Weekly Challenge – Page 66 – The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Weekly Challenge #407 – Soon

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

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

The topic this week was SOON.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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

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

LIZZIE

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

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

“When?”

“Soon,” he repeated.

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

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

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

The mother whispered “Soon…”

RICHARD

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

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

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

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

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

George was lost for words.

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

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

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

#2 – The Church of the Unified Singularity

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

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

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

I am – in every sense – the religious body!

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

#3 – Focus of the community

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

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

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

TURA

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

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

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

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

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

JEFFREY

Coming Soon!
by Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

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

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

To be Determined
by Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

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

She replied, “Soon.”

JOHN MUSICO

“The Chamber”
by John Musico

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

SERENDIPITY

Soon, they will be here.

Very soon.

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

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

I reach for my knife.

Soon, they will be here…

But not soon enough.

RICHARD AGAIN

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

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

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

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

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

#2 – Six across: Seven letters

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

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

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

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

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

JULIE

Are we there yet?

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

When will I see Gramma?

“Soon. If your Father would slow down.”

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

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

Mom, when are we going to see Daddy again?

“Soon enough. Soon enough.”

(NO RECORDING)

TOM

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

A Well Defined Relationship Part 35

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

ZACKMANN

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

CLIFF

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

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

SPATE

Cupid’s Arrows

But what is this?

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

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

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

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

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

Ahhh.. c’est la vie.

Love is love.

SINGH

25.9

Soon lunch arrived upon a tali

in round katoris of stainless steel

with dhal and gobi. Hot wheat roti

made the fare a complete meal.

Mostly he had been chief cook

faking curries without skill

dull to the tongue, plain to the look

with gluey rice, just eat to fill.

Their Western mash was more plain,

over-cooked upon a gas ring

with no chilli to charge the brain.

But cooked just right plain food can sing.

Mrs Barhai knew the art

using spices that excite.

It gave his stomach a fresh start.

He ate it at the speed of light.

25.10

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

extra smooth from the pressing Jyoti had done.

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

He needed to tailor more confidence robes like this one.

Outside the window he saw old world construction:

bamboo scaffolding, floors going up one by tottering one.

They winched cement by the dish via pulley and rope.

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

The sky was awkwardly close to lightning and rain.

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

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

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

25.11

now clouds speak first susurrous electrical buzz

pregnant water molecules thunder theatre

nine months sky drank ocean now Indra

sends thunderbolt gold chain lightning

elephant herds of clouds rutting and charging

uprooting earth cars skid stall drivers debouch

hard clatter on flat roofs drainpipes engorge and cough

below plastic bottles float off to the underworld

town hands cup gulp their share of downpour

high-pitched plink plink on pipal leaves

murmuring patter the jamun branches sigh

today the monsoon had come to change the beat

children dancing in the street soaking saris

women’s hair undone red marriage partings washed away

NORVAL JOE

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

MUNSI

My Plan

By Christopher Munroe

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

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

At least, I hope it will.

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

I live hard, dude.

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

RICK

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

PLANET Z

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

Weekly Challenge #406 – Church

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

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

The topic this week was CHURCH.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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

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

JOHN

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

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

JEFFREY

Sermon
by Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

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

Unanswered Prayers
by Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

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

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

MYSTERY ROBOT JOE

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

TURA

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

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

LIZZIE

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

JEFF HEMA

At The Mormon Church

By Jeff Hema

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

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

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

SERENDIPITY

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

I certainly did not!

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

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

They weren’t fooling me.

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

You’d think a demon would command greater respect.

SINGH

25.1

Barhai saw him crossing from the bus

glad his plans were working. “Aiyay, Yogi.

Baitho! Sit!” He cleared a rattan chair

of gold-brown scrolls of shavings, curly ribbons

planed off from a dining table’s edges.

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

while joiner Gaurav thumbed along the grain.

Yogi could not bring up that he had left her.

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

“Oh this?

Tali, Indian Rosewood. Yes, very hard.

We trim the outside yellow or grubs will come.”

The heartwood was as strong as a church pew,

Yogi thought. And hardened himself as well.

25.2

Appearing with guitar and full backpack

meant Barhai had pulled in his honey star.

Cards were falling better than he’d hoped.

Yogi had turned up, naked and wounded,

Margot scalding with her boiling tongue.

Did he seem needy? He tried to compensate.

“My time was being wasted at the school.”

“She sees your inner jewel,” Barhai said,

“Like a true Indian wife — letting you go,

sacrificing for the sake of the God.”

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

“Do not worry. The Maha Kirtan Mandal

is soon starting. All is being planned.

Aiyay. Come. Let me show you something.”

25.3

Yogi followed Barhai down the back

into his cabin with its grimy panes.

Out of a rosewood drawer Barhai bounced

a log of paper onto his desk of dust.

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

It was a hwad of posters, rubber-banded;

but slipping them off, the top one tore away,

severing head shots, robed with swami-orange,

some in white garb wearing triple stripes

of forehead ash. “Really, sorry.”

“No matter,”

Barhai shrugged. Featured in an oval

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

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

25.4

Now nervous Chotu ran in with the chai

jiggling glasses from the wire carrier

and knocked one over. A sticky, milky river

floodplained across the posters and the run-off

waterfalled into Yogi’s white-clad lap.

He leapt up yelping – his robe a burning puddle

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

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

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

ran for rags or paper to blot the spill,

but shoddy printer’s ink had started to run

and Yogi, poster boy for Barhai’s show

was abstract art within a painted ocean.

25.5

Chotu threw a spirit-smelling cloth

over posters to blot up tea and paint,

forgetting to save the rest as yet un-soaked.

Like a hornet, Barhai, poked in a hive

sent his hand assassin-fast to clip

the kid around the head.

“It’s okay, Barhai.

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

street urchins forced to take the helm

of existential lives polishing shoes,

young newsprint pros folding paper bags;

peanut wallahs, girls selling cheap dolls —

a begging ploy at Delhi ringroad crossings,

and backstreet hovels with their hammer song

making him feel the cost of leather shoes.

25.6

“Sorry, Yogi, Why not bathe upstairs

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

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

scourge spawns labour cheap, yet, returning

meant wimping out, having been well whammed

by Margaret. Yes, he was more than just

a tea-stained holy mess. Relief stepped foot

to foot with regret. “I guess I had better

go clean up, but Mrs Barhai? Will I

be intruding?” Still embarrassed by

her recent exit from the Barhai home

it was awkward returning to the crime scene.

“Take his things. ” Barhai ordered Chotu.

Yogi followed, obedient as a spaniel.

25.7

He bucket-bathed, then perched upon the bed.

All furniture bore the bulky Barhai look —

wardrobe, dresser, but no chair and table.

A rounded bolster wedged behind him spoke

of Indian cross-leggedness at ground level

that had risen, literal and symbolic.

Eating, chatting and sleeping now all happened

on a solid rosewood base to take the weight

of dynasties that had always snuggled close,

joint families who form ancestral houses.

This was far off from his suburban years

with nuclear rooms and their secret lives,

while India would cling to its divan

bearing all upon a common life raft.

25.8

His chola had been taken by the servant,

first lathered then pounded with hard slaps.

Her paddle was a crude-cut cricket bat.

She slopped wet washing on white bathroom marble

and whacked away, then sighed, dropping her club

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

The wafting overture spirited her hand

into the lemony air that sparkled hope.

It rose up from soapy water run off

as she cast herself the female Bollywood star,

lip-sinking love-sounds on some alpine hillside,

the camera cutting away before The Kiss.

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

(*enough)

JULIE

Church

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

Pay a dollar, and play with fire.

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

I knelt.

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

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

MUNSI

The Funeral

By Christopher Munroe

Walks beside me.

Walks on by.

Gets me to the church on time.

Or, at least, used to.

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

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

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

A modern love.

A lifetime.

Not nearly long enough.

ZACKMANN

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

SPATE

Inheritance

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

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

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

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

DANNY

Weekly Challenge 406: Church

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

TOM

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

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

CLIFF

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

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

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

NORVAL JOE

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

PLANET Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weekly Challenge #405 – Account

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

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

The topic this week was ACCOUNT.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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

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

TURA

“How can I be overdrawn?” I said.

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

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

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

“Those cost a fortune!”

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

JOHN MUSICO

The Time Machine, by John Musico

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

JEFFREY

Wonderful Life
by Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

“I am,” the creature replied.”

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

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

Big Red Button
by Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

Dead by his own hand. Mission accomplished.

MYSTERY ROBOT JOE

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

RICHARD

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

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

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

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

Fate thought otherwise!

#2 – Spam

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

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

I have my revenge though.

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

Most satisfactory.

#3 – Lovely teeth

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

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

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

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

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

LIZZIE

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

SINGH

24.10

School children joined in her python column

though she said little, leading chirpy kids

across ploughed land, the kingdom of the clods,

via its grid of lilliputian levees.

Each was closed and opened day or night

by hoes of farmers when electric pumps sucked up

groundwater. These modern Persian Wheels

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

switched on power according to their quota.

Water was not far down – the artesian Ganges

ran under marshland. She plodded on, then saw

her school with its pipal tree and felt relief.

Here she could push the Yogi from her mind.

24.11

Or so she thought. After morning assembly

and first lessons sitting on strips of matting

teachers with their incorrigible canes

drilled mindlessness into mindlessness.

So she hid in the back-room of her own

entering the dusty office before the heat

turned the bricks into a potter’s oven.

She opened accounts, long hand folios

of running blue and blood-red ledger lines

where Margot totalled up her ins and outs:

the cost of textbooks, copies, rulers, pens,

the lack of school fees late as the monsoons.

Almost prescient, mind-reader, Mr Kumara

came in to chat about the school inspector.

24.12

Krishanand would be coming soon,

Krishanand would be demanding.

“No accreditation Madam without bribe.”

Krishanand would not be put off!

Krishanand would be harassing us.

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

The school inspector would coerce,

The school inspector would be closing them.

“No choice Madam. Someone has to pay.”

Krishanand will pull strings, Krishanand will poison ears.

Krishanand will not spare a decent soul.

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

She listened, turning his tirade down to zero.

It was less pressing than her silent pain.

24.13

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

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

Accounts had not been settled. Losses incur;

personal debts go deeper into the red.

She’d spoken truth and now regretted it,

and feared he would lose his way with Barhai,

fearing too that she would have to sit

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

she had lived in Paris, learned survival praxis,

she had got through Slaterman, her rotten beau,

endured Pierre her second evil axis,

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

24.14

The thing was to stay at ease

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

feel the gusts of breeze

testing how papaya trees must sway.

See how Prakriti’s knees

open toward Rajinder — saying “you may”;

and how the marshland bees

go flower to flower, while never going astray.

And high reprise

of a river osprey circling on time delay,

the twitch, unease

of the grey field vole scarpering out of the way.

Tactics, philosophies

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

“Come back Yogi, please.

This morning was my moment of foul play.”

ZACKMANN

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

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

SPATE

Cabin Fever in New Hampshire

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bears hibernate.

We hibernate bare.

TOM

Up the Rabbit Hole Part 2

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

A Well Defined Relationship Part 33

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

CLIFF

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

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

JULIE

You were the new girl in town

Your big, noisy Irish family,

That bucketfull of kids–

In the summer of 1976,

You moved to my neighborhood.

We danced on my lawn.

You wanted to be a cheerleader,

Like your big sister.

And I practiced with you–

When we were done,

We closed our eyes

Up at the hazy August sky,

Our lips bright pink,

Stained from popsicles,

Lying in the moist grass,

Planning our conquests.

September came.

You made it,

New friends

And left me behind.

I was not angry.

I was the old girl, the good friend

The one who stayed in back,

Keeping account.

Quietly.

NORVAL JOE

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

DANNY

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

JUSTIN

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

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

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

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

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

Who is he? He’s an a Count Ant.

MUNSI

Another Pep Talk

By Christopher Munroe

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

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

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

However, this is not that day.

Now: Lets get out to the pub.

PLANET Z

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

Weekly Challenge #404 – NOT FOUND

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:

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.

Weekly Challenge #403 – Lemon

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:

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.

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.

Weekly Challenge #402 – Horn

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:

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.

Weekly Challenge #401 – Coast

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:

(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.

Weekly Challenge #400 – Anything But Christmas

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:

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.

Weekly Challenge #399 – Spy

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:

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

bird”

“describe”

“i

spy

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.

Weekly Challenge #398 – Blame

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:

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.