eager to please. The door had no sooner closed behind him than the prisoner leapt up, slamming into the sergeant and wrestling him to the ground. He relaxed a muscle and the tiny dagger dropped from his armpit into his hand.

Within thirty seconds, the man wearing the sergeant’s face walked out of the prison to freedom.

LIZZIE

“Sometimes things happen that we hope never did. Sometimes we bury our heads in the sand and pretend they didn’t happen. Sometimes others pass judgment on us without knowing the whole story, without even making an effort to. They think they are better than us, purer. However, in the bitter end, they are just as pathetic as anyone else, although in their self-righteousness they are incapable of seeing that,” said the private detective, who spent his life being a spy of other people’s pitiful lives. “There’s nothing worse than a lie. It digs a gap that will never stop bleeding.”

MAGGY

Mary was very cautious as she measured out the medication for Szy. “I hope this is okay,”
she whispered to herself, “wouldn’t put anything past her.” At that moment Mary heard
footsteps. Matron Grimes stood at the door. Mary hid at the cupboard side. Mary watched
as the matron measured out the dosage. Szy waved his hand and shook his head. The matron
put the spoon to his lips. The medicine spilled over the bed. Mary laughed. “Serves you right!”
she said. “You told me to give him that! you didn’t trust me, so you had to spy on me!”

JEFFREY

The Spying Game
by Jeffrey Fischer

As the 21st century rolled on, governments became increasingly adept at monitoring other governments, along with their own citizens. Electronic communications were only the start: eventually, monitoring of thoughts became not only possible but cheap. International summits were pointless, as everyone knew the positions the other countries would take. Most crimes were stopped ahead of time, when equipment detected thoughts of criminal behavior. Those criminals who did manage to commit a crime didn’t bother to hire lawyers any longer, as their own thoughts betrayed them.

Throughout the world, everyone considered this a golden age. Or so they thought, if they knew what was good for them.

I Spy
by Jeffrey Fischer

As children, twins Mack and Mark would pass the time on long car trips playing I Spy. “I spy with my little eye… something blue,” Mack would say, gazing upward. “It’s the sky!” Mark would reply, followed by, “I spy with my little eye… something tan.” Mack would respond with, “The car’s seats!” No one accused the twins of being geniuses.

As adults, both were captured on an espionage mission to North Korea and placed in a sensory deprivation cell. No windows, no furnishings, just walls, a barred door, and a hole in the floor as a toilet.

“I spy with my little eye… something gray,” said Mack.

“Shut it,” said Mark. “It’s the wall, just like the last hundred times.”

Harriet the Spy
by Jeffrey Fischer

Many people know of Harriet the Spy from the charming children’s book by Louise Fitzhugh, or the movie starring Michelle Trachtenberg. Harriet loses her notebook full of snarky observations about her friends, and her friends retaliate by making her life miserable. She apologizes and all is forgiven.

Cute story, right? Few people know that Harriet was based on a real child, and that the true story was much darker. When her friends found the diary, they ganged up, smothered her, and left her in a shallow grave. Sadly, Fitzhugh’s publisher insisted on a cheerier ending.

JOHN MUSICO

Haven from the Heathens
by John Musico

The toddler’s parents kept him in a wooden box. They didn’t want him to see the un-Christian world he had been born into.
Secretly, the toddler picked a hole into the floor of the box. When it was quiet outside, he’d rock back and forth till it tumbled on its side.
His only view of the world outside was through the hole he could spy through examining the world outside.
Consequently, the toddler’s images in his mind were always encircled in a round ratty wooden frame …until that final day when he saw a policeman in a large square frame.

MUNSI

Why I Need Billions of Dollars Worth of Military Funding

By Christopher Munroe

Here’s the plan…

Step One: Develop microscopic robots small enough to exist undetectably within the human body.

Step Two: Equip and program said robots with the capability to record and broadcast directly from their host’s memory, that said recordings can be later retrieved for use.

Step Three: Inject the robots into the bone marrow of our agents. Ideally, right where the skeletal structure connects to the brainstem. This way, the nanobots will be near enough the brain to see the world as our agent does, in real time.

This, in short, is the principal behind my new “Spy-nal fluid” project…

JULIE

I spied on my parents,

And they spied on me—

Listened to my calls,

Read my pink floral diary.

I spy on the rich,

find out their dirty secrets–

Spy on the famous,

Find out their trash

Oh prurient, self-serving stalker me.

Putting food on the table for my family.

I spy with my little eye,

Some rumbles in my life–

That may come out

In the wash.

My house is dark and cold,

Clean, but needs repair

things leak, things fall apart—

I tiptoe round my wrecked heart.

I am the Shoemaker’s daughter:

Everyone’s souls fixed, but my own.

RICHARD

#1 – Watched? (38)

Since returning to dry land, George and Emily had made a determined effort to leave the confines of the city – not an easy task, since they had no idea in which direction to head and their journey was broken by the frequent need to hide from supposed threats.

It was on one of these occasions that George confided in Emily: “I can’t help feeling that we’re being watched’.

“We’re always being watched,” she replied, “security cameras, CCTV – they’re everywhere, spying on us…”

“It’s not that”, said George, “I’m convinced there’s been somebody following us, ever since we left the river…”

#2 – Twitching Curtains

The old woman across the street is always watching the neighbours – there’s nothing that goes on she doesn’t know about.

We gave her the benefit of the doubt: ‘She’s lonely’, we’d say, or ‘it’s good that someone’s keeping an eye on what’s going on’.

When the mail and newspapers started piling up outside her door, we feared the worst – sure enough, when we broke in, we found her slumped, dead in her chair.

We also found the camera feeds, activity logs and satellite uplink… turns out she was a government spy.

Doesn’t that make you wonder who’s watching your neighbourhood?

TOM

I SPY

It was a time of spies. Even Bill Cosby into the act. From the big screen
to the little screen the secrets agent screamed modernity. Tales of the
old west had given way to globetrotting assassins for crown and country. A
generation before was bound by ethics and law led directly to a generation
of a new type of hero far removed from even the anti-heroes of that same
decade. Spy movies of the sixties were less about intelligence gathering
and more about body count. Coupled with wave upon wave of sexual conquest
you get the prefect post modern hero.

SPY VS SPY

“I want to be a spy.” yelled Bennie. “NO I want to be a spy.” screamed
Terry. Mother wise in all matter of Halloween jurisprudence said, “Ben you
get to be the White Spy and Terence you get to be the Black Spy.” When
Mother was finish with their respective costumes they looked just like
the Mad Magazine comic strip. Through the night they came up with
increasingly convoluted schemes for robbing each other of their candy.
Always executed in complete silence, till Bennie detonated Terry’s Atomic
Pumpkin. The neighborhood outside the blast radius was designated a No
Trick-or-Treat zone.

SPY GUY

My first year in college I met my first CIA operative. The most unassuming
person you’d ever met. Double major math and science. He was all of 21
years old. Hired in the wake of the Weather Men, his sole job was to
watch the student body, noting any comments that did not ring out Mom ,
Apple Pie, and the Girl Next Door. I pointed out it wasn’t very spy like
to be telling me about it all. He laughed. “Unless I’m recruiting.” Too
bad I flunked out of freshman year, I would have been fun being a spy.

A Well Defined Relationship Part 27

When your traveling on an air ship you got a lot of time to reflect.
Without much effort Doc Proctor drifted back to his days with the
guerrillas on Seti Alpha 4. He had not set out to become a spy, but
medical personal often are over looked by the lookers. His actions hadn’t
helped the guerrillas, they were pretty much doomed from the start. But
the villagers in the high desert, he’d done right by them. The glow below
belonged to many of the people he had saved. He would continue keeping
them safe, but it had a cost.

SINGH

22.1

Slowly, the sun pulled down its orange blind

as his slapping sandals hit the road of dust.

The waves had comforted a churning mind

to a small degree. He was resolved to trust

the Krishna in the cards. The god of blue

had come down from the cobalt sky

to instruct the Arjun in him what to do.

Back in their hut he stood a moment — a spy

in the darkness, seeing Margot there inside,

quiet as Buddha, eyes closed, upon the bed.

How could he think so badly of his bride

who had sacrificed her daughters in his stead?

22.2

School brooms

squat-swirling

the dust devils

of swept scraps

and fallen hearts

of pipal leaves

crept across

the compound

a phalanx

imposed by

Mr Kumara’s

stick whacking

little Atul

self-appointed

sentry spy

aching Sufi

waiting for

his Beloved

pointing shouting

into the distance

Decko! Look!

As children trailed

pied piper Madam,

sweet snakehead

of a column

winding through

sunburnt earth

along the ridges

where now

capsicum kingdoms

eggplant outlands

yellow mustard seas

were ploughed clods

in sandy summer

waiting for rain.

Yogi with guitar

in a vinyl case

worn on his back

a doppelgänger

made up the rear.

22.3

He did not think a no-talk night

would walk into a no-talk day

all the way from yesterday’s fight.

Given no time or place to play

the unzipped shadow, his guitar

stood to attention through the day

in Madam’s office. Like a rock star

off the charts, at a loose end,

she made him feel unpopular.

He stalked about trying to blend,

hanging about at the back of the class,

an egret unable to pull and bend

a worm from tree roots or kicked grass.

He longed to find afternoon’s end,

knowing that they had reached an impasse.

22.4

“Madam, Yogi here. Now singing time?”

Today was sweaty from the beating sun,

lunch tiffins had been scrubbed with sand.

Restless children fidgeted in rows,

eyes and smiles hoping to close textbooks.

Yogi looked expectantly for a Yes.

“Yogi cannot,” She met his eyes. “Too busy.”

“But Madam ji. Today guitar he brought.”

“Big people in the town want him later.

That’s right? Anytime you’ll play, huh?”

“I never said I’ll leave the school,” he countered,

Smarting at her slap. “I like all this.

I can play right now. School is over.”

“No need now. The children will be leaving.”

22.5

His outcast senses became acute to noises

like the flitter flop of bulbuls up above,

the flash of crest, red vents, white cheeks and eye,

wingbeats shifting branch to wavering branch,

then clamp of claw, the authority of grasp

breaking through camouflage of leaves

on this avian plane above the human one.

They sucked up nectar, insects, flower petals

to feed their hatchlings crying in the nest,

while looking down on heads of chanting kids

with number mania. Wasn’t he like them,

a whistler with a high perch on the tree?

Why should he cease to be a singing bird?

22.6

He held his anger all the way home to the hut.

“What was all that, making me look so stupid?”

“And yesterday at Barhai’s?” She volleyed back another.

“She made me feel like a child abandoner.

Yogi was shocked. “How can you say such a thing?

“And I don’t like Barhai. He is sly and a cheater.”

You hardly know him.” She paused before her answer.

“Go on then, you’ll see,” and turned away to the wall.

“Look, you can’t just push me out like a lodger.”

But she favoured the wall to his face. Right now it was over.

22.7

he dreamed a bow aiming the arrow
he is arjuna all night in the jungle
target practice in the blindfold dark

then guru drona walks into his head

to wake him brothers cousins

still dreaming it is morning

“so glad you could get up

from your fat feast last night

the river says splash your face

time for archery practise

“can you focus?

pull back take aim

not here up there

what do you see duryodhana

yudhisthira the wise

bhima the strong

nakula the loving

sahadeva the pure?

what do you see my own aswattama

yawning brat of a son?”

22.8

they see the tree

they see the bird

they see the bow

they see the arrow

they see their hands

and their guru

“wrong wrong wrong wrong

aswattama you too so wrong

“tell me arjuna

what do you see

best of the five pandavas

“i

spy

a

bird”

“describe”

“i

spy

a

bird”

“exactly”

“can’t”

“why?”

“i

spy

just

the

eye

the

eye”

“put down your bow arjuna

come here i bless you

but pledge

if we meet in war

arjuna pledge

you’ll fight with me to win”

“i will”

the dream instant-replays

until the lotus-pink of dawn

SERENDIPITY

Long car journeys were always the worst, not so much because of the journeys themselves, but mainly because my stepmother insisted on playing stupid games to keep us ‘amused’.

After hours spent ‘spotting yellow cars’, we’d be forced into playing ‘I spy’.

I remember that last game with a certain pleasure…

“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with ‘R'”, she intoned.

The answer was obviously, ‘road’, and that’s where her eyes should have been, rather than watching us.

Which is why she didn’t spy the tree branch, heading straight towards the windscreen. We did… and ducked: she didn’t!

TURA

Spy
——–
The Ministry of Intelligence contacted me, while preparing for the trade delegation. “Just keep your eyes and ears open,” said the anonymous-looking man, “and we’ll talk when you get back.”

I was arrested the moment I got off the plane. “We’ll tell you what to tell them,” they said. “Or we can just shoot you as a spy.”

When I got back, my handler greeted me by saying, “Recruited you, did they? Good! Now here’s what we want you to tell them…”

“You don’t need a spy,” I told them, “you need to get on the phone to each other.”

ZACKMANN

“Doctor, I feel like everyone is watching me. Grandma told me to be good; Santa is watching. The DJ on the all request station said “We’re always listening to you.” Now I have been told Tom is Shadowing me. I think the government and corporations are watching my web searches.”

“Don’t vorry, hypnosis might help you. Vatch my lovely pocket vatch sving on its chain. Corporations are not spying on you. The NSA does cares not about your “Thia Cathouse” web search. When you come out of your trance, You will have no memory of doing a market research surveys.”

SPATE

013

I’ve been watching you. Tracking your movements. Listening to your phone calls. Analyzing your forays onto the internet.

No probable cause. No warrant. No judicial oversight. I act alone.

You complain? You have no one to blame but yourself. You stuck your head in the snow then refused to believe. Now you are stuck with your own reality.

There are no secrets. I know everything that you have done.

You’ve been bad and now your night of reckoning has come.

Yes, your foremost fear is here… nothing but a lump of coal for your stocking this year.

Ho. Ho. Ho.

NORVAL JOE

“Here you go, young man.” An ancient volunteer offered a map of the Los Angeles Zoo.
Yergie Sprockdockovich of the Bergerslovegan mafia took it and wandered the walkways between animal exhibits in search of his contact from the Women’s Trade Federation. She would be wearing bright red lipstick, a silk scarf and a baseball hat.
Esmeralda Flinch waited in the primate exhibit.
“Do you speak French?” He asked.
“Only Japanese,” she said.
“It’s not my day,” he added.
Esmeralda gave Yergie a photo of Fly Paper Boy and said, “Please. Kill him.”
Unfortunately for them, the monkey was a spy.

JUSTIN

When I got this job as a security guard, I really never expected to have some guy drop from a rafter and knock me senseless.

I was minding my own business, well, I guess the business of where I worked, doing patrols, and then wham! I’m out cold. Some spy was in the place and in an effort to not get caught, he incapacitated every single guard in the place!

I blame the company I worked for. Turns out that they are doing some shady things and this spy was here to investigate.

Sure am glad I’m still breathing, though.

CLIFF

People always think that being a spy is an exciting and glamorous job. That is not how it works. I go to boring meetings with boring people and file reports that never get read. I eat a sandwich at lunch and drink more bad coffee than I care to remember. The only covert op that I’ve been involved in this year was Marjorie’s surprise birthday party and I really think she suspected. Basically, I think an insurance salesman has a more exciting job. You might ask why I stay? Well, the money’s good and I occasionally get to kill someone.

DANNY

Conversations of intelligence result in nothing but the pile of crap we accept as the Spy game. I was sitting in a movie theater, when an Iranian spy whispered in my ear. Unfortunately, this was an IMAX film we were watching, and I couldn’t hear her over the intermittent loud guns and music, followed by the incoherent mumbling of the dialog by the actors in the film. Sure, this is much like my real life, incoherent mumbling followed by loud blasts of intermittent music and gunfire, without a female Dick Cheney still attempting to whisper in my ear, of course.

PLANET Z

You would think that a talking rasp would have a raspy voice, but the director of The Magical Toolbox hired a well-known sexpot bubble-blond actress to voice the rasp.

The hammer was going to be voiced by an actor who’s a well-known drunk, but the network didn’t think that it was a good idea to have a drunk character on a kid’s cartoon.

“Maybe he has permanent brain damage?” said the director. “He’s always getting his head beaten against things.”

They went with a famous Mexican-American voice actor who did a lot of drug movies.

He screamed “STOOOOOOP!” a lot.

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 FAMILY.

We’ve got stories by:

• Mick Bordet
• Singh
• Munsi
• Maggy
• Jeffrey
• John
• Julie
• Tura Brezoianu
• Richard
• Tom
• Serendipity
• Zackmann
• Dr. Fran
• Spate
• Lizzie
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Norval Joe
• Planet Z

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

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.

MUNSI

“It’s all my fault,” said Tania. “If I hadn’t introduced her to our world, she would never be in this danger now.”

“At least you didn’t accidentally kill a few hundred people, decimating the lives of their families and friends and throwing a city into blind panic,” Razer replied.

“Or lead thousands into a massacre that would forever change the way of life for a whole country,” Bonnie Prince Charlie added.

“Thanks for the lesson in humility, gentlemen. Really. Perfect timing.”

“You are most welcome,” said Charles, smiling.

“I think that might have been sarcasm,” Razer whispered in his ear.

SINGH

Chapt 21.8

He was shocked. Embarrassment sat up.

Heads turned to see the face of sharp demand.

Yogi had never heard this tone from Margot.

Fewer words had been her works and days —

taking on a young man with no prospects

or place, then worn such blame as came

from mother, siblings, in-laws and Pierre,

while paltry adulation made him snub

his angel, and instead chose to grandstand

alpha anger in front of followers.
Why was she doing this? Attention getting?
Looking good demanded he do something.

His feet unhooked themselves and landed hard

with disapproval on the sheetclad floor.

21.9

“I am really sorry, Barhai. I have to go.
We will meet again.” he said. “And I will sing

any time you want,” eyeballing Margot.

Barhai joined his prayer hands, turning to her.
“Madam, we are sorry for giving you problem.
Perhaps my wife said something to disrespect?
I will be very firm. You please forgive us.”

“It isn’t her fault Barhai,” Madam said.
Today was unplanned. I just have school tomorrow.”

“Of course. We are too much selfish,” said the host.

“Chauhaan, you must be driving them back at once.
“No need,” she said with curtness. “We’ll go by bus.”

21.10

Smoking dhoop and bananas

hit nostrils, passing a fruit cart.

She stopped to cross where the bus

would pull up belching diesel.

But he restrained her elbow. “Careful.
The traffic. The place is crazy.”

She shrugged him off, jackrabbiting

in a zig zag, dodging an auto rickshaw.

The mechanical parrot, screeched off

as if to tell a tale. He galloped after.

“Wait up. What’s your problem?”

The appointed bus was coming

like a prophet with believers.
Some debouched and stumbled.

She climbed. He followed.
He spoke up. She ignored.
Then silence defined their faith

all the way back to the village.

21.11

When they had reached, a bony cow was feeding

on Margot’s marigolds that she and schoolkids

had set in a row before her hut. She hunted

it with a culm of cane. Now Yogi joined,

but still Margot was mad, whacking a rump

back down the road, until a farmer yelled

to leave his property. She tried to tell

him off in broken Hindi, gesticulating

with hot and bothered tone making no impact,

pointing to the chewing flower thief

with guilty orange tongue. Still the farmer

would not kowtow to women — an ironic

mark of acceptance. Yes, she was becoming local.

21.12

Frustrated, Yogi dumped his guitar inside

and headed for the river, his quiet spot

passed the potter turning mud to cups,

and a man, pulling donkey overloaded

with bright fabrics. Yogi left at the fork

and walked to find his cool embankment where

the water lapped. On reaching, he disrobed

to cotton drawers and waded, letting water

cool his frazzled nerves and then got out

to sun bake on the bank. He was disturbed.

Barhai had shown respect that Margot slighted

and he had thrown his weight, but now felt bad.

It was their first fight at the peak of summer.

21.13

He thought she would be glad with his guitar

and how they sang together, him the leader.

If she had come to teach, what could he do?

Was he just some drone bee here to service

marigold Madam? He saw no way ahead

and reached into his cotton shoulder bag

for the Bhagavad Gita cards, then shuffled and drew:

My devotees live in me, all surrendered to me,

satisfied and joyful telling the world about me.

It made him think of Krishna and the gopis,
those milkmaids — each a petal of His flower.

It was clearly confirmation! Or so he thought.

MUNSI

The Blame Game

By Christopher Munroe

Admittedly, mistakes were made. And yes, I’m aware that people were hurt.

Some have said it was my negligence that caused the incident, but this is neither the time nor the place to play the blame game.

Or is it?

You know, now that I think about it, after the things I’ve done maybe a bit of mudslinging would be the perfect distraction from the actual problems at hand…

Okay, the blame game it shall be!

Your fault, your fault, bo-bour fault, bananna-fanna-fo four fault.

Me-mi-mo mour fault.

Your fault!

Wait, that’s the name game.

Which one’s the blame game?

MAGGY

and then the noise stopped, after fifteen hours. The silence

was overwhelming, deafening, smothering. It felt eerie, cold.

was there someone there?

Kelly kept walking, looking straight ahead. She noticed the

shadow of the trees, nearly meeting in the centre of the

path. Suddenly, the stopped. She was too afraid to move

her head. The tree shadows vanished. Just a pale track.

Then a fleeting movement, from one side to the other.

What was it? Kelly quickened her step. Faster, faster.

Her eyelids flickered

“Kell? Kelly?”

She opened her eyes. The noise, faint heaving, over

and over. The engine room by the deli…churning,

churning.

——

Trainee nurse, Mary Moore, blamed everybody. It was never her fault.

The fiddle was on the top of the cupboard. One could

hardly see it, let alone reach it.

“Put this somewhere ,” Mary was told.

Helping the patient into bed was hard enough and the

shelf was the obvious place.

“Take a warm drink to Thomas, Mary, not too full, he is

a bit shaky.”

The bed was wet, the cup was on the floor. Everything

had to be changed. She didn’t know Thomas was that

shaky. Well it was tall cup. Besides he took it

before she was ready.

JEFFREY

The Blame Game
by Jeffrey Fischer

The Federal government closed for over two weeks when Congress could not agree on short-term funding. The sticking point was House Republicans’ insistence on a one-year delay in the individual mandate provision of Obamacare. Thus, the press referred to this as a “Republican” shutdown.

During the shutdown, the deficiencies in Healthcare.gov became obvious to everyone, including the press, which mysteriously lacked curiosity about the details of Obamacare for nearly four years. Some Democrats called for a delay in the individual mandate, and the President unilaterally allowed insurance companies to provide non-compliant plans for another year.

The net result is that the government closed for two weeks in order to allow Democrats to agree with Republicans a month later. Well done!

Furiously Fast
by Jeffrey Fischer

Paul leaned on his walker. “I’m not trying to blame the kid who served the coffee,” he said to the lawyer.

“That’s good,” the lawyer replied, “because the kid has no money.”

Paul continued, “But it seems to me it’s irresponsible for a company to serve hot coffee when it knows the top can come off when I’m driving, causing me to wreck my car. I’m owed compensation!”

“Of course you are, sir. And I’m owed a third of that. As I said before, though, you were clocked at 96 when your car went off the road. Crazy as it seems, a jury might think that played a role in the accident.”

“Well, sure. That’s when the coffee lid popped open, just as the car crashed the guard rail and flipped over.”

TURA

A man went to steal from a warehouse. He climbed up and pried open a loose skylight, but fell in and broke his leg. He blamed the warehouse owner for negligence and demanded compensation for loss of earnings as a thief.

The warehouse owner blamed the manufacturer of the skylight, who blamed the workman who had fitted it. The workman blamed a woman passing by whose beauty had distracted him from his work. The woman blamed the sexist culture of capitalism.

So the thief received a pension from the state, and if he’s not dead, he’s living on it still.

JOHN MUSICO

ÒI Always Love Myself Again by DawnÓ
by John Musico, M.D.

I must always forgive myself. If I canÕt; then I rationalize till I fool myself into forgiveness.
When that doesnÕt work; I blame others, even if falsely.
The computer in Ò2001 Space OdysseyÒ named Hal was like me. Self harm can never be in the equation.
Everybody else does the same thing. So, think of it: ÒWhile youÕre busy becoming innocent,
others are painting you at blame to achieve their same aim of innocence.Ó
I wake up in the morning, once again cleansed of my sins, again pure.
I pass by others on the street bearing the same smug look.

RICHARD

#1 – Blame

The view from the river was unsettling – the glow of fire and smoke columns hung over the city; the river was clogged with rubbish being washed downstream.

“Are we somehow to blame for all this?”, asked Emily.

It was a question that George kept coming back to frequently… Had humanity reached some sort of tipping point? Was all this devastation the result of some terrible breakdown of society?

Who knew?

He only hoped that someone out there had the answers and was doing something to fix things.

With a crunch, the boat drifted into the bank – time to move on.

#2 – Who’s to blame

Back in the war, it was gremlins who grounded the planes and shorted the electrics, then thanks to propaganda, everything became the fault of the Germans.

We blamed the Russians during the Cold War; then it was the government’s fault, or the youth of today. We even blamed the economy, as if it was nothing to do with us.

There’s always someone else to blame, but I can’t help wondering if we’re the ones who are really at fault.

It was a wise person who told me: ‘when you point a finger, there’s always three pointing right back at you’!

#3 – School of hard knocks

It was always me who got the blame in school – mainly because I was a bit of a nerd: an ideal target for bullies and pranksters.

I can’t say I enjoyed school as a result, but I was determined to do well and whilst those around me fooled about, I studied.

Now, thanks to my hard work, I’m incredibly successful and filthy rich, but I still eat at fast food joints. It gives me a chance to gloat over my ex-schoolmates, flipping burgers for the minimum wage.

Well, they had their chance back in school… they’ve only themselves to blame.

JULIE

Who is to blame for the Typhoon that hit the Philippines? Fundamentalists would say it is an act of God. Nihilists would say it was inevitable. Existentialists would gaze at their navels and cast blame at the fundamentalists and nihilists.

Who is to blame when a B-Movie actor hits a phone pole and dies in a fireball and becomes a social media phenom? Well, he was to start. He was driving too fucking fast. I reach in my handbag and hand you my Cover Girl compact. Turn the mirror out, and then turn it back at yourself, if it applies.

—-

Don’t blame me–

You could have planted a house,

Or built a tree

Don’t blame me–

Just put me in my space.

Vandalism—

It’s as beautiful

as a dirty rock

In a cop’s face.

I don’t care–

I’m afraid.

Polly wants her cracker

Polly’s off her rocker.

Damn your cock–

In my face, keeping me

In my place.

I don’t mind.

Get away, get away–

Come back, come back.

I will always take the blame,

I will always keep the peace.

I will always be the same–

Very girl, the one who would chew

Off her right arm.

Before leaving.

TOM

Taking Stock
Rudy wanted to blame his current financial problems on the down turn in
the economy. Frank pointed out 1000 shares in Amalgamated Buggies Whips
was not exactly the foundation for building a retirement portfolio. “It
did well for grandfather,” return Rudy “Your grandfather has been die for
a 100 years. And this General Dynamic Sealing Wax. Wait Patterson
Celluloid Clothing Corporation.”A style long due for a comeback.” “Yea
right up there with whale bone corsets” Rudy waved a stock certificate
with an engraving of two women who for all appearances had to be missing
lower ribs. Frank shook his head.

Blame
Bennie said,”I guess there’s plenty of blame to go around.” Everyone
agreed and took a extra helping when the platter made its way around the
room. Timmy from accounting said this years blame was much superior to
last years blame. Jack form sales thought an increase in the amount of
blasting gave the blame a melt in your mouth consistency. Laura from
shipping asked “Is there any self loathing left?” Bill shook his head.
“Sorry Fred from Marketing got the last bowl, we do have some
megalomaniacal misogyny left” Mary ask for a doggie bag of blame to take
home

Bad Movies
Never has so much talent, resources, and money been wasted on a movie.
Some say Heaven’s Gate or Waterworld are the high water marks of motion
picture disasters. If you are old enough to remember Elizabeth Taylor and
Richard Burton in Cleopatra it is arguable the dog of its generation. My
top contender for truly bad film making is Blame It on the Bellboy Staring
Dudley Moore Bryan Brown Richard Griffiths Andreas Katsulas. This turkey
is just 78 minutes of french farces. It’s the only movie I ever actually
ask for my money back. Oddly the manager agreed with me.

A Well Defined Relationship Part 26
“I wouldn’t blame you if you reconsidered your offer of employment Doctor
Proctor,” said the widow. “No Mrs Parsons I believe you and your entourage
are forgive the context just what the doctor ordered. The work at hand is
going to need a fair amount of expertise. You have actually save me a lot
of time and money, oh please put that down in the ledger under the heading
Sweet Water Project.” The Doc looked at Timmy for the longest time and
wondered if the web of connection he had set in motion was strong enough
to hold them together.

SERENDIPITY

Don’t blame me – I’m not the guilty one.

You can’t blame me for you happening to be in the wrong place at the wrong time: it wasn’t my choice, it was yours.

And you really shouldn’t blame me for the medic’s slow response and the drugs that didn’t work to bring you back.

It wasn’t me who silenced you with the fatal cut; it wasn’t me that caused your life-blood to drain from you body.

You can’t blame me for the fatal wound – blame the knife that pierced your flesh.

If anything, I’m completely innocent – totally blameless, in fact.

ZACKMANN

Why Zack Bought his First Cellphone.

Zack opens the door to a ringing telephone.

“Where are you?” says a panicked voice “Why are you not here?”

He replies “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Your irresponsibility, not meeting me on your way home in my work parking lot to pick your children since I work early today.” she scolds

“What?”

“You know like I told you last night?”

“I am so sorry dearest, the only way I could be more sorry is if you had remembered to tell me about this yesterday.”

She concedes “You’re right but come now and tomorrow you’re buy a cellphone.”

DR FRAN

They told me: “When you are pointing a finger at someone, there are three fingers pointing back at you.” So, I exercised my right hand rigorously for about a year until I could point my index finger at YOU, and my other fingers went in different directions, but NEVER back at me. Now I am sure that you know whose fault it is, and that you will be mighty sorry you did that to me. And, I’m sure you will change. And treat me better, and maybe even love me again.

The splint will come off in about six months.

SPATE

Our Last Argument

Cutting words have dissolved into silence punctuated by labored breaths, both of us growing weaker.

Our broken bodies trapped in an overturned car at the bottom of this forsaken embankment, waiting for someone, anyone, to intercede.

No one has come.

Her eyes still accuse:

“I trusted you… how could you let this happen? You brought us to this twisted mess and now you expect me to drink piss to survive a little longer?”

I roll my eyes fighting against all blame.

“What the hell can I do? This is not my fault. It’s an accident.”

Shouldn’t have listened.

Fucking GPS.

LIZZIE

“Blame it on the water,” said the dying man from his hospital bed, all alone. Everyone else had died, even the nurses and the doctors. The communication channel wasn’t working properly, because there was no one to adjust it. “Can you hear us?” asked Control back on Earth. The man couldn’t, but he kept on talking until the very end. The water had been contaminated during the unscheduled visit of an alien peace envoy. They’d have their peace… A human peace envoy would take them the most precious treasure, water. Even aliens needed water. And they drank it, the fools.

CLIFF

I don’t have a story for you and I’ll tell you why. It’s Santa’s fault. Not the real Santa. I hear that guy’s awesome. No, I’m talking about the guy on the corner by the drug store. There he stood, ringing a bell and begging for spare change for charity. Charity must have been his old ladies name, because I watched him pocket the bills from the kettle. I called the Salvation Army but they had no record of anyone working that corner, so I confronted the guy. I wouldn’t have suspected it, but Santa packs a mean right hook.

***

Dear Susan,
I know you blame me for our relationship ending as it did, but I really feel you are being unfair. After all, when I proposed, you are the one who said I needed to take more responsibility and advance in my career. Although we never spoke directly about it, I cannot help but feel that you knew I was involved in organized crime. Advancing in the organization means getting your hands dirty. When management gives an order, it’s my job to follow it. It’s hardly my fault that the witness turned out to be your mother.
Love,
Harry

NORVAL JOE

The president of the United States leaned back in his chair, removed his glasses and tapped the ear piece against his front teeth.
Makaihl Kurdlepot of the Conpistacian Republic sat up straight and glared at the American. One by one he popped the knuckles of his right hand.
Cora Huda of the Caribbean island, Panales Mojados, threw up her hands.
“Gentlemen. We cannot point the finger of blame at any one country. The population of the earth is safely away and it is only we three left behind. But how can we finish this joke in only one hundred words?”

PLANET Z

In the cartoons and comics and movies, Superman can beat anybody.
He’s fast, strong, and has heat vision.
But there’s one enemy he could never beat.
His name was Blame.
He could do anything, and then point his finger at someone else.
And they’d take the blame for it in a way that would stick.
For years, Superman tried to catch him, but he ended up catching everybody else.
Until one day, Blame’s finger pointed at him.
Superman was led away in kryptonite handcuffs, powerless.
Blame got cocky, and went up against Batman.
Who just punched him in the face.

WARNING: Fans of the “2 Fast 2 Furious” series of movies, Paul Walker, and Hollywood prettyboys who think it’s cool to drive like a maniac without any regard to traffic laws or the kids/girlfriends they’ll leave behind when they die in a flaming wreck will probably want to skip this one.

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 FAMILY.

We’ve got stories by:

• Mick Bordet
• Serendipity
• Jeffrey
• Munsi
• Tom
• John
• Tura Brezoianu
• Richard
• Singh
• Julie
• Zackmann
• Lizzie
• Spate
• RedGoddess
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Explorer
• Norval Joe
• Justin
• Danny
• Planet Z

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

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.

MICK

Del knew her grandmother did not have long, days at best, and then she would be alone in the world. Yet she had never felt such a part of a family as she did at that moment.

She lifted the box of instruments, every one linked to a memory from her family’s past, and began walking from room to room, selecting one instrument at a time and placing it on a shelf or bookcase, somewhere visible, so that she would see it every time she walked in.

Soon she would be alone, but her family would always be around her.

SERENDIPITY

Let me introduce you to the family…

This is Alan, my husband, and these are my three lovely kids; Patricia, Amy and Anthony.

Why yes, I know they’re all dead – I slit their throats myself: to be honest, I just couldn’t take all the arguments and bickering one moment longer.

It’s so much more peaceful now.

I keep them all together in the bedroom because it’s easier to manage the smell and the flies, and it does mean that I can give them all a big soppy kiss goodnight, just before I hop into bed.

We’re such a happy family!

JEFFREY

Love the One You’re With
by Jeffrey Fischer

When my friend Alma became interested in her lineage, she consulted a local genealogist, who created a magnificent family tree for her. Hand-drawn on a large sheet of vellum, the tree started with a sturdy trunk in the mid-1800s, branching again and again until the present generation.

I hired the same genealogist to do similar work for my family. I gave him what information I had on my parents and grandparents, and waited for the results.

My piece of vellum was very narrow, and the tree on it was a scraggly thing, as though Charlie Brown had used it one Christmas. “What’s this?” I exclaimed.

“From my research, I’d guess your ancestors didn’t care to date strangers. Your family tree doesn’t branch much.”

Family Ties
by Jeffrey Fischer

They say you can pick your friends but you can’t pick your family. Nonsense, I say. When I was young, my parents were so busy they didn’t pay much attention to the children. My kid brother, Todd, was very annoying, so I left him lost in the deep woods, then brought home Frankie, whom I liked much better. No one noticed.

Later on, I tired of Aunt Mabel’s constant criticisms every time I visited her. Now I refer to her caretaker as “Aunt Mabel,” and everyone’s happier. Well, except the original Mabel, but she’s beyond caring.

Mom and Dad are really starting to get on my nerves. The Bentons, just down the street, seem like they’d be nice parents.

MUNSI

On Dinners Missed

By Christopher Munroe

I usually work family holidays.

I don’t have kids, and my extended family’s back east, so on Christmas Eve, Thanksgiving, Easter or any of the other holidays requiring huge family meals, I’ll take pity on a coworker and cover their shift.

They have children, after all, and deserve to spend Christmas with them.

I don’t begrudge it, though they’re not especially good shifts. Time and a half, though, and it’s not like I have other plans for the evening.

HOWEVER: Come Halloween, St. Patrick’s Day, or any of the other “drunken, rowdy douchebag” holidays, I’ll be expecting the favor returned…

TOM

The Music Story Number 8

I hear the topic bam Sister Sledge starts looping in my head. We are
family I got all my sisters with me We are family Get up ev’rybody and
sing It came from the age of drill down choruses. Get down, get down, get
down, get down, Get down tonight. Or Celebrate good times, come on! Not
like the latter day Power pop band Nine Days’ single breath chorus: This
is the story of a girl Who cried a river and drowned the whole world And
while she looked so sad in photographs I absolutely love her When she
smiles

Marquettes

I come from a exceedingly long line of breeder. My great grandfather had
14 children. My grandfather had 12. I grew up in a household of eight
kids, two parents, still married, and a grandmother, god rest her soul. I
have 27 cousins, I am Uncle Tom to 10 and Great Uncle Tom to two.
Technically I am the Primogeniture, but my wife and I thought it better
not to breed. I come from a very old family we were functionaries in
Romantic Paris, fought at the Battle of Agincourt and were the first
Europeans to navigate down the Mississippi.

We Are Family

It’s always been the case that the emigrant experience leads to the
formation of intentional families. Boomers by their very nature are
emigrants within there own country. With a driving will they will travel a
1000 miles for career and personal opportunity for success. The bonds
made by proximity prove stronger then blood. My intentional family is 35
years old. We come from Kentucky, Oregon, Illinois, Ohio, Wisconsin, San
Francisco, Fresno. We came to the engine of possibly Silicon Valley picked
its bones clean, collectively moved north. The first of us is now in a
nursing home. I visit daily.

A Well Defined Relationship Part 26

The airship glided beneath an unending carpet of green. Millions of acres
of farms nestled in the New Owens Valley. The joke amongst the farmers was
this valley would never lose its water to the city. A bit of black humor
for what keeps the water near their land were guns, very big guns and lots
of them. Each Family farm was edged with a line of trees creating a vastly
expanding checkerboard. Doc Proctor was a family physician, he was their
family physician. Fate had placed him in this country, it seemed fate had
just increased his extended family.

John
“Village of Freaks”
by John Musico

Herbert worked at a fertility clinic where had been secretly replacing donor sperm with his own for many years.
The many freak children in the area kept him on his campaign to improve the gene pool.
It was the only fertility clinic in the whole of Oklahoma.
Young people settled in the area drawn by their birthplace and a social club for the offspring of artificial insemination.
What members didn’t realize is that they were all half siblings.
What Herbert didn’t know was that that club existed nor why he found the twisted faces of the freakish children unsettlingly familiar.

TURA

Ephraim Smethewicke’s will left everything “to his family”. But although Ephraim was well known and loved in the town, a ready companion and support to both high and low, he had never made mention of wife nor children, nor even brothers, or cousins. A productive life and modest living in old age had left a considerable estate, which his executors considered too large to merely drop in the poorbox as an intestacy.

At last, they decided to found a bank, for the assistance of business in that town, devoting the profits to charitable works. And so Ephraim’s will was fulfilled.

RICHARD

#1 – Friends and family

As they drifted downstream, the sounds of conflict gradually faded.

Cold, frightened and wet, George and Emily huddled together for warmth.

“Do you have any family?”, asked Emily.

Did he? George realised he had no memories from before his accident: not only did he not know where, or who, he was, he had no idea where he was from or any memory of friends or family from the time before his ordeal had started.

He shook his head: “I don’t remember… how about you?”

Emily looked at him, wide-eyed: “I don’t remember, either!”

Would anything ever make sense again?

#2 – Hand-me-down

“…But, what exactly is it?”

“Well, we’re not sure, it originally belonged to your great, great grandmother; it’s been handed down through the generations, and now it’s yours.”

I looked dubiously at the odd wooden and string affair that I’d inherited – it certainly wasn’t worth anything, but I was honour-bound to treasure it and pass it on to my own children.

If nothing else, I could try to find out what it was supposed to do, so I took it to the local museum who told me it was a device for weaving hair.

It’s a family hair-loom!

#3 – Nuclear Family

I’m proud to say we are absolutely, the typical nuclear family.

Happily married, both working, two cars parked outside and the children nice and evenly spaced in their age ranges.

We holiday twice a year, go to church every Sunday and host the Neighbourhood Watch committee once a month, (tea and biscuits included).

Mr and Mrs Joe average and our bright-eyed, two point four children, along with Rufus, the family dog.

Of course, we had to saw Jessica’s legs off, midway above the knee, so we could achieve the magic ‘point four’, but it was quite definitely worth it!

SINGH

21.1

After the food, the congregation left.
Yogi, still cross-legged on the couch

tried to rise. “Baitho ji,” said Barhai.
“Stay there, Yogi. Let us serve you sweetmeats.

Chai, mittai,” he barked toward the kitchen.

Margot rose up from the sheeted floor,

piling a ziggurat of dirty dishes.

Margot felt his eyes deflecting hers. Restraint

rattled her middle dish. They crashed.

“Madam please. You are our family guest,”

calling Jyoti, the servant. He knew he’d have to

neutralise the wife before this Yogi was

firm in his grasp. Margot refused the servant,

and toted all stainless steel back to its source.

21.2

Mrs Barhai, a multi-handed goddess,

and shock absorber of her husband’s stress

was the right grind mill for his woody grain.

She could push and press to juice his sugar cane.

Her hands were clubs, her middle bulge — a tub.

If kitchens work like wheels she was the hub

and spin of power. She checked her ample self

by the rich array of eatables on each shelf

and a marble slab where the chai had just been poured.

Then, this chairwoman of the cutting board

said, “Come Beti.” meaning ‘daughter’. Margot bowed

before her senior, then sat, sighing out loud.

21.3

Her morning had backfired
with a car banging doors,

“Mrs Yogi. Mrs Yogi!”

The note, a grabbed guitar,

and ride to Garhmukhteshwar.

She’d heard the knee-cap tale

from host, Brijpal Chauhaan,

while window vistas showed

floating heads with fodder

and dung cake girls returning
from storage cones of thatch

to light up pulmonary fires

with babies strapped to backs,

baking hotplate flat bread

daubed with buffalo butter,

churned thick with stick and cord.
The regular milkmaid work.

Here with Mrs Barhai

in her cuisine demesne,

again Margot was glad

she had escaped most kitchens,

so many slavish lifetimes

lost to the Indian woman.

21.4

“We had heard that you are preaching to the poor,”

said Mrs Barhai, “Living in the village.”

Margot corrected, “Teaching. A year or two.”

“So, they are paying for this, Beti?” Mrs Barhai

couldn’t fathom why this foreign woman

would want to leave her comforts. “Well, not really.

some costs are met. It’s mainly voluntary.”

Mrs Barhai was stuck inside this puzzle.

“So you are having your own home? “Yes, Adelaide.”

Margot was getting tired. “And your children?”

All women came to this. “Yes, with their father.”

“Then Yogiji is not…” A snooping nose,

swooping judgements. “Well, he’s my husband now.”

21.5

Such conversation was the usual style.
She’d been up this dead end many times,

banging her head. Divorce here meant taboo,

although in cities there were modern rifts,

while burning brides were still the ghosts of shame.

Carnivorous of course, an eater of husbands

she was some praying mantis. And knew the nods
and sniffs and lady tutting tongues too well.
Shameful abandonment all just for sex!
She noted Mrs Barhai’s rolling eyes,

the conversation shifting to her son

at college nearby in Meerut. Draughtsmanship.

“Soon, we will be looking for a girl.”

Margot was nodding, while wondering how to exit.

21.6

Yogi was close, but truly far.
Oh darling, I’m out on a ledge,

a woman walking the razor’s edge.
I need to tell things as they are.

How to wake up wifely here?

Years as slave and mother had

trampled down her lily pad –

those badboot husbands and their beer.

Her village hut was not so near.

Clinging cloth was starting to cook.

Would karma let her off the hook?

Diamond sweat dripped from each ear.

Family? Was it all past?

Two little girls she’d let go of —
sent away in the name of love?

Regret and guilt both breathed aghast.

21.7

She drank the chai, then rising like a ghost

drifted inside. Yogi was still perched up

on the couch and holding court. He was

so wrong, she thought — so selfish, overtime.

Did she exist? Should she lean back into

wallflower consciousness? Those men with eyes
in the backs of their Number One heads, refused to see

her fractious state of heart, so ready to crack
like plate glass with one pebble. She stood and stood.
The foreign ghost. Her past had tracked her here,
and rang the bell of hell. “Yogi!” she yelled.
“Oh, come on! We really need to go.”

JULIE

OK, So Dominant Genetics Rock

Cherylann barrel-assed up the pickup airport ramp in her huge Sequoia. I had never met her before–not ever. But she was family, and we knew each other instantly. She’s Pop’s brother’s daughter, after all.

Cherylann drove to my hotel.

The front desk lady, said, “Y’all are sisters and look and talk the same! You even wave your hands around alike!”

Cherylann said, “I’ve never met her before in my life. I found her at the airport.”

It was true. Cherylann sent me a picture from 15 years back. Mirror images.

It’s great having a doppleganger.

I love having family.

ZACKMANN

“It is always scary wondering if a new member of our the family will be accepted by the others.” said Father

“Remember what you told me your grandfather told you when your first engagement didn’t work out?” asks Dylan

“Next time, Get her in the family way and she’ll spend the winter? I’d hoped he was joking. Oh, do you mean she is?”

“No father and how can you not like my fiancee? It is not like we’ll be living here.”

“Don’t be silly. We really like your fiancee. It’s the kitten your mother brought home I am worried about.”

LIZZIE

A postcard from overseas arrived in the mail this morning. It had the picture of a mountain. The stamp was smudged and torn on the edges. The mountain was just a mountain, no location disclosed. It was addressed to me, but it had no address on it, only the country and the town. I live in a large town, so it was surprising that it actually found its way into my hands. It said “I’m coming home”, no signature. I knew he had written it, my brother. At the back, the date was from six months ago… I miss him.

SPATE

Emily’s Family

On a brilliant sunny day, Emily has tea with her family at the tiny table in the atrium by the library.

Brave Meshka the lion bear arrives first and claims the chair of honor. One Eyed Susie and Cowboy Teddy file in behind. Mama Poof and Baby Piff take the last seat together. Emily serves then has her tea standing.

Sammy Snake slithers in late. He hates tea and just wants cookies.

The conversation fills with polite niceties.

Unaware of the passing whispers and stares, Emily smiles, delighted to be with her stuffed animal family now that she’s turned eighty-three.

REDGODDESS

Family by RedGoddess

“Damn it! I’m wearing cashmere and it’s raining,” says the raven hair heiress as she shakes her orange polka dot umbrella. Her Hermes scarf and bag on the counter while giving Lola two air kisses. “Oh my darling Lola,” She sighs in despair. “you didn’t tell me the weather was so despicable.” She resembles a tanned barbie doll in distress. In spite of her dramatic flair, she clicks with Lola. Lola in the oddest way relates to her.
Mirabella, the 21 year-old daughter of a fashion mogul from Milan, has been living at the hotel since adolescence. Her parents live separate lives yet cross continents for family vacations and her birthday. They think these seasonal appearances make up for parental neglect. Naturally, Mirabella gets bored easily with stuff and men, so she buys vintage jewelery and rare paintings at local auctions. She has an affinity to old black and white family portraits. She can imagine herself sitting on her mother’s lap and her dad looking adoringly at them. “C’est la vie. To yearn or fear the unknown,” she often says at the end of her chat with Lola and walks away humming “qui sera, sera…’ She is Lola’s Hepburn.
She could buy and sell the whole damn place and the restaurants around it if she so desires. She’s a daddy’s girl with the usual baggage from a wealthy family. She has zero sense of control when it comes to money. This week, she bought a brand new hot pink BMW just because she saw it in a commercial. By next week, she’ll hate the color with more passion than an angry bull. Lola can’t fathom spending money like that on a whim but she finds it ironic that she can share Mirabella’s family pain.

CLIFF

I’ve been tracking a family of sasquatch for the last three years. My team and I have identified a couple that we’ve named Ralph and Alice and two or three offspring. It’s difficult to tell for sure how many because we’ve never seen them. Our data comes from sightings, questionable footprints, and obscure noises. Hard evidence is difficult or even impossible to find. Some folks say we’re crazy to keep looking but I figure, it doesn’t matter if they’re really out there or not. As long as the university is dumb enough to pay me, I’ll keep filing my reports.

Dad is a former super villain whose mind exists as a computer network now. Mom is a robot, one of dad’s assassin drones who became self-aware and fell in love with him. My sister spends most of her time in a cemetery listening to the dead. I have an uncle from a planet of intelligent squirrels, two cousins who are werewolves, and a pet velociraptor. Sure, I’m not actually related to any of my family but they love me and I love them. That’s really all it takes. Me? I’m the black sheep of the family. I sell used cars.

EXPLORER

Family

by helen r starr

What is your family like, loving, caring, and giving or are they hateful, hurtful,

dysfunctional bullies? Perhaps postmodern families are both good and bad.

Perhaps bad families just don’t know better because they’ve never seen a

normal postmodern family.

Perhaps that’s the magic of many postmodern families; blending a group of

naughty intellects, and pure idiots who can bully siblings, and still be an angel

in your parent’s eyes. Keep it coming love.

Family Gatherings

compounds

characteristics

looks

blood

closely related

postmodern

social

functional

dysfunctional

families

laughing

shouting

all the

way

houses

blended

extended

nuclear

tribes

keep it coming love

Not all families are perfect and many get love and nurturing where as many are

abused. It’s the holiday season, need I say anymore.

NORVAL JOE

The greenhouse was heavy and hot, the glass panels having trapped solar radiation throughout the day. Julie stood, her back to the door, wondering why she was here.
A plant with characteristics similar enough to classify it in the Liliaceae family stood alone in its clay pot.
Many lilies have vibrantly colored flowers to attract pollinaters. Others use scent which varies from enticingly fragrant to offensively putrid. This non-descript flower uses telepathy to project a sense failure and need to attract codependent women on whom it would feed.
Singularly different it was given its own genus and species, Telepathicus Eaterupicus.

JUSTIN

Max Payne walked into his house and his gut filled with black ice. A lamp was on the floor, items strew about the living room. The phone rang, he picked up and shouted for them to call the police, but the caller replied cryptically, as if she knew. A maw opened in his stomach. Then Max heard a scream from upstairs.

Max ran up and crashed into the bedroom. Without hesitation he shot the druggies, but it was already too late. His wife Michelle, and his daughter, dead.

Nothing left to lose, Max stopped at nothing to find the cause.

JUSTIN

The greenhouse was heavy and hot, the glass panels having trapped solar radiation throughout the day. Julie stood, her back to the door, wondering why she was here.
A plant with characteristics similar enough to classify it in the Liliaceae family stood alone in its clay pot.
Many lilies have vibrantly colored flowers to attract pollinaters. Others use scent which varies from enticingly fragrant to offensively putrid. This non-descript flower uses telepathy to project a sense failure and need to attract codependent women on whom it would feed.
Singularly different it was given its own genus and species, Telepathicus Eaterupicus.

DANNY

The TV was on all day this past Thanksgiving. Sounds from parades to football games, blared over the speakers as our family sat for traditional dinner. Sometime in the latter part of the afternoon, the TV became eerily silent. The silence was broken only by a lone trumpet playing a melancholy tune, prompting us to stop whatever else was dividing our attention, to sit down and watch “The Godfather” marathon on AMC. Marlon Brando said it the best, “your not a man unless you spend time with your family,” and our family spent the rest of Thanksgiving watching “Family” films.

PLANET Z

Grandma Parker died last week.

Whenever I called her, she always thought I was my older brother.

So, I’d say horrible and disgusting things, and ask her if she was going to leave everything to me (pretending to be him).

She’d hang up.

Here’s here, sitting next to me in Grandma’s lawyer’s office.

He’s not named in the will.

Neither am I.

Turns out nobody is. Because she didn’t have any money.

“I just like to fuck with people,” said the attorney.

My brother lets loose a stream of profanity.

At least I got to tell her all that directly.

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 TURKEY.

We’ve got stories by:

• Mick Bordet
• Munsi
• Jeffrey
• Julie
• Tom
• Zackmann
• Spate
• Lizzie
• Richard
• Singh
• Serendipity
• Tura Brezoianu
• Explorer
• Kristine
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Norval Joe
• Justin
• Planet Z

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

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.

MICK

The Lesson by Mick Bordet
(a Coffee Legacy spin-off)

Dorde sat on a cushion, gazing out across the city of Istanbul, aware of the raised voices behind, but knowing his friend was in no danger.

Franz appeared presently bearing a small coffee pot and a look of disgust.

“They just won’t listen, Dorde! They can’t imagine water without added cardomom and I swear they are trying to grind the beans into dust. To top it all, they keep it boiling, even once the coffee has been added!”

“Have you actually tried it, yet?”

Franz shook his head and took a sip.

“Wow! Apparently, I can learn from them, too.”

MUNSI

Aftermath

By Christopher Munroe

Every part of your life will be leftover turkey from this moment on.

Your breakfast tomorrow? Turkey Omelet.

Lunch? Turkey Sandwiches.

Dinner will be Turkey and tomorrow it all begins anew.

There’s nothing you can do to prevent this, no aspect of your life you can keep separate, Turkey will consume you, and yes, you will consume Turkey.

Watching Gili on Netflix? Turkey Time, gobble-gobble.

Planning a vacation to the Ottoman Empire? It’s Turkey now.

Yes, going forward your life will be a hellish, leftover turkey filled nightmare…

Wait, that sounds delicious.

Well good for you, then! And happy Thanksgiving!!!

JEFFREY

Midnight Show
By Jeffrey Fischer

The play was an utter flop, panned by critics and shunned by the public. It closed within a week, costing investors millions. The laser show, fancy costumes, and hydraulic equipment controlling the rotating and elevating stage set, despite the expense, failed to distract audiences from the banal plot, stilted dialogue, and bad acting.

The play’s afterlife as a cult classic was a surprise to everyone, not least the playwright. Much like The Rocky Horror Picture Show, young people apparently liked going to midnight shows, dressing up as the characters, shouting corny lines, and imitating the set with cheap effects. The fact that beer was often sold at these venues didn’t hurt.

And the playwright earned royalties on every “performance”. As plays go, he thought, this turkey turned out to be a plump, juicy bird.

The Assignment
By Jeffrey Fischer

The bartender caught the customer’s eye. “What’ll it be?”

“Shot of Wild Turkey. Neat.” They were the only people in the place. The bartender poured and slid the glass across the bar. The customer downed the amber liquid and signaled for a refill.

As he poured, the bartender said, “Take it from someone who’s been there, drinking away the afternoon isn’t going to solve your problems. Maybe a bar isn’t where you need to be just now.”

The customer smiled. “Depends on the problem.” He pulled a gun from his coat pocket and shot the bartender between the eyes. “If your job is to kill a cheating husband who tends bar, why, this is just the place to be.” He reached across the bar, grabbed the bottle of Wild Turkey, and poured.

A Noble Bird
By Jeffrey Fischer

Ben Franklin supposedly preferred the turkey over the eagle as the national symbol of the fledgling United States of America. Now, Ben was a smart guy, but I’m not sure he thought through this idea.

First of all, we’d have all sorts of Federal regulations regarding the turkey, and rescue crews would be forever extricating injured turkeys from awkward spots.

Worse, though, we’d be eating tough, chewy eagle for Thanksgiving. Children would fight to avoid the drumstick. Moms would make more Brussels sprouts to stretch the available food. And the lack of tryptophan would mean no one naps through the afternoon football games, so every year we’ll have to listen again to Uncle Ernie’s war stories.

JULIE

I am sorry I cannot make you Thanksgiving dinner this year.

I have to get on this plane,

On Wednesday

And go home to Poland.

Your Babcia died,

and well, I need to be there.

I talked to her on Sunday.

I am glad I saw her last summer.

She was ill, and I got the next-door lady to help her.

Still, I’ve got to go.

For twenty two years

I’ve been sad somehow here

Even more so now

That you kids are grown,

And on your own.

So, there will be no Turkey this year.

TOM

Mating Season

As I write this they are gathering on the lawn. A good 16 to 20 of them.
Some say they came from Texas. Long way to walk. Though they do fly. Spend
the nights hiding in the crowns of the blue oak. Darting across the hill
in lazy rig-zags, one or two at a time will fan their feathers. Regal as
samurai armor, the display increases their bulk three folded. The cackling
rises and falls as talons rip at chests and necks. The whole warrior thing
would have been pretty impressive, too bad about the stupid double
dangling turkey feathers.

Dharma is the Age of Kali

The Padava prince saw the banners of Bhisma and Dorna furrowing in the
azure sky. On his command a thousand arrows would fly. But he himself had
come to a moment of deep dismay. He turned to Krishna telegraphing his
uncertainty. The charioteer wheeled his steeds to the very edge of the
battlefield and dismounted. If you’ve read the Bhagavad Gita you might
think you know the story, but that text is a fourth century hack job, this
is what really happened. Krishna said “Your not even a pussy, your just a
turkey.” Arjuna fires, Krsihna dodges, the battle begins.

Three Strikes

It was well passed the golden age of bowling. Of course that didn’t stop
me from total immersion. Great game, can’t really call it a sport, though
some may argue the point. No jumping, run, weaving, hitting, didn’t even
have to own the ball or the shoes. No fields, grass or outdooriness.
Limited team work, no coaches. The perfect game, except for the scoring.
Never really got the hang of compounded summations. But that wasn’t fun of
bowling. Banging heaves object against other objects. Sure your skills
could land you in the gutter, but with care you could turkey out.

A Well Defined Relationship 25

“Banister Now” said the doctor. Just as the high priest regained awareness
the coachman swung the airship over Wynn Casino. “We’re going to get
charged for this,” said Dino. “Mrs Parsons please note that in the
ledger.” Sparky hit the release button and the Pastafarite rolled into a
perfect three point Louganis. “Smith you think thous Yahoos bought Timmy’s
dog and pony show?” “Hard to say, best course of action is get our
collective asses out of Dodge.” “Mrs Parson have you ever cooked a Wille
Bird?” “100 pounder best baked 200 pounder thermal inverter.” “You known
your turkeys madam.”

ZACKMANN

“Hey hey good looking what’s cooking.”

“Pizza”

“but didn’t I buy a bird for thanksgiving?”

“No, Dearest.”

“I am possive I put it in the freezer.”

“Yes dearest but you and I both know you purchased it because turkey was the loss leader at fifty nine cents a pound which made it about half the price of chicken.”

“So what you’re saying is neither of us remembered to thaw the turkey in time and now we can save it for Christmas?”

That and your cousin our one guest worked several years in a fowl processing plant and really hates turkey.

SPATE

My fellow Americans, I propose that we amend the second amendment.

Let’s make bearing arms mandatory. Let’s make it law that every citizen must carry a loaded military grade assault rifle.

This proposal is unrelated to the irrational fear based self-protection the NRA peddles to increase gun sales. Its aim has a more realistic benefit to our society: common courtesy.

For example, if I had been carrying today, that old bird at the grocery store would have thought twice before blocking the aisle with her shopping cart while she read every freaking word on the label of that frozen turkey.

LIZZIE

Carving the turkey is a fine art, my friend.” John moved the sharp knife up and down with great proficiency, stripping the bird to the bare bone. The thin slices of meat piled up on the edge of the tray, invitingly. The interplanetary exchange student observed silently. He dared not utter a single word, although he fervently wanted to. “See.” The guest did see. Suddenly, the horror, right next to the slices of meat was one of John’s fingers. I saw that coming, thought the guest, this is a strange art. I am glad we don’t have this type of thing in my planet.

RICHARD

#1 – Scuppered

After a fair bit of floundering, they hauled themselves aboard one of the boats moored on the bank side. Shivering and wet, they huddled down in the hull.

“We should think about getting this thing moving”, muttered Emily.

George nodded, easing his way over to the controls.

Until now, his only experience of boats had been a mini-cruise on holiday in Turkey – no help to him now.

“I’ve no idea how to get this started”, he apologised.

Sighing, Emily reached for the mooring rope and untied it.

The current caught them, and they drifted silently off into the night.

#2 – Christmas Fare

“What’s for lunch?”, asked Santa, already knowing what the answer would be.

“Turkey dinner”

Santa groaned: “Can’t we have something different, just for a change?”

Mrs Claus frowned at him: “Well, there’s turkey curry, turkey salad, turkey pie or turkey bolognese…. Look love, there’s nothing I can do about it – it just comes with the territory, I’m afraid. It’s turkey, or nothing – unless you have any better ideas?”

She was right of course. Santa sighed and resigned himself to the inevitable, but then his eyes twinkled and a broad smile split his face.

“I hear that reindeer is very tasty!”

#3 – Ice-breaker

It was yet another one of those pointless team bonding sessions – universally loathed and compulsory for all employees.

As always, it was led by one of those ridiculous ‘business consultants’ – fatuous, over-enthusiastic and overpaid, and we were completely underwhelmed.

It started with the inevitable ice-breaker: ‘If you were an animal, what would you be?’

I chose ‘turkey’.

“That’s very interesting”, said the flashy business consultant, “And, why exactly did you pick turkey as your animal of choice?”

I looked him straight in the eye, and replied: “You’re the know-it-all business consultant, how about you tell me?”

SERENDIPITY

The Lesser-crested West African Bush Turkey was the most awesome of birds. Standing nine feet tall, it was a true wonder of nature, and vast flocks roamed the African plains in their millions.

In 1863, the Lesser-crested West African Bush Turkey was declared extinct and not a single specimen has been seen since.

What caused their demise? Natural disaster, climate change, the introduction of a foreign predator, or a fault in their genetic makeup?

No, it was none of these things – the loss of the Bush Turkey can be summed up in three simple words:

‘It was delicious’!

SINGH

20.10

The epic credits rolled through drums of war,

a reverb Voice informed the Milky Way,

the Wheel of Dharma turned with cosmic law

as people bowed before the teleplay.

Chariot-driver Krishna drove Arjuna,

discharging arrows at his loved grandsire.

Neither could Bhishma find a clear lacuna,

trading shots with Arjuna’s rapid fire.

Lame effects make drama hard to swallow

and the next scene in a tent, an enemy squabble
was lost on Yogi. He could not follow.

Hindi was equal to Greek, or turkey gobble.

No one thought to translate. He looked around,

then turned down mentally the TV’s sound.

20.11

Closing eyes he listened to his heart rate

recalling a childhood glued to the TV,
hidden behind the lounge till very late

when the hand of Dad stung like a killer bee

sending him to bed. He felt the blows

again; and then the Mahabharat war

was back, more volleys of rapid arrows,

elephants, fake swordplay, tomato gore.

Among Indian grown-ups, was he the dunce?
This popular program was their hour of power,

a tragi-comedy all at once,

philosophy turned into cartoon hour.

Now Krishna was telling Arjun — be a man:

just kill your Grandad and fulfill my plan.

20.12

Grandfather Bhishma was fatally bound to black

deeds through blood duty; but the evil side

made accusations. Yogi, dubbed his soundtrack

from versions he had read, more bone fide,

giving speech to actors on the screen,

while Hindi sat enthralled below the fan

tearful, angry, righteous, stunned, serene.

Bitter Bishma cursed his Kaurava Clancy

telling that Duryodhana, the ruling prince,

“Give up the kingdom to the Pandava.
You can’t beat them. How can I convince?
You’ll lose because they have the Lord, who’s Krishna.

Yet, fire among dry trees of summer, I

will be tomorrow. Yes, I’m still your fall guy.”

20. 13

Knowing the tale, Yogi recast old gold

in his own way to keep himself inside

the poem’s fold. As in a wrestler’s hold

the storyline had long back kept him tied

also to Margot, met that summer night

in Klopper’s quarry through dramatic art.

Just a car drive from the burial site

he wondered then, if one chariot cart

had been his own in some past time,

how otherwise had he landed here?

Next day’s battle heat began to climb

as massive Bhima and his charioteer

clubbed with his gold mace and grunted breath

a dozen Kaurav cousins to the death.

20.14

As Bhima felled opponents, one by one

the sound effect of each gold hammer blow

reminded Yogi of High Striker fun,

hitting a bell with a puck at a country show.

He was no Bhima built to crack and crush,

nor an Arjuna with an archer’s eye,

nor Yudhisthira, king of the royal flush
nor Nakula, nor Sahadeva born from the sky.

A soldier? Spear thrower, a charioteer?

Yogi speculated scene by scene.

Meanwhile, the Kauravs fell like hunted deer,

while in the palace, parent king and queen

grieved for slain sons. Here, end credits flowed

closing sadly this week’s episode.

20.15

Women were tearful, moved by child death

and men moved quickly for the squat latrine

just down the hall. Barhai rose to switch

the TV off. Its picture tube fizzed blank

and at that moment up the stairs Chauhaan

emerged with loud and proud announcement:
“Yogi ji, here is your Yogi Mrs.”
All heads turned to see the western woman

in her Punjabi suit, red-striped with gold,

her head covered, trained by local custom.

She then saw Yogi, and could not get to him

so reached across, passing his guitar.

All was falling well together. Barhai smiled

announcing Yogi would now lead a bhajan.

20.16

to speed date god inside the krishna lila

body neck tune head-tone to krishna

bhajan fusion english off the cuff

krishna bol sing krishna hare krishna

one hand clapping two hands clapping krishna

krishna bol sing krishna hare krishna

glass lady bangles tinkle bells of krishna

krishna wheel krishna wields chakra

plastic pail upturn my soul percussion

krishna bol sing krishna hare krishna

Persian wheel scoops up wet cups of krishna

on each hair a thousand flutes of krishna

thumb the strum strum light strings of krishna

krishna krishna krishna krishna krishna

finish with a slow last dance with krishna

20.16

The success of Yogi was the joy of Barhai.

“Can you come home Saturday, Yogi ji?”

“We also want your darshan,” asked another.

Barhai took the bookings, mentally.
They hemmed his star, so Barhai closed the queue.
“Respect our guests. Tomorrow we talk, please.”

Margot saw the wheel of competition,

an endless turning, one household to another.

How much of him would still be left for her?

Yet, she would go along and make her place.

School was due to break. Big monsoon wet

the farmers said would bog down village roads.

So she did nothing and sat apart and watched.

TURA

1.

The journey ended, then began, at Osmaneli.

Nina and I were taking the sleeper from Ankara to Istanbul, but in the early morning, it had shaken violently, and drawn to a stop, between Eskisehir and Bözüyük. Defective track? A landslide?

At last the train moved cautiously on, stopping at every small town for an oncoming train to pass. Karaköy, Küplü, Bilecik. The line between Turkey’s two most important cities is single track.

Rumours, passed on from the attendant’s radio.

We see a few collapsed outbuildings, fallen plasterwork.

At Osmaneli the train stops and it will not go further.

What now?

—-

2.

At Osmaneli the passengers charter dolmuses– local minibuses– either to return to Ankara or press on to Istanbul. Nina and I tag along with the Istanbul contingent.

The fare for us both is 70 million Turkish lira, about £100. (Half of that will go on petrol.) The driver’s boss asks him where he’s going. “Istanbul,” he says, and we leave.

Normally, he would have driven among the local villages for 200,000 lira fares, or the price of two loaves of bread.

Those millions of Turkish lira are the old lira, of course, before they chopped six zeroes off the end.

—-

3.

The main road is busy, soon packed, then jammed. As a tourist, I have a map of Turkey, so I pass it forward and let those who know the country figure out the best way. But in a mountainous country, the main road is the only road.

We come to a large flyover. There are six-inch cracks in the tarmac on the approach. We wedge lumps of tarmac into the gaps and inch the minibus over them.

Will the bridge collapse? But it has been full of traffic for hours. It will probably not collapse while we are on it.

—-

4.

Here a family are camping outside their farmhouse. It stands, but the walls are cracked, and it might collapse at any moment.

And then, the apartment blocks. I’ve seen some of these under construction during our holiday, concrete-framed and unbeautiful. They have been found wanting in the time of trial. Shoddily built with stolen, salty, beach sand, and rusted reinforcing bars, they have collapsed like houses of cards. I see neat stacks of floors and ceilings with no walls, and know that I am looking at dead people.

There are standards, but in a poor country, who can enforce them?

—-

5.

The driver is concerned about petrol. There is not enough to reach Istanbul. Even if we find a garage, it needs electricity to pump the petrol, and the electricity was automatically cut over half the country when the earthquake struck.

At mid-afternoon, we stop at a roadside cafe for a break. Still no electricity, but the cafe can give us bananas and apple tea. We move on and shortly find a petrol station with working pumps. Either the electricity is back or it has its own generator. No matter, we will not be spending the night on the road now.

—-

6.

The mosques are better constructed. We see only one fallen minaret, dramatically draped over the adjacent dome.

Across the bay, a plume of smoke. If it were night, we would see the fire also. The oil refinery at Yalova.

At last, İzmit, the epicentre. Only one thing is happening here: dealing with the earthquake.

The traffic is moving more freely now. We reach Istanbul at nine in the evening and take the ferry across the Bosphorus.

Our flight home is long gone, but the first hotel we try has cracks and fallen plaster everywhere. We press on to the airport.

—-

7.

Every inch of green space in Istanbul is filled with people camping out. We are tourists; we will just leave.

At the airport I book seats on the first flight home the next day. We are tourists with money; we can pay what it takes to leave.

In Istanbul we find a solidly built hotel, but in the morning we notice hairline cracks in the granite, clearly new.

Our plane roars down the runway and the wheels leave the ground. For us, it is over.

Afterwards, before the news drops off the front pages, the death toll reaches ten thousand.

EXPLORER

Twas night before Thanksgivukkah, and all through the house, children where

screaming, Dreidel’s where spinning. A turkey was basting all on it’s own, and

then a loud thud from up above.

Everyone froze, who could this be; it’s Moshe Rabbeinu, Amen. We heard a

muffled “Oy gevalt, Oy vey iz mir today is only Wednesday, “I thought today

was Thanksgiving.”

Who is that speaking, with wonderment we ran to the stairs and froze? To our

dismay we saw a glowing, spinning, bright light.

We saw a team of eight menurkey’s, and heard Ho Ho Ho, Happy

Thanksgivukkah, shouted Hanukkah Harry.

KRISTINE

Ladies are gathering along the fence, buying sad leftover pumpkins and discussing creative ways to combine green beans and mushroom soup. Kids shuffle through the corn maze, unaware it’s been deemed a fire hazard. White feathers float around, easily mistaken for the fake snow that will jack up the prices of lopsided spruces that will be standing here soon. The men spit-shine their axe heads, silently choosing their victims. They say the more the bird fights, the tastier it is. The sounds and dust clouds rising from the dirt arena suggest that this year’s dinner is going to be delicious.

CLIFF

Benjamin Franklin thought that the turkey was the perfect animal to represent our nation. After all, it was native, it was quite brave, and it was known to attack British soldiers on sight, something that no eagle, bald or otherwise, was ever known to do. Several times during the Revolutionary war, the redcoats attempted to catch the Colonial troops unaware only to have their movements betrayed by the turkeys used as sentries by the Americans. Unfortunately, turkeys proved to be ineffective in combat. Many a turkey met its end while desperately trying to load a musket using beak and wings.

NORVAL JOE

Dergle watched his countdown timer pass the ten minute mark.
“Crap,” he said and inched his way up the drive to the carport. He knew the Widow Finklestien well and he knew she kept a spare door key in the dryer’s lint catch. Cradling the shotgun in one arm, he pulled out the lint drawer and searched the fine layer of lint for the key.
He slid the key into the lock, soundlessly, and eased open the door.
From behind him he heard, “Who is this turkey?”
He had to think fast or he would lose the element of surprise.

JUSTIN

The Sumo walked up to the line and hurled the bowling ball, but forgot to let go and slid all the way down the lane and got a strike. Sort of.

Melody swung the Wii remote wildly to try and throw the ball down the lane on the TV. All she managed to do was give her brother a black eye. OK, that didn’t happen, but it almost did, could have.

The best part of bowling ball shoes is they are so thin and light so when you drop a bowling ball on your foot, it provides no protection whatsoever.

PLANET Z

The company gives out smoked turkeys for Thanksgiving and smoked hams for Christmas.

I’ve been tempted to carve off a bit early, but I figure I’ll be eating plenty of it when the time comes.

“It’s for the cats,” I say, but I can’t convince myself. It would really be for me.

“No. Not yet.” And I close the refrigerator door.

Whew.

Then, I found myself picking up a packet of smoked turkey at the grocery store.

“Not yet,” I say. And I put it back.

If the cats want turkey early, they can go out and catch one themselves.

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 BURNING.

We’ve got stories by:

• Maggy
• Munsi
• Jeffrey
• Tom
• Julie
• Richard
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Zackmann
• Serendipity
• Dr. Fran
• Spate
• Lizzie
• Katharina
• Sevi, Redgoddess, and Bonchance
• Norval Joe
• Danny
• Justin
• Tura Brezoianu
• Singh
• Planet Z

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

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.

MAGGY – NO RECORDING

Her heart was burning with longing as the cold wind
swept her hair. It was his voice. It had to
be. The rain pelted towards her like an iron sheet
pushing her back. The more she ran the more it
crashed against her. Her frozen feet were burning as she
determined to reach him. He would be waiting, she knew.
There was a roaring, louder and louder. Closer, closer it
came. Silence. Squeek of breaks. The train stopped with a
jolt.

He looked down at the lifeless body on the tracks.
‘My darling,’ he murmured, and jumped down from the engine.

MUNSI

Celebration

By Christopher Munroe

Welcome! Glad you could make it!

Come in, you’re the first to arrive, but I’m sure everyone will be here soon enough.

Have a seat.

We have a great evening planned, there’ll be games later, Mitch over there is a tremendous bartender and, while you haven’t met most of the people who’ll be here yet, once you do I’m sure you’ll love them.

And, at the stroke of midnight, we’re burning the Wicker Man.

No word yet as to who will be inside the Wicker Man. I’ll keep you posted as that’s worked out. In the meantime, have a drink…

JEFFREY

Dangerous Liaisons
by Jeffrey Fischer

Rob felt a burning sensation in his nether regions. Although he ignored it, hoping the feeling would go away, it persisted. Finally, he saw a doctor, who identified the problem as a case of the clap, prescribed antibiotics, and sent Rob on his way.

When his girlfriend, Monica, had a similar burning sensation, she was puzzled until one Sunday morning, looking for two aspirin and some Pepto, she encountered Rob’s antibiotics and put two and two together.

Monica broke up with Rob that morning. He didn’t notice for several weeks that she had taken apart his remaining pills, flushed the antibiotics down the toilet, and put the pills back together again. For Rob, it was a real head-scratcher.

Both Ends
by Jeffrey Fischer

The expression “burning a candle at both ends” never made sense to Phil, who decided to conduct an experiment. He took a standard household candle into his dorm room. He used a lighter to melt the other end, jammed a wick into the soft wax, and lit both ends, then took the candle in his hands and watched it burn.

As the candle dwindled, Phil wondered how he could put it down to avoid being burned. He ended up throwing the candle into a corner, where a stack of magazines caught fire. The entire dorm burned down – at both ends, you might say.

TOM

1 Dancing on the Bubble

It was the 90’s the last wave of unbridled money was flowing through the
streets of Silicon Valley. Jack was surfing in the middle of a prefect
storm. A gaming company wanted a video portal on their website. The
company was 30 days old, astonishingly over capitalized. The Kids had no
idea that a generation before the VC were the bad guys. Jack had and they
still were. Knee deep in ashes, the burn rate had reached golden time.
Jack managed to get out the door before the padlock. The gravy days of
tech writing were gone with the wind.

2 A Well Defined Relationship Part 24

Doc Proctor cut through the crowd like a knife. “Hell of a way to answer
an advertisement, Mrs. Parsons!” “Sorry Sir.” “Smith you coming with?”
“Seem so sir.” “NICE WORK TIMMY. How long before the reconstitution?” “Six
minutes.” “Who’s flying that thing?” Sparky nodded. The doc motioned him
to get behind the altar and pull the FSM with him. The entire company
followed suit. Doc Proctor drove his fist into the altar. A brilliant
flame rose. It burnt so bright the Pastafarites backed away. Banister
pulled The Voyage over the Tiber. “What about the priest?” “Drop him in
Wynn’s pool.”

3 A God Damn Forest Gump Life

In the late 70’s I worked for a bakery that delivered barked goods to San
Francisco shops. Got to know some of the folk in the art scene. One of
thous folk said “you got to check out the show at Baker Beach. At the time
it had all the trapping of any Santa Cruz beach party too much beer,
smoke, fire, and Dead, so I went just once. Same friend asked me to come
with when they took the party out to Black Rock. I told him I wasn’t going
to drive 120 miles to watch a burning man.

4 Loud

My music tastes have always been on the eclectic side. If a singer’s vocal
presentation was 5 degrees off center their record went into my
collection. In my 45 days a title of unmeasurable joy was produced by the
oddest name band I had ever heard The Crazy World of Arthur Brown. The Who
was loud, Arthur Brown was louder. Fire was released in 1968 and surely as
a times they were a changing it went to number two on Billboard. Parents
hated it kids loved it. Beginning with “I am the god of hellfire” end
with “You’re Gonna Burn!!”

JULIE

I was full of pulchritude and lacked punctuality.

It was all staged, of course.

They sewed me in my naked dress,

Trotted me out,

The trollop offering.

My cotton-candy hair,

Even the white ermine was fake.

Peter Lawford had a few before we took the stage.

I had a few too.

He asked for a blowjob.

That limey skank.

I knew what was up.

I went through the motions and gestures,

Sang my silly words off key—

Ignored the crowd.

Don’t judge me.

For all the things you’ve done,

To me,

I thank you so much.

Happy Birthday, Mr. President.

RICHARD

#1 – Escape in the night

Keeping to the shadows, George and Emily fled towards the river. Suddenly, a massive explosion rocked the camp, the concussion throwing them to the ground. A huge fireball erupted behind them and George felt his hair singe.

Fort Hope was ablaze, burning fiercely, the flames already reaching towards them.

“Run!”, shouted George, and they took off as if all the hounds of hell were following.

Then, without warning, they were falling – George braced himself for the impact, but instead experienced the sudden shock of ice-cold water.

Spluttering and gasping, his head broke the surface… they had found the river.

#2 – Roma Invicta!

We sat on the hillside and watched the city burning in the valley below; men, women and children surrounded us, shocked and sobbing… senators, priests, common folk and gladiators – all of us equal in our loss.

Rufus Dramaticus, one of my most loyal and trusted legionaries, made his way slowly through the crowd, saluted and knelt before me:

“Ceasar… the people are lost – they look to their emperor for succour?”

“Are they?”, I replied, “But what on earth can I do?”

Then I spotted my fiddle…

“How about I lead everyone in a nice rousing singalong? That’ll revive the spirits!”

#3 – Burning Man

My tickets for burning man arrived this morning – yep, that’s right, I’m going to be spending a week in the Nevada desert, communing with nature, soaking up the atmosphere and generally escaping the rat race and everything it means.

Mainly though, I’ll be going for the art – there’s nothing like self-expression, be it through sculpture, handicrafts or performance, to show just how creative we humans can be.

Actually, if I’m honest, that’s not the real reason I’m going…

I’m really going because I want to see all those girls wandering round, wearing body paint, and not a lot else!

CLIFF

Doctor Perkins had a cancellation so I was able to get in with only a few hours notice. The receptionist asked me what my problem was, but I wouldn’t tell her. Since Perkins was a urologist, I’m sure she was used to men being shy about sharing. Soon, the doctor and I were alone in the exam room.
“What brings you to see me today?”
“Well, doc, I’m kind of embarrassed.”
“No reason to be. I’m a professional. You can tell me.”
“Ok. You’ve been sleeping with my wife.”
They caught me burning the office down with Perkins body inside.

Their ships were tiny, a mere ten feet across. They were still the most feared armada in the galaxy. They had weapons that could level cities. They had a star drive that could take them across a light year in a heartbeat and across the galaxy faster than you could get through airport security. They had ravaged a thousand worlds and Earth was next. However, a slight miscalculation by the Chief Navigator brought the fleet out too close to our world. Before they could change course, they plummeted through our atmosphere, burning as they fell. Damn pretty meteor shower though.

ZACKMANN

Father, Miss Cheerilee said “A robot doesn’t actually know it’s a robot. They’re programed to respond the same way we do. Upon learning the truth about itself it would would probably go into a violent existential rampage through the town.”

“Honey, if our guest says something that sounds odd like prOject instead of project or Initiate sequence one, it is because he grew up in a different country but he’s definitely not a robot.”

“Dearest, no fireplace tonight because illegal to have fire on cold days.”
“Oh, Spare the Air Day and not because fire might melt our human guest.”

SERENDIPITY

Can you smell burning?

That wasn’t the deal!

I thought I’d made it perfectly clear that I wanted the ducking stool – the point being, it’s pretty easy to fake drowning, and then I can just sneak away when nobody’s looking.

Hold my breath. Play dead. Escape with my life.

But burning at the stake is another matter entirely!

How the heck am I supposed to escape from this? Unless you have a secret plan to get me out of this fix, I’m toast… quite literally!

You’ve let me down badly – you’re far, far worse than a witch: you’re a complete bitch!

DR FRAN

What makes a visionary?

Philip Rosedale, clad in plastic bag cape, and sporting beads, looked up from his laptop at the playa in Burning Man, and saw a user-created world. He thought: Hmmmm, I can do something with that.

Thus was born Second Life™, the great virtual world experiment that still appeals to a niche of about a million people. Yes, the losers, the folks on the autistic spectrum, the odd, and the unloved are there. Philip is not.

Randy Nomeind looked up from his bong at the playa in Burning Man, and yelled: BOOBIES! He created nothing at all.

SPATE

Dreams

I awoke from a dream and reached over but you were gone. Then I remembered.

I sleep alone now.

And under the weight of this empty bed on a cold November night, I have again been forced to reconcile with the unpalatable conclusions:

I know that what was, is now not.

And that which once burned with life has turned to dry ash.

I accept that twenty-two years became the limit of forever and that I will never really hear your voice or feel your touch again.

You will not return.

But when will you be gone from my dreams?

LIZZIE

The old man threw his books out the window, one by one. No one loves books anymore, he thought. He walked downstairs and lit up the first book, turning it left and right, watching its hardcover burn slowly. Suddenly a kid walked up to him. “Don’t burn it. I’ll keep it for you.” The old man’s eyes teared up. He put the fire out and sat on the floor. The kid sat beside him, holding the half burnt book like a treasure. Many others joined them, each grabbing a book. The old man was never so happy to be wrong.

KATHARINA

Burning by Katharina Bordet

Flames were trying to burst out through the windows of the two-storey house in the cul-de-sac. Leo looked at it in astonishment, whilst from afar, the sirens were blaring louder as they were coming near. Quicker than the sirens, his parents’ car arrived, coming to a screeching halt next to the boy. Leo looked around to see his mother jumping out of the car and running towards him, a look of sheer panic in her face.

“What happened, did you do this Leo?“ she shouted at him.

“But… you told me to clean out the house, mum!“

SEVI, REDGODDESS, and BONCHANCE

Burning by Severina, RedGoddess and Bc

Harry huddled in his cubicle and slowly arranged the 3 pieces of paper.
He gingerly taped the fragile pieces together into one and began to study it.
Harry was unsure why he was chosen to solve this mystery but all the same it was a challenge that excited him.
The faded trail on the map, ended in a 3-way split. He knew that the wrong turn could lead to a disaster.

Which path to take was the burning question.
The next day, Harry strapped on his gear and scaled down the storm drain to find his buried pot of gold.

NORVAL JOE

Dergle patted long john silver on the head, loaded shells into his shotgun and left a candle burning in the front window.
Wiener dog man would not be made to look like a fool. He pulled the eared hoodie over his head and strapped the dog nose to his face.
Call him a super hero, or call him a vigilante, he had a job to do and a promise to keep.
He walked down the street to Widow Finklestien’s.
“You have ten minutes to release her and her dogs, or I’m coming in.”
The eco-terrorists had taken the wrong hostages.

DANNY

Welcome to “Florida This Week.” Topping the BURNING issues of the week: Adolf Hitler gets thrown out of the Florida Republican Party for not being conservative enough. Robert Jones, leader of the KKK of North Carolina, had the following to say; “Well, we don’t have no way of judging who exactly we’re directing our beliefs at.” Jones has recently come under fire for mistakenly attempting to promote KKK membership among the predominantly black community of New Smyrna Beach, Florida, stuffing mailboxes with hundreds of fliers with the words “Our Race Is Our Nation” and a symbol of a hooded klansman..

JUSTIN

Gordon Freeman peered around the corner. Two zombies were tearing into a hapless soul who had wandered into Ravenholm. He stepped into the street and aimed the sawblade it held and fired. The blade spun through the air and sheared one zombie in half and dismembered the other. From beside him he heard the gurgle of more zombies. He backpedaled away from them and saw three fuel barrels. He pulled out his Glock and fired a few precious rounds. Flames exploded over the zombies and they stumbled about screeching until they fell into heaps of guttering flesh onto the ground.

TURA

In the Burning World the seasons are defined by the flames. In the Fire season, a man may not venture with impunity beyond the safe places. Then the Gasp, when the fumes that burst from the sand do not ignite, but suffocate. In the Cool, the venting ceases and one fears only the slow burning of the raging sun. Then the Blow, deadliest of all, when deep cataclysms open new vents, and we must find safe ground again before the Fire.

Our stories say that this world was created by the mad demon Frak, as our punishment for worshipping him.

SINGH

Foreign Madam and the White Yogi, a verse novel in progress by Chapter 20.

20.1

The last bus left in a cloud of diesel grey

as they returned from the burning ghat of the dead.
He felt quite bad that he would end this day

without his Margot next to him on a bed.

Hardly apart since raising that first sweat
on a sunken sofa in sundown grapevine light
with a backyard view where parrots pirouette,
Australia was the boat they’d burned that night.

Barhai glad of a struggling face upset
offered him a bed at the speed of light.
“You stay with us.” Too late to feel regret
the darkening sky helped Yogi say “Alright.”

20.2

Brijpal Chauhaan came up for dinner too.
He was the history buff among them, glad

to hear his high-pitched voice pull rank.

“So, Yogi ji, you like our Mahabharat.”

Youth in blemished white spoke from the couch,
with feet tucked up, hiding his cut knee.
“I have read it yeah, in English, a translation.”
Then added: “Bigger than the Iliad.”
Chauhaan eye-browed his Chairman. Barhai winked.
They felt the thrill of history acknowledged.

Yes! by a foreigner, someone from the West
from whom they sought approval, yet despised.
They had not deemed Australia to be south.
Chauhaan went on.

20.3

“It is our greatest book
without a doubt. The story of our race
and still for us, alive. This is the place
where it began. Hastinapur, the capital
is so close by. We could even go tomorrow.”

‘That would be great, but my wife is all alone.
She’ll be worried already, that I haven’t returned.”

“Of course, Sadhu Sahib,” Barhai added.

“We all are family men. Your duty’s clear.
Yes, right now she is too much worrying.

In a strange land, one should be vigilant.

Tomorrow is Sunday. Rest the knee, you must.
“Chauhaan, you send your car for Yogi Mrs.”

20.4

The leader and his deputy knew each other.

“A small service, Yogi ji, if you allow.”
“Of course, he must,” said Barhai, pushing on
with a host’s prerogative. “She is truly doing
noble work with the children. Please allow us

to show appreciation and share our home.

Mrs Barhai will be thrilled on meeting her.”

Yogi succumbed again. The air-conditioning

was softening his tired brain and bones:

come on, slow down, just take a little break.
He thought of Margot with that block of soap
scrubbing his white chola at the hand-pump.

He smiled with some relief. “Okay. Thanks.”

20.5

Then Barhai barked in Hindi, “Khana banao.”

“Ji Swami,” chimed a voice through clanging pots.

“Indian food you like?” “Very Much”

“Now Chauhaan, tell us something now.”
The history buff lit up. He cleared his throat,

then paused: “Perhaps we shouldn’t start on

Mahabharat here.” “Why not?” Asked Yogi.
“It is the story of discord in the home

and splitting of the atom of the nation.

Ramayan is a ghee lamp sharing light,
Mahabharat is the wick snuffed out at the end.”

“Come. That’s superstition,” Barhai said.
“Twenty crore watch it on Doordarshan

and still the nation hasn’t split your atom.”

20.6

“Twenty crore?” asked Yogi. “Two hundred million,”

said the man of rupees. Then told how

from week to week, at nine on Sunday morning
India stopped to quaff down myth like milk

from the sacred teat of new technology,

skyline satellite dishes, ham-wired, poking

above slums, bazaars, the colonies, mosques and mandirs,

the public spaces emptied, all at home

seated, reverent as inside the temple

through far darshan’s audience with the past

on national television. “It is tomorrow.

You will see,” Barhai added. “Well

we will take our dinner. Hungry, Yogi?”

“Yes,’’ he said, a growling dog in his gut.

20.7

They tore up steam balloons of roti
scooping deep the seas of chilli,
lady fingers, chopped green bhindi,
something cabbage, fried and windy,

deep brown dhal thick with hours,
aloo gobi’s hidden powers,

paneer slabs swimming cream,
floating in the Indian Dream.

Barhai, a man of chicken meat
went pure veg tonight, discreet,

while Chauhaan, scion of care

sniffed and tested with despair

spooning past the globs of ghee

gold whirlpools of high B.P.

Then the sweet dish, food for brain –

rice cream kheer came again and again.
Yogi’s robe earned its battle stain

a victim of the gravy train.

20. 8

“Don’t worry for the washing, Sadhu Sahib.’

Barhai called the servant to bring kurta
and white pajama as a sleeping suit.

“Thanks Chauhaan,” he said in advance for
Margot’s early car and gave a note.

Dear Margot, you must be anxious. Sorry.
Skinned my knee. Am resting up at Barhai’s.

Waiting. Yogi. P.S. Bring guitar.

Note pocketed, Chauhaan said: “Right Sir!”
descending stairs like bass notes on a keyboard.

It was time to shake the hand of his host and close
the door. But he felt like a rock. Food overload?

Laying down he sank in a dream of water.

20.9

darkness is poison stone body creepers

arms tied ankles rope-burnt thinking unwinds

reels out an oxygen lifeline bubbles bubbles

serpents swim scarlet green injecting venom

straight to bottom and through to another place

creepers break cobra hoods smash like tree roots

slither cold tunnel jewelled walls emerald cavern

the thousand thousand coils of serpentry

turning human with honeyed speech

poison is nectar each bite a burning antidote

each bite one hundred elephants of strength

after each fang clasp strange transference upsurge

sunlight kingdom surface breaking

awake in the mind asleep in the body

laying until the lotus-pink of dawn

20.10

When he woke, Yogi’s robe was clean
upon the chair. Showering, he changed
remembering the poison night. But noises
lured him via sprinkled scent of rosewater

in a front room spread with cotton sheets of white.

The ceiling fan spread air-con cool, but squeezed

too close, the men swabbed sweaty necks.

A girl passed round a tray of clinking glasses.

Barhai made way for Yogi, pride of place.

Garlanded with marigolds, red-sareed

Sri Lakshmi blessed all with wealth from her

pink lotus, framed above the television.
Herded together, ladies covered heads

as the picture tube fizzed into holy life.

PLANET Z

Long ago, I worked at the same TV station as a famous reporter.

Most people knew him for doing good deeds for the Houston community. But he was utterly cruel and vicious to his editor, producer, and the rest of the news staff.

The last thing I said to him was: “You attack the people you utterly depend on, and you know they will never fight back. When you burn in hell, you will burn brighter than anybody else, and you’ll be proud of that, you monster.”

He thanked me, and smiled his shit-eating grin.

He’s dead now.

And burning.