Weekly Challenge – Page 67 – The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Weekly Challenge #384 – Accident

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 ACCIDENT.

We’ve got stories by:

– NO RECORDING

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

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.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 13

Her late human often said “Parsons Parse.” The Bowsman’s statement left
little doubt she had just exchanged a unit of favor, further the subtext
of Senator PorkBarrel’s worthiness pointed to the need for additional
commitment. The widow removed her wedding ring. Placed it square in front
of the Senator. If he took it he was bound to the role of marriage broker.
If he rejected it he might as well writing-off the widow vote. As the
smile migrated between the women it dawned on him he was F!D It was no
accident his presence at The Tea, he’d been played.

###

Accidents by their mire nature are anything but. A collection of quite
purposeful actions set in concert locked to time and place producing an
event rarely viewed as favorable. Take the sudden appearance of a thunder
shower on a previous parched patch of pavement. Add to this Sunday
motorists pressing to get home before dark. Compound that to the low
center of gravity of the Ford Econoline Van. The Stage is set for an
illegal lane-change. The force of the impact was sufficient to both popped
the passenger door open and throw me across all four lanes of the freeway.

JEFFREY

In an Instant
by Jeffrey Fischer

Contrary to the cliche, nothing about the accident appeared to happen in slow motion. Instead, the incident was over in an instant. A flash of light, a squeal of brakes, the sound of metal crumpling. When the airbag deployed, the sensation of fabric against her face felt like an anticlimax.

The police officer first at the scene asked if she was hurt. He sounded genuinely concerned. Still dazed, she could only nod, hoping that this was the truth. She suspected his attitude would change when one of his colleagues discovered the body in the trunk. Funny how life can change in an instant.

Accidents Happen
by Jeffrey Fischer

Eyedropper. Test tube. Petri dish. Test. Repeat with fresh glass to avoid contamination. “What a boring job,” Ted thought. Time after time, he performed the experiment and found nothing. His dad was right: Ted should have gone into plumbing. At least there was the chance of screwing a bored housewife. Instead he was stuck in a lab coat, and the only female flesh nearby, Caitlin, was enough to make celibacy sound attractive.

Forgetting to replace the used eyedropper was a mistake made out of his boredom. And really, by the time the organism had grown to occupy the entire lab, achieved sentience, and declared itself Supreme Leader, blaming Ted was low on the priority list.

RICHARD

#1 – Accident

George couldn’t sleep – the journey was uncomfortable and noisy, and the fear of the unknown refused to let him rest.

Alone and frightened, his mind kept returning to the accident.

Everything had been fine, completely normal, in fact before that fateful day – was it possible that he was still in some sort of trauma? Maybe he was still lying in a hospital bed, unconscious, whilst his mind played these obscene tricks on him?

The line of thought was tempting, but the all too real motion of the truck, and the pain from his injured shoulder told an altogether different story.

#2 – Intelligent Design?

I’ve always disagreed with the idea that we came into being by accident – it’s plainly ridiculous to suggest that the universe and all life within it, in all its complexity, should have come into being as a result of some cosmic series of fortuitous coincidences – that’s like throwing a canvas and paints into a box, giving them a good shake, and ending up with the Mona Lisa.

Plausible?

No.

The alternative though? The suggestion that some all-powerful being designed all of this…

C’mon – if you were almighty and omnipotent, wouldn’t you have come up with something better than this?

#3 – Accident of birth

My parents always said I was an accident. I wasn’t planned – a moment of drunken passion and, before they knew it, I arrived – an unwelcome and unwanted burden.

Despite which, I managed to make something of my life, although without the parental support that others seemed to enjoy; nevertheless, I persevered and made something of my life.

Now, my parents are old and needy, and they look to me for support and care: To me, an unwelcome and unwanted burden.

Well, I managed to make it on my own – I guess they’re just going to have to do the same!

#4 – Bizarre

We just love them!

Not your mundane slips, trips and falls; you can keep your everyday tumbles, crashes and collisions… we want more.

Give us eye candy and stomach-churning descriptions, keep us on the edge of our seats, anticipating what’s to come.

You know what we want – only to hear that simple, four-word preface: ‘In a bizarre accident…’

The weird and the wacky: with fence spikes and harpoons, nail guns and naked flames, razor blades and ricochets. X-rays of impossible insertions and mind-boggling mishaps. Blood, guts and gore; bemused emergency crews, baffled surgeons.

That’s what we want!

LIZZIE

Forever committed to his investigation, Thomas was a renowned pioneer. He created so many improvements in the genetics of humans over the years that the other races began to express their concerns quite vocally. After all the agreement was to keep all forms of life balanced so that none would be tempted, as it happened in the past, to subdue the others. But they shouldn’t have been concerned, actually. Thomas wasn’t able to share the last results of his work. By accident, his tinkering with genes produced a breed of highly effective serial killers who had a taste for… humans.

SINGH

With the far corner of the building in collapse, the remaining plinths beneath disintegrated in a sudden vertical rush burying those on the first and second levels beneath drowning rubble. Bhim, took a breath and followed by Devika, leapt the remaining six or seven metres into the choppy flood clutching the infant. His one thought on touching bottom was to spring the child to surface, which he did holding Priya above his head like a prize. Somehow, Devika was soon bobbing next to them amidst hundreds of others who had also leapt from the roof, screaming and floundering to remain buoyant.

Bhim Das passed the baby to Devika and then said, “Climb up.” With that, he bobbed underwater, rising up with her legs around his neck. There were many around him, but he paid no heed. The notion of community had been irrevocably shattered. Forcing himself on without direction or plan he began to wonder whether the farmer son of Raj Das and Meena Devi from district Sitapur had ever existed. The past was submerged, until he felt the weight on his shoulders and remembered a wife and child. “Is the baby…?” he asked.

As if on cue, poor Priya cried out.

He didn’t know how long he had waded ahead with a blunted consciousness. Sometimes he stumbled but regained his footing, balancing Devika like an acrobat. The truth was– without her and Priya he could have easily succumbed to the idea of slipping away into the brackish water. By now, the mad storm has dissipated to drops of rain as the darkness gave way to vague shapes and the first flare of sunrise. Just as it was bad luck to look back when embarking on a long journey, he pressed doggedly on, wading toward what looked like an island of floating foliage.

Wading ahead Bhim survivors were in river boats poling through the deluged rice fields. Others were also up to their necks, but floating pots of drinking water in front of them upon the waves. More were on top of thatched roofs that had been tethered between palm trees, walls or power poles. Approaching the drowned trees Bhim now took in the body of man hooked above over a limb. A dramatic accident. He still might snap out of it. Inspecting closer, it was clear he had breathed his last, here where the steamroller flood had collected him, fatally winded.

Then Devika heard the bleating. “There! Beneath,” she said. Bhim waded closer. Below the corpse, was a spoon-shaped boat with a half-cylindrical roof of black plastic. Obviously the man had run aground. Even the long paddle was still tied to a rope floating in the water and a goat was crouched and shivering on top beside a cooking pot. Bhim reached through foliage to liberate the craft, pulling at the liana tangle. Suddenly he felt something move. The green bar was a vine snake, camouflaged and living here off geckoes, birds and frogs. Bhim withdraw his hand with cautious respect.

After some effort he disentangled the boat from the tree island and helped his wife and daughter aboard. Then he clambered up, hauled in the pole trailing behind on its rope. feeling a great sense of relief. Sighing, the pent-up exhaustion hit him then, and he lay on his back, inside the small shelter aware now for the first time of his furiously beating heart fuelled by adrenalin alone during the hours of darkness. For the first time he allowed himself to think of his lost mother and two small rivers began to trickle from his eyes.

With Devika and Priya at rest, Bhim finally sat up. Luck had provided a boat and a goat. He hesitated to call it blessing, having endured God’s recent handiwork. He remembered melting glacier headlines from the flood-hit northern state of Utterakhand, and the huge army operation mounted with helicopter evacuation sorties and distribution of foodgrains, kerosene and LPG. Some politician had made a withdrawal from his vote-bank, unlike what happened in West Bengal and neighbouring Bangladesh, forever cyclone prone. Governments had ample rhetoric, but little political interest to address what seemed unsolvable. No. They were on their own.

His thoughts too, returned to old Bapu. Bhim had railed against him in life and now his father returned to haunt him in death. “A man falls out of the sky only to land in a date palm with a snake,” the irritating voice of memory said. They had escaped from one crisis only to land up in another. Now the main challenge would be finding potable water. Every village pond and tube-well was submerged and now they were adrift in salty storm wash, navigating around bloating bodies of dead people and livestock — the liquid conductor of invisible bacterial death.

When he tried to visualise some place that might offer the hope of life, he thought of the jungle. In coastal Bengal this meant the mangrove island estuaries, the Sundarbans teaming with wildlife. A locals had to be licensed to fish, gather wild honey or firewood there. He had been with fisherman Varun Das Uncle many times as a youngster and he knew his way. Those trips had been some of his happiest memories, although the place was not without its challenges and real dangers. Bhim looked at the position of the morning sun and started to pole with fresh vigour.

TURA

Accident
——–
Hey, officer, it was an accident! How could I have known he’d just walk into the road?

I braked fast as I could, but in rain like this, and the wipers not working, what chance did I have? They should have better lighting here anyway.

Bald tyres? They passed the annual inspection, got the certificate right here!

Yes, that’s my whisky bottle, and I could do with one right now. What do you think it was like for me, running over a kid like that? And the car looks like a write-off.

Arrest? You’re kidding, right? It was an accident!

ZACKMANN

“Congratulations on your success, I love your Undersea Radish Kingdom books, cartoons, and toys. I have a King Wasabi action figure complete with his sea horseradish myself. Would you like to tell the audience the secret of your success?” said the show host.

“Our story not unlike the cough syrup carbonated water was mistakenly put in that became Coca-Cola or the soap mixing machine that was left on overnight that became the original floating Ivory soap is the story of a fabulous accent. In our case it involved a Lovecraft fan fiction with a spellchecker that changed Dagon to Diagon.”

SERENDIPITY

The accident investigation report was damning: the brake fittings were faulty. A thirty cent securing pin was missing, leading to catastrophic failures at high speed.

Several fatalities, followed by a rash of law suits and a product recall of all affected models brought the company to the verge of bankruptcy. The negative publicity and subsequent nose dive in sales effectively finished the job.

Harold Denton put down his morning paper, shaking his head at his ex-employer’s misfortune.

That would teach them to make him redundant!

The only problem now was what to do with fifteen thousand useless brake securing pins.

CLIFF

One week ago, my wife and I were driving home. As I entered a downtown intersection, I saw a flash of white. A GMC pickup truck slammed into our van. For a moment, my entire universe was crumpling metal and shattering glass. When the world was still again, we determined that we were breathing and relatively unharmed. Soon, the circus of firemen, police, tow truck drivers, and curious onlookers was in full swing. We eventually made it home and to bed. In the morning, I saw the topic for the next challenge. Accident. My suggestion for next week? Free money.

The Vreen had crossed hundreds of light years to let us know that we weren’t alone in the galaxy. They said they wanted to share their knowledge with us. Their technology was amazing. Their ships were sleek and beautiful, each powered by a captured black hole. Therein lay the problem. One pilot misjudged his landing and came down too hard. No one was hurt, but the power core broke open and the tiny black hole fell into the Earth. They estimate we have about a century before it eats the planet. And they say they feel really bad about that.

JUNE

Ebony gates shuttered. Their squealing movement made Iorian want to cry out for mercy.

Not an appropriate sound to allow to escape, especially since a prisoner snuck out through the tunnels this evening. Headaches were a curse on any sorcerer. Despite his credentials, Iorian, the Bane of Existence, was not an exception to this fact.

It all started after the summoning accident. Iorian thought he was casting the right runes, but his magnifying lens wasn’t powerful enough for him to read his spellbooks anymore.

And now the poltergeist wouldn’t allow him to work long enough to make a new one.

DANNY

Great news this week! Nissan is the first automaker to promise self-driving cars by 2020. Accidents will be a thing of the past. This will be a golden era, where you will see a resurgence of drinking and driving, which in this automated future will be legal because you will not be in actual physical control of your car, a computer will! I can see it now, cruising down the highway drunk off your ass, chugging vodka from a large bottle while waving at the enraged officer in his computer controlled police cruiser in the lane next to you. “Bye-bye, Officer!”

NORVAL JOE

Figuring two out of three eyes should be enough, Flooob held the joystick of his Sandblaster 487 with his middle prehensile eyebrow instead of using his tentacles, as proper vehicle operation recommended. He winked his rightish eye at his date and slobbered winningly when she shimmered.
“Waarrrrgggg,” Slimbish gurgled making Flooob blush.
Keeping his leftish eye on the terrain whizzing below he intertwined two thirds of his appendages with the girls.
He never saw the Kraddle Gliff squad approach from behind the cactus to his right.
They declared it an accident, but it was actually a series of poor choices.

MUNSI

The Accident

By Christopher Munroe

They were going to change mankind forever.

To reanimate dead cells, such that even after the moment of death a cure might yet be found for a given affliction? Nothing would be the same!

Yet, that fateful night, an accident occurred.

A barrier broke, safety precautions, though taken, proved insufficient, and real life got in the way.

Doesn’t it always?

And when it did, a world ended, and a new one began. One nobody could ever have foreseen…

…sorry, the experiment went fine. I should have said that earlier.

However, at the party afterward, the lead scientist’s girlfriend became pregnant…

PLANET Z

Just when I finished strapping Little Teddy into his baby car seat, he pissed his diaper.

So, I had to pull him out, open up the back hatch, and change him in there.

By the time I got him back in the baby seat, he’d shit himself.

Another trip to the hatch to change him.

The phone rang. “Where the hell are you two? Is he okay?”

“Just a little accident,” I said to my wife.

She freaked out, and I had to say it was in his diaper, not a car accident.

Next time, we’re getting a goddamned puppy.

Weekly Challenge #383 – Just

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 JUST.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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.

JEFFREY

Circus Act
by Jeffrey Fischer

“Inspector, over here.” I wandered through the circus’s administration center toward the direction of the forensic specialist’s voice. “This is… just bizarre.”

I studied the blood spatter. The void it left suggested a killer of just around four feet tall.

“Just a minute. Give me some time to think.” To my right was a sign for the midgets’ dressing room. The door to my left led to the child-care center.

“We need to wrap this case soon, sir,” said my sergeant, handing me a set of latex gloves. ” A group of female gymnasts are visiting today, and they’re already waiting at the gate.”

“They’ll have to wait a little longer. This case is just baffling. I have no idea where we could find a suspect who fits that description.”

Business 101
by Jeffrey Fischer

The factory was a model of just-in-time delivery. Orders came in from the customer, and the company’s purchasing agents set out to obtain parts to be delivered just as needed during the assembly process. Suppliers – even those as far away as Asia – worked with the company to assure a seamless process.

This worked well for years. Then one day the phone rang for a new order. The factory couldn’t get commitments for delivery of essential parts. The customer was furious. The company president had to call to explain the situation.

“General, I’m very sorry. In retrospect, it just wasn’t a good idea to have no parts inventory for our missiles, especially for key components from our Asian supplier. In fairness, though, sir, how was I supposed to know your boss planned on declaring war on China?”

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 12

Normally Timmy would not have indulged in the premium amenities, but his
new status of Profit seemed to have come with an ample amount of perks.
Just for starters his suit and shoes where run through a separate unit.
Then there was the unmetered Mark 7 with undulating shower heads. And
finally a service that defied any level of justification the Micronite
body scrubbers often credited with causing spontaneous premature puberty.
Over the nano roar Timmy heard Sparky cry out. Dashing to the lobby Timmy
was confronted with six men wearing silver cullenders. “We’ve come for
justice.” railed the Pastafarites.

EXPLORER

just defines wisdom, and understanding of life, and the depth of the human soul. Just defines how we humans interact with one another, and how easily we can be torn apart by words of another. just Breathe, and concentrate on centering the emotions of the heart. I hope you find the words to help you look beyond the twisted knots, and help you find your inner peace. just Breathe.
just Breathe Angel Desires Absent Valued
Chasing Fears
T rust Spilled T ears
Whispers Inside Shining Knotted Moonbeams
just Breathe Cherished Dreams Hope
Rising

RICHARD
#1 – Just for once

As the truck rumbled on into the night, George slumped into a corner, ruminating on his bad fortune.

The accident had been bad enough – all he could remember were snatches of that fateful journey… the car spinning crazily, the sickening crunch of metal, then the emergency room and anxious doctors, then… nothing.

Nothing until he awoke in a silent, empty hospital to this crazy nightmare.

Why did these things always happen to him, he agonised?

Staring into the darkness he wished, just for once – just once – why couldn’t things go right for him?

Or was that just asking too much?

#2 – Rough Justice

Morgan the Just had a reputation for being a harsh, but fair king. He ruled with a rod of iron, and nations bowed to his reasoning. At his hands the kingdom prospered and his passion for justice brought him respect from far and wide.

But not from everyone.

His wife was a nightmare and, no matter how hard he tried, she was impossible to please. Far worse, she always had things her way.

Often, Morgan would muse about his misfortune… oh, the irony of it: respected by millions and derided beyond reason by just one.

Where’s the justice in that?

#3 – Just one more…

Just one more and he’d have done it – the world domino-toppling record would be his, and those who had doubted him would finally have to eat their words!

He savoured his moment of triumph – it felt good.

Selecting a double-six with care, he kissed it and prepared to stake his claim in domino-toppling history.

The sneeze was the type that catches you completely unprepared… no gradual wind up and false starts, but a sudden violent explosion of involuntary sound and motion.

The domino flew from his hand, with inevitable consequences…

And he’d only needed just, one, more.

MUNSI

Just

By Christopher Munroe

Remember that Radiohead song with the guy laying in the street?

A crowd gathered and asked why, and when he told them they collapsed, paralyzed by the revelation.

You know the one.

I can’t tell you how many times I watched it, trying to figure out what he says at the end.

Hundreds, easily.

I saw it again the other day, for the first time in years. I think I’ve finally figured out what he said.

I’ll tell you, if you like.

Just… not now.

For now, I just want to lay here.

Just for a minute.

Just to recover…

SINGH

The high winds also brought a cyclonic thunderhead of conflicting thermals. They smashed the low-lying delta peninsular — just like a fist cracking the bony fingers of a hand. Walls of water surged over flimsy estuary embankments and flooded inland, uprooting and washing away the thatched mud huts, roads and settlements. Hundreds of thousands of acres of rice and jute disappeared under the sudden sheet of in-rushing ocean. Families woke in chaos and many were immediately swept away to oblivion. Others more lucky had a small window of opportunity to pack and flee with whatever meagre belongings they could carry.

Bhim put Devika, clutching their baby girl onto the cart. Then, while helping his mother up she dropped her brass pot packed with rice grains. It tumbled away into the rising water.

“Hai!” Meera screamed.

Bhim reached down and retrieved it. Sadly, all of the precious rice had now dispersed in the floodwater. Nothing could be done. “Chello!” he said. “Let’s go.”

Setting off, he soon offered Narayani Mata a ride, but their old widowed neighbour refused to abandon her bony cow. Having seen floods and ruined crops she knew she would starve without milk anyway, and resigned to her fate.

The road to Sitapur was clogged with fleeing families. Bhim Das beat the bullock’s rump until the cart could progress no more. He freed the beast, dragging his family toward the old dilapidated flood shelter. It was a two-storey concrete building on four plinths with stairs, balconies and a flat roof. This was a vote-catching initiative of some old regime. There were too few scattered along the coastline. This stationary structure was already over-crowded. Bhim and his family fought through huddled shapes and managed to climb, push and squeeze past complaints to find a corner on the roof.

The four took shelter under a tarpaulin of stitched-together fertiliser bags previously used to cut and wrap roadside grass. Bhim Das had salvaged it from the cart. Now it became a tent with squatting heads and shoulders for poles. They huddled together sharing warmth and tried to sleep through the storm. Palm trees had snapped like toothpicks. Seawater was encroaching. Goats, cows and buffaloes were in distress. Slow moaning and bleating scraped along human nerves as they floundered to find any foothold in the deluge, eventually going under one by one. Meena Devi, clung onto her bronze Lakshmi and prayed.

The cyclone shelter had doubled as a school with rotten foundations and white-washed walls needing repair. After bureaucratic kickbacks, foreign aid’s cannibalised funds could only build with porous cement. 2000 were now packed onto three floors meant for 800, each with just one metre to squat in, including the pregnant and the elderly. Emergency store rations had long ago turned a profit on the black market through Devendra Gosh, the government official-in-charge. There was no cooking fuel, the latrines had never worked and survivors were only a fraction of the displaced, or those floating face down like logs.

Bhim’s family made it through the gale-force night praying to the goddess Lakshmi. Meera collected run-off from the fertiliser-bag tent in the cooking pot and they took careful sips. Going to the toilet the next day was a whole other problem with 800 exposed on the roof. They squatted in turn above a rusty bucket, petrol tin or some plastic motor oil containers with the tops cut off passed on until brimming with faeces, then dumped over the side into the floodwaters. Rain continued to pelt down with ferocity, pinning Bhim and family underneath their makeshift synthetic tarpaulin.

The shelter was so far just holding out, but the concrete steps and supporting plinths were being consumed by rising tide. As long as the storm surged, those on the roof could exist on sips of collectable rainwater, but others locked together on the lower levels could barely move, each in their meagre metre of shitting space. All were dehydrating badly, some with respiratory problems due to cloying suffocation. By the second day the cyclone shelter had drawn first blood — two newborn infants and an old man wheezing away life on his daughter-in-law’s lap. Death’s bad news spread fast.

Meera Devi still felt guilty, having earlier let the rice pot slip from her grasp climbing onto the cart; and now there were only three onions left knotted in her shawl. Onions discouraged thirst, although not for long. She propped Lakshmi up against a crack progressing up the concrete wall. She could only close her eyes and wave an imaginary ghee light on a tray, She visualised garlands, burning incense, piles of mangoes – and mentally poured unhusked rice over her deity’s feet like an endless showering of gold coins. “Please take me, but save my family,” she bargained with her goddess.

Meanwhile, Devika feeling her milk drying up from dehydration and anxiety couldn’t satisfy her suckling infant who bit harder for nourishment. The young woman’s strength was dissipating. It worried her. A mother is a milk tap. How long could her baby last? Mother Meera understood, stopping her sips for Devika’s and Priya’s sake. Bhim Das felt helpless too. His waterlogged fields would soon rot. As Bapuji said: “A farmer is only a lord at harvest time.” He couldn’t feed his family on air like some non-eating yogi. The shelter was delaying the inevitable and cruelly forcing them to befriend death.

Around 4am cyclonic winds and a fresh wave of storm surge began to rock the overcrowded ark. The foundations splintered. Then, one of the four supporting concrete plinths snapped and the corner opposite Bhim’s family collapsed. The only thing left to do was to leap from the ledge behind them. Meera Devi had already made her pact with Lakshmi. “Go,” she said to Bhim. “Take them.”

“”Ma!”

“Just go.”

The roof tipped, sliding away human cargo off its deck like a boat and passengers going down. He waited until the last moment, grabbed his baby girl and wife and then jumped.

LIZZIE

After the police showed up, there was nothing else that could be done. They found a whole room filled with photos covering the walls all the way up to the ceiling. The first time she spotted him, he was standing in his veranda, holding binoculars. “What a perv,” she thought. Months of multiple complaints followed. All got lost in a torrent of paperwork. His last words were “I was just…” He kept a diary, the police found out later. He was in love, fatally in love. Her destiny also had a fatal twist to it. She was convicted to life.

CLIFF

History calls him Mathias the Just. You may ask how one gets a description of “The Just”. After all, he frequently beat his own sons for minor infractions. He once locked his wife out of the house for a night because she had let his soup get cold. Mathias was a swindler, an adulterer, and quite possibly a murderer. So why did the history books call him Mathias the Just? Because, in that village, only Mathias could read and write and he wrote the history book. However, he couldn’t record who was wielding the meat cleaver that ended his life.

I believe we should strike the word “just” from our vocabulary. Everything is important. Just a wife and mother? Do you know what goes into running a proper household? What about the phrase “It’s just a cold”? That’s how we lost Jim Henson. Everything and everyone is important. Maybe not to you, but to someone. Write someone off as just another person and you may miss out on a job opportunity, a new friend, or even a lover. No one is just anything. Everyone is important and special. Well, except for David Lee Roth. He really is just a gigolo.

TURA

General Wei issued a decree that all trade take place at the just price. “Charging more is extortion; charging less is competition; offering more is bribery; offering less is oppression. Free trade is conspiracy against the realm, for all belongs to the Emperor, who orders men’s estates.”

He instituted the Committee of Justers, to decide the just price of every thing, and the just punishments for illegal trade. Oppressors and competitors would be stretched on the rack by the same proportion as their prices fell short, and bribers and extortionists were sent to be precisely shortened by the executioner’s saw.

DANNY

Another article in this morning’s newspaper calling for change to Florida’s self-defense laws in the wake of the Trayvon Martin case. Once again, a re-invention of facts to fit a scenario of racism different than the evidence presented at trial. If the media used the actual facts, it would be hard to define pulling a gun while flat on your back having your head pounded into the ground an act of racism. Or should we call the woman from NJ pummeled in her home by a black assailant in front of her 3 year old child a racist? Is that just?

JUSTIN

When the day started out, I had a hangover, and the submarine I was in sank, and New York was in ruins. On the bright side, after washing up after some strange ship took potshots at us, I met a man. He said I was the only hope he had, then he gave me a spiffy nano suit. Powered combat armor. It allowed me to jump higher, run faster, all that jazz. There was just one little thing the man who gave it to me neglected to tell me. A whole army would be out to kill me. Thanks buddy.

ZACKMANN

“Justice Justin Johnson Jets to Jamaica in January just for Jamaican jerk.” said Jake

John asked “Just what do you think you are doing?”

“I was trying to make an alliteration. Do you think Jamaica has Jeepneys? Would it be unjust to go poetic licence just to have the right sound.”

“Jake, Just maybe I am jaded but I think Justice Johnson should have revoked your poetic licence long ago.”

Jake starts again “Justice Justin Johnson JaJaJa.”

“The Cat got your tongue? I’ve never seen someone tongue-twisted before. Now that is an example poetic justice if I’ve ever seen one.”

PLANET Z

Billy had never beaten Ted at Words With Friends.

He was a hundred points down, tiles were running out, and he and had nowhere to go.

His phone beeped, and he looked.

The triple word was open on the left side.

His car hit a bump and his rack shuffled:

It spelled JUST… wait, hold on: JUSTICE.

Billy looked at the board… it fit perfectly! Not only would it hit the triple, but the J would be on a triple letter, too!

That’s when he ran the red light, and the truck slammed him from the left.

Ted remained unbeaten.

Weekly Challenge #382 – Billions

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 BILLIONS.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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

Billions
—-
When I was five, the universe scared me. The big encyclopedia talked about billions of years, billions of billions of miles. When I worked out what a billion was, I was terrified. “But what’s it all for?” I wailed. “Wait till you’re my age,” said my mother.

When I was thirty-three, I asked her again, “So, what’s it all about, remember?” But she just said, “wait till you’re my age”.

She died at seventy-six, and now here I am, seventy-six myself, her age at last. And I still don’t know what it’s all for.

I guess that’s what she meant.

JEFFREY

Cosmos
by Jeffrey Fischer

When the cosmos were formed, gases coalesced to create galaxies, solar systems, planets. Billions and billions of planets. Some of those planets contained bits and pieces of life – life that grew and evolved into sentience.

In the nearly-infinite potential for extraterrestrial life among those untold billions of planets, isn’t it strange – isn’t it just the tiniest bit odd – that the life science fiction shows find tends heavily toward the humanoid? In fact, many alien species are indistinguishable from humans.

Perhaps this just reflects the bias on the part of explorers, recognizing sentient life more often when it looks like us. But a cynic might think this reflects tight budgets and/or a lack of imagination.

Upward Mobility
by Jeffrey Fischer

When he was a child, Barney stole. He stole from his mother’s wallet, he stole money from his brother’s lemonade stand, he stole candy and comic books from the drugstore.

As an adult, Barney had greater ambitions. He stole an identity, took a job as a bond trader, and eventually made it to the top of Goldman Sachs, where he was able to steal millions from unsuspecting investors.

Still, this wasn’t enough for Barney. He parlayed his access to power into a political career. Now he steals billions at a time and is honored for it.

A Well Defined Relationship Part 11

“Third base,” cried the crowd, roars of laughter, applause, up go the
house lights. Banister paused in the lobby for a cigarette. A hand reaches
out to light his Camel. “Rio Bravo, pretty damn good way to get my
attention. Dino Mod gesture towards the main casino. “Sorry Pilgrim I
don’t gamble.” “Neither does Mr Wyn.” Billionaire Barnard Wyn was the
second richest man in Bowsmen a far cry less respectable then Angus, he
was no less influential in matters of practical governance. There were a
billion good reasons to make for the stage, and one to continue forward.

CLIFF

The Galactic Empire is a very large place. Three hundred billion stars, give or take. Granted, only one percent of those stars have worlds that support life, but that’s still three billion star systems. Billions of worlds each home to billions of sentient beings. That’s a lot of people when you start doing the math. Now, taking all that into account, what do you suppose the odds are that of all the people who walk into all the bars on all the worlds, the one who walked in here tonight would be my ex-wife? That’s just how my luck runs.

Legend tells of a man who offended the gods so deeply that they decided to destroy the world. One goddess felt sorry for mankind and pled their case. She was somewhat successful. The destruction would be postponed. The man was ordered to count the grains of sand on every beach in the world. When he was finished, so was the world. That’s why, whenever see an old man on the beach who looks like he’s concentrating very hard on the sand, I start shouting random numbers at him until he gets frustrated and goes away. You know, just in case.

RICHARD

#1 – Rethink

Gingerly, George clambered towards the rear doors and peered through – the container appeared to be on the back of a truck, speeding down an otherwise empty road.

Nothing made sense: for the first time since waking in hospital, George found himself questioning the assumptions he’d made. Of the billions of possibilities, killer plants, zombies and alien invasions now seemed the least likely scenarios.

That was probably a good thing, but the more likely possibilities were equally worrying – was he in the midst of a civil war? Had somebody dropped the bomb?

All he could do now, was wait and see.

#2 – Invasion

They came, and there was nothing we could do to stop them.

Not in their hundreds, not in their thousands, not even in their millions… when they came, it was a horde so vast that no human being could grasp their sheer numbers.

When they came, it was in their billions

An army blotting out the light of the sun; destroying everything in its path and leaving nothing in its wake.

We were defenceless and, although we had the power to simply crush their tiny bodies in our hands – size isn’t everything – it’s numbers that count.

And the locusts won.

#3 – Billions

How is it possible that out of all the billions of galaxies, and the infinite billions of stars and their planets that this could happen?

How is it possible that out of the billions of people on this planet and the countless billions of possible places they could choose to be, that this should occur?

What are the odds that two people should run into each other in the same bar, at the same time, just as we did.

And what are the chances, I would run into my boss on the day I should have been working from home?

SERENDIPITY

The project had taken many years, and cost billions in public money, but at last it was finally complete!

The SS Bubonic sat majestically in dry dock, awaiting the moment of launch – the greatest marine vessel ever to be constructed. Forty-Two decks, gleaming white in the sun – she was larger than a small city and a supremely breathtaking sight.

The champagne crashed against her bow, and to massive applause she slid majestically into the sea… then sank, almost instantly, without a trace.

At the public enquiry, the architect’s defence was simple:

“Nobody told us that she had to float!”

JUSTIN

What do you do after raiding the dungeon and the prized artifact is in your hands, and your enemies close behind?

You could take your airship to fly away, but it’s not that great of an airship, and your enemies might catch up.

What you do is take the astral diamond you pulled out of a treasure chest and give it to the airship parking attendant so you can “accidentally” take the bigger, better airship of your enemies! That attendant won’t stick around and hope for grace from the victims. He’ll be long gone, billions of copper to his name.

MUNSI

Infinity

By Christopher Munroe

In a nearly infinite universe, there are billions upon billions of stars, surrounded by potentially trillions of planets.

Perhaps some of those planets do contain life. In fact, the law of averages implies that some must.

And yet, only one star in one small corner of the universe, and one planet circling it, with seven billion people inhabiting it, produced you.

Seven billion people on one of trillions of planets circling billions of stars, and yet…

There’s only

One

You

Nonetheless, don’t let that trick you into thinking you matter. Because in a nearly infinite universe, trust me, you don’t.

DANNY

“How much is it going to cost to run on the next Republican ticket for U.S. Senate?” the spineless wretch of a Christian white conservative male meekly asked. “Oh, it will cost billions, plus your soul, all deposited to me directly in the bank of China,” the Devil replied, not kidding. The Devil owned China, and all of the souls of the Billions of people there. Flash forward to Dr. Evil in the latest abomination of what is to be called the 4th Austin Powers movie, Dr. Evil demands one billion dollars. Chump change in the 2013 market, ask for more.

ZACK

She took a trip to the fair in Sacramento.

She bought the price bull.

She loves him more than the rest of her herd.

Don’t tease him or you will get trampled.

Get out of the way it’s Kathy’s Kalifornia Kow.

It’s Kathy’s Kalifornia Kow.

Get out of the way it’s Kathy’s Kalifornia Kow.

It’s Kathy’s Kalifornia Kow

She misses the milkfat from the Jerseys she had as a child.

Now she has a billion dollar ranch of holsteins

with a million dollar bull that’s not polled

Get out of the way it’s Kathy’s Kalifornia Kow

it’s Kathys Kalifornia Kow

LIZZIE

Billions was a great name for a book, he thought. It was easy to say and easy to remember. He was writing about the crisis, so it seemed appropriate. When he sat before the blank screen, the cursor blatantly mocking him, he felt the weight of not knowing where to start. Define billions, he thought, that should work… not. Billions of seconds ticked away, increasing his frustration. So, he took up drinking instead of writing. One day, being quite drunk, he hastily crossed the busy street. That’s when billions of atoms hit him. He never even saw the truck coming.

JUNE

The sorrows are draining from the sky. Billions of raindrops pelting the ground, each a tear of God’s, prayers unanswered from those who call to him every day. He cannot hold them all, and so the rain comes, pounding the earth, pounding our souls, and we are lost.

The pain does not end.

Anger, there is much anger at God. There are too many of us, his children, and though he loves us, there is not enough time, he did not give himself or his son enough time, and so we are lost.

And the pain does not end.

STEVEN

You are not one.

Subprocesses in your brain filter, process, and react before your conscious mind even perceives a thing.

The billions of germs in your body mass more than “you”. Everything from the bit of bacteria digesting your lunch to the rabies virus walking its way up the nerves to your brain.

Each, in turn, is made of molecules. Each molecule is a loose cloud of atoms. Each atom a cloud of potential and energy, more empty space.

You are mostly germs. They are mostly empty space.

No wonder you are lonely.

You are not one. You are nothing.

SINGH

The Lakshmi Plot

Outside the wind was banging, but Meera Devi kept washing the rice. She chanted Ram-Ram with each turn of her hand.

“Come,” she said to Devika, her daughter-in-law. “Bring Priya.” The elder woman reinforced what should be done to ensure abundance. Devika turned the rice also, and then pressed the baby brown hand into the cloudy water. Priya burst into tears.

Meera reached in, enclosing daughter and grand-daughters’ fingers. It felt comforting — three generations were united through the rice ritual rinsing away excess starch, leaving pure grains in the pot while praying to Lakshmi, goddess of wealth.

Bhim Krishna Das returned from the padi fields before sunrise, swiping the backside of the buffalo with his stick. Wearing only his wrap-around lungi knotted at the stomach he entered his enclosure, tying up the beast, then cut fresh grass into chewable chaff with the hand grinder. Bhim fed his animals, then crossed the compound. He found his jute-string charpoi, positioned it in the shade and lay down. This was his routine. Although they subsisted on only 2 acres of land, he never thought of himself as poor and since planting the new seed, yields had been very good.

Bhim was both sad and relieved his father had passed away three years ago. Now he had a free hand. Instead of replanting the seeds from the harvest, Bhim Das gladly used the seed companies’ higher yield variety. It was definitely superior and the money it generated did allow him to re-purchase fresh seed stock along with the pre-requisite pellets of urea each season. He even dreamed of one day owning a tractor and hiring himself out to other farmers to increase his income. Meanwhile, Devika came with a glass of sweet milky chai, the baby balanced on her hip.

She left, but soon returned with a stainless steel thali, piled high with rice along with a matching dish of gruel-yellow lentil dhal. In another metal dish was a cut red onion and a long green chili. Bhim Krishna Das sat cross-legged on his charpoi, poured the dhal over the rice and ate, occasionally licking the run-off from the side of his fist. He ate to the very last grain, one of billions from similar harvests along the delta where he and his community lived. Laying down, he said Ram-Ram a few times before falling asleep exhausted.

Bhim Krishna Das had inherited debts from his father. With a growing family there were more expenses also. To raise cash his only recourse was to regularly borrow against the coming harvest. The grain merchant would advance cash on interest, providing seed and fertilisers. During past decades the subsistence style of bio-diverse farming has shifted to monoculture cash-cropping. The grain merchant ultimately acted as a conduit for the big seed and fertiliser companies and the Government fixed-price buying system. Like all small farmers Bhim Krishna Das’s agricultural future was determined by outside forces, not to mention the weather.

Bapuji, his father Raj Das, like generations before him had propagated local strains of rice, millet, squash, corn and lentils. Agricultural pundits once claimed India produced 100,000 rice varieties alone, not to mention other produce; but since the 1960s, Bapu too had become one of millions cranking the new wheel of the Green Revolution to fulfill the government policy of national self-sufficiency. Despite the propaganda, Bapu resisted the one-season one-crop philosophy at heart. Traditional mixed farming methods spread the risks, although yields were less and in spite of the vagaries of the weather, rural life had seemed simpler.

Before too, neighbours bartered and cooperated to complement their harvests. For example, the old man had long ago let a neighbour keep his bee boxes in the mango grove for a portion of the honey. Or they shared tools, and even gave a hand with each other’s work when required. Above all, they took pride in the knowledge of breeding and hybridising seed stock which is the farmer’s art. His small holding had once rioted with variety and colour and there was the real satisfaction of living from one’s own rice, milk and produce. But mono-cropping had changed all that.

On the other hand, cash crops put money in the palm, promising of an affluent life. And the extra rupees allowed Bhim and other sons of the district to go to the newly white-washed government school. Thus, he thought himself the educated one in the family. He looked down upon his old-fashioned father. Young Das also kept up with the latest seeds and fertilisers, chatting with the peons at the Farmer’s Cooperative in nearby Sitapur, and as a badge of learning Bhim Das read the newspaper to the women in the house on his return from Market Day.

Thus, the young man worked hard. He bought the merchant’s seedling shoots and planted them in muddy rows. He channelled the irrigation flow, sometimes getting up in the middle of night whenever electricity was available to pump water. Although the delta silt was rich, rain was needed in the right proportion at the right time to produce premium grain. Tending wet shoots calf-high in slush, guarding against pests, birds and diseases was the farmer’s lot, and deep down he still knew his old irritating Bapu was right who regularly intoned: “Nature laughs at him who claims to own the land.”

There was a corner of the far field beside the old mango grove that had long been known in the family as Lakshmi’s Plot. Bhim’s ancestors had created a grotto from stones and placed a murti, a statue of the wealth goddess within. The spindly rice stalks that grew in that nook were tough, although meagre in yield.

“Do whatever you like when I die, but keep Lakshmi’s Plot. This is God’s bank account. Respect the Devi and she will bless you, Son.”

Bhim Krishna Das promised reluctantly. “Alright, Bapu.” He would much sooner have seeded the new genetically-modified grain.

The fickle mind of Nature was most evident through the monsoon’s coming — at first it was joyful relief after each killing summer. Clouds become drums. Then the slow tinkle of musical drops increases to a deluge blessing the rice fields. It fills cooking pots and old ghee tins used to catch leaks in the thatch roof, stuffed with polythene bags between the bamboo rafters. For hours, the steady ping-ping hit the meniscus of over-brimming containers. With one ear tuned to the sleeping infant, Devika was first to feel the wetness seeping up through her mattress. She raised the alarm.

TURA

Where are the aliens?

We know ways to send spaceships to the stars, and any rocky planet provides material to make more spaceships. We could colonise the whole galaxy at near light speed. It would only take a few hundred thousand years.

That’s an eyeblink on the cosmic timescale. The galaxy should be crawling with weird creatures already. So where are they?

I reckon nobody cares about hick planets like the Earth. All the action’s in the crowded centre of the galaxy. Billions of planets, and billions of people on every one, filled with stories that we will never know.

NORVAL JOE

“Here you go, Harry. Read this and see what you think,” the scientist said, handing him a long printout. “What’s this, Franz? The readout from the plasmi-quark microscope?” “You guessed it, Buddy. Look closely at the data on page four.” “There are billions of them, and on a spinning spherical mass. Did you note the angle of the mass’s axis?” “I did, Harry. And I measured the distance to the energy source it orbits.” Harry dropped into a chair, burying his face in his hands. “By searching for the smallest subatomic particle, we’ve peeked through a hole and found ourselves.”

PLANET Z

Ted was good with numbers.

But that’s all that was good about him, and for that, he was damned to Hell.

The Devil made him a deal: “You count to a billion out loud without a mistake, and I let you go.”

So, Ted tried. But no matter how close he got to a billion, something would go wrong.

Until, finally… he got to a billion.

The Devil is a man of his word, and he let Ted go.

However, Heaven wasn’t about to let an asshole sinner like Ted in.

So, he waited outside the gates, just counting souls.

Weekly Challenge #381 – Grace

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 GRACE.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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.

SINGH

Period of Grace

Singh

When they removed the little one from the humidicrib and unhooked her plasma tube, I knew we had to work quickly. Fortunately her twin brother was doing fine.

“This way,” the nurse said. I had already set up my tripod and lights in a vacant room and was ready for the little one in her infant whites. There were smears of blood here and there. Yes, in this case, it would be better to process these in black and white before passing them to the parents. Meanwhile, Dorothy and Moses Chen moved in a slow trance, she holding the delicate bundle.

How did I become a bereavement photographer? Well, I also had a twin who died at birth. In those days, the stillborns were whisked away to the mortuary with cold efficiency, lest the idea of death infect the realm of the living. Like Mother, I had longed to have a hand, footprint, or name tag saying Twin 1 or Twin 2, or a tiny lock of hair. Anything to remind me of my lost identical sibling. When I became a professional photographer I made it a point to volunteer for bereavement service so I could vicariously relive my own twin’s passing.

The Chens wanted photos of the little girl alone, the twins together, another with each parent separately and finally, the toughest one of all to shoot – the wholesome family portrait. Somehow this image was meant to be a smiling achievement, although under the circumstances we all knew it was a sad falsehood. Yet, that’s what photographers do — suspend moments and render stillborn the notion of death. By this stage, everyone including me were fighting back tears. It was an unbearable situation. I kept snapping for twenty painful minutes, yet hoping my humble monochromes would have lasting meaning for the stricken survivors.

I went home and transferred the shots to the computer, deleting the blurred duds. I did some quick edits and burnt the set to disc, then went to bed drained but glad my work was almost done. All that remained was to deliver the DVD in a couple of days.

When I rose the next morning and powered up my mobile phone, beeps sounded with a message: “We would be eternally grateful if you could come to our home at 2pm.” I figured they wanted the photos straight away. If wasn’t far, so I closed up my flat and drove over.

Moses opened the door.

“Thank you for coming.”

He led me into the lounge. Dorothy was on the sofa nursing her baby, softly singing, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.”

“So you’ve brought your son back already.” As soon as I had spoken I realised my error. Both the twins had been born premature and were on life support. They had brought the dead girl home. Dorothy was still in her slow trance, singing, “You make me happy when skies are grey.”

“The funeral counsellor was very compassionate to allow us to say goodbye for a little longer,” Moses whispered.

At first, I was shocked. It seemed macabre to be with grieving parents attending to a newly-dead child as if alive.
“Would you mind taking more photos? It would mean a lot to us — to Dorothy.”

Moses gestured, nodding toward her. He was gently handling his partner who still couldn’t let go.

“Of course.”

“Dorothy Darling. Let’s go into the twin’s room. Miss Wong is going to take more shots for the memory box.”

He eased her up as she nursed the swaddled bundle. I took out the small camera from my shoulder bag, following them into the baby room.

The Chens were first-time proud parents and had lovingly papered the nursery walls blue with sheep leaping over silver moons. There was a mobile of lucky pigs hanging from the ceiling and soft toys and books in corners and nooks. In the middle of the room were two baby cribs next to each other.

Dorothy placed the wrapped corpse in one. Now I could see the bluish angel face. I braced myself, stepped forward and snapped some more shots.

“Before she goes to the next world, she should’ve lived at least a little of life in this one,” Moses said.

After photographing the room, Moses led Dorothy, the infant girl and me back into the lounge.

“We will go for a drive, Miss Wong.”

Soon, we were pressing the lift and getting out in the parking bay. Dorothy sat at the back clutching the bundle to her bosom.

Moses said, “Darling, we should put her in the travelling basinet. It’s the law.” He prised the wrapped infant out of her arms and placed it in the basket that was held down firmly by harness clips. I climbed into the front passenger seat and Moses nosed the black SUV onto the street.

At Atomic Tots, a local kindergarten, we headed for the play swings. Dorothy clutched the infant as Moses pushed gently from behind.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Dorothy said.

I clicked shots and played along.

We were mobile again soon, stopping next outside the prestigious white walls of Singapore Chinese Girls School.

“This is my Alma Mater,” Dorothy said, chattering toward the basinet. “You will love it here – from Prep on, just like Mummy did.”

I took the pre-requisite happy snap and next we were slamming doors and driving on. The black SUV was beginning to feel like a slow-moving hearse.

And so her life journey rapidly progressed. We were a dark speck of mortality travelling the arterial freeways up and down the island. We passed blocks of flats and tall condominiums, each radially fed by a town centre. Moses and Dorothy were now both conversing with the little one, narrating a fast forward life – stopping at Raffles Junior College, at the National University of Singapore, telling of future law studies like her father’s. She would, no doubt marry an equivalent boy from a good family from her own social ranking and become a proud mother. Parental ambition had mapped everything out.

Finally, they steered the car north to Old Chua Choo Kang Rd and reached Nirvana Memorial Gardens Columbarium where Taoists and Buddhists bought space to house the ashes of the dead, following the motto ‘Rest in Prosperity’. Already they had taken a deluxe niche in the 6-star hotel-like complex, complete with Buddha Temple and highrise buildings either side for the remains of 50,000 deceased. Their niche was furnished in a fusion of Western and Chinese decor with sofa set for family visits. “This is where you will come Darling, and we will follow,” Dorothy said to the bundled babe.

My camera marvelled at the new luxurious hotel of departure. Here were laser lights, an iPOD-triggered sound system, theatrical smoke, a booming recorded voice chanting sutras for the ancestors. I photographed sky ceilings, golden Buddhas, koi ponds, reticulating waterfalls and safe deposit boxes of bone ash on every level of Nirvana. Cremation was now the promoted form of internment on this island, already digging up its cemeteries to build more condominiums and providing sleepless nights for the superstitious.

It was time. Moses rang for the funeral counsellor. A brief lifespan lived, they had to give over their flesh and blood.

I took my final photographs. Both now seemed better reconciled to the next stage of their dead daughter’s journey. I too, had felt I had lived a full brief life travelling in the families’ company like an honorary aunt. Then, they surprised me.

“Would you be our daughter’s Gan Ma, Miss Wong?” Gan Mas means ‘godmother’. Of course, my role was now redundant and neither was I religious, although in Chinese tradition a godparent performs a more social role. I would not have to find a suitable future husband, pay a dowry, nor raise the child should both the parents die.

By now my ‘professional bereavement photographer’ status had collapsed somewhere along the journey. I couldn’t refuse.

“Yes, I would be honoured to be…” And stopped. The little one didn’t have a name. “How will I call her?” I asked.

They looked to each other. Through the deep shock of the event, they had overlooked this essential part of the plan.

“You choose, Yi Mu.”

I paused, seeking inner inspiration. “Grace” was the word that came to mind.

They approved.

Thus, this is the story of Grace Chen who was born, lived a life and died.
I have the pictures to prove it.

JEFFREY

Faith and Deeds
by Jeffrey Fischer

Father Turner conducted his tour of the parish on Tuesdays. He made a point to visit Mrs. Shaffer every week, now that she could no longer leave her house, and there was never a shortage of the temporarily ill and infirm to comfort.

Although he continued to tend to the spiritual well-being of his flock, Father Turner was troubled by his own lack of grace. He did not know when his faith faltered; he only knew it was no longer with him. Good works were not enough to restore his state of grace, but, faith or no, his role was to minister to those who needed him.

Flying
by Jeffrey Fischer

When she danced, she could fly. Lithe and nimble, her body was entirely graceful as her feet lightly touched the floor, only to soar again and again. Only during these times did she feel fully alive. When she tried to explain this feeling to others, the usual response was a blank look. Words, she realized, were sometimes inadequate.

Then she would once again wake, her legs still the useless sticks they became after the accident. She would fight back the tears and begin the long process of getting out of bed. The dance would have to wait.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 10

Banister checked his ticket: 17d. He navigated his way pass knees and
chins to his seat. On stage a Tuxedoed MC martini and cigarette in hand,
bantered with the audience. Banister wondered what sort of man would
actively seek out a “Rat Pack” mod. “It’s a living,” said Dino Mod “I can
get you some garlic bread with that spaghetti, Pilgrim.” He stared
straight into his eyes. “Rio Bravo,” called back Banister. The smile
disappeared from Dino’s face. “Hey George get out here, I’m dying.” Halo
Burns and appeared with his wife. “Say Hello Gracie.” “Oh George your
confusing me.”

ZACKMANN

His Manager sat between Joe and a pretty woman.

“You were right, I do find him handsome and a nice dresser.”

“Oh, yes Joe is one my favorite clients but I don’t think he is reaching his full potential and I believe marriage would be good for his career.”

“I don’t know what if he doesn’t find me attractive?”

“I am right here!” said Joe “stop talking as if I am not. It’s making me very frustrated?”
“You might as well get used to being frustrated if I am going to make you two into the next Burns and Allen.”

RICHARD

#1 – Cargo

George barely had a moment’s grace to come to his senses before the container swung violently through an arc and, with an enormous crash, dropped like a stone.

In the confusion, he fell and, unable to stop himself, crashed headfirst onto the solid metal floor. The world went grey and fuzzy before turning completely black.

When he came to, it was some time before he realised the throbbing in his head wasn’t entirely due to the painful lump that had appeared there: the floor was vibrating and shaking. Now utterly bemused, George realised that the container was on the move.

#2 – Grace

When it came to clumsiness, she’d give most people a run for their money…

Singularly inept, socially awkward and probably the most ungainly woman I’d ever met – whenever her name came up in conversation, I’d chuckle: as long as she was around, there would always be someone more hopeless than myself!

She’d hijack conversations and muscle in on private gatherings, her fussing and flustering capable of upsetting even the most carefully laid plans – eventually we banned her from formal events altogether, thanks to her habit of upstaging everybody else.

If ever there was an unsuitably named woman, it was Grace!

#3 – Truth hurts (but, damn does it feel good!)

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence”, said my boss, voice laden with sarcasm – “do we have your permission to begin?”

“Actually, no!”, I replied, giving him a withering look; “I have something to say…

You are, without doubt, the worst, most obnoxious, self-serving manager I’ve ever had the displeasure to work under. You are rude, ignorant, pompous and a complete moron.”

He looked at me in shock.

“Oh, by the way… I quit!”
leaving the room, I ducked the stapler he threw at me – well, I never expected him to accept the truth with good grace!

DANNY

After sitting down at the dinner table, my mother said, “It’s your turn to say grace.” “OK,” I replied, and delivered the following: “A man who is not afraid is not aggressive, a man who has no sense of fear of any kind is really a free, peaceful man.” “What does that have to do with giving thanks for our food?” my mother quipped. “Until this year, I’ve been gripped with fear of losing all my material possessions, and now that I have, I no longer feel any fear. I’m at peace, and free to live my life with grace.”

MUNSI

I believe, I believe, we all will be received in Graceland…

Except for the clumsy.

Anyone clumsy gets turned away at the gates, cast out to wander, shunned and utterly alone, through the desolate, awkward wastelands from whence they came, and shall so wander until the day they die.

Hopefully that day won’t be long coming. Hopefully they’ll eventually bump into, trip over or fall upon something they can’t handle.

And then die, alone, as they lived, alone.

We, meanwhile, will relax in a land of permanent grace.

Well, you will.

I’m clumsy as hell, I likely won’t get in…

WOWO

Before I was even born, I was destined to it. My mom was a horrible driver. She just didn’t pay attention. My dad was awful with money. He couldn’t Not spend it. They both had the worst luck imaginable. At my first birthday party, the one where I was supposed to bury my face in the cake, my Dad did. Don’t ask.
My 16th birthday, I was supposed to get a car, right? Mom wrecked it on the way home.
My Sr. prom? I had 2 car accidents in 6 hours that day. I gave up and went in a cast, jeans and a t-shirt because my dress flew out the window into a puddle.
I’ve overdrawn my bank account more times than I can count. I’ve got 2 points left in my license. Broken more bones doing seemingly harmless stuff like, oh, walking.
My Dad named me after Gramma. Guess what her name was? Yep, Grace…
The irony has not escaped me…

CLIFF

The waitress brought our food and we were ready to tuck in when a quavering voice asked me if I was going to say grace. Mrs. Crenshaw was one of the “holier than thou” set at our church. I couldn’t stand her but when your pop is a deacon, you put up with a lot. My girlfriend and I bowed our heads and closed our eyes. I gave my thanks and said amen. When I opened my eyes, a piece of chicken was gone from my plate. The old lady was munching on a drumstick looking innocently out the window.
————-

I first saw her when she fell up the stairs. I’m still not sure how she managed that. I helped her to her feet. In the ten minutes I was with her as we walked, she dropped her phone twice, her purse once, knocked over a “wet floor” sign and tripped again. I know it’s impossible, but I swear she tripped on a shadow. I headed to class as we went our separate ways. I saw her again at the dance try outs. I shook my head but when she took to the stage, she had the grace of angels.

HOPE

“June? June Bug! What’s a 5-letter word that means elegance or beauty?”

Crossword puzzles. Pfffft. June poked a fork under her sponge curlers and scratched her head. What’s a 6-letter word for last nerve? Who dumpster dives for food and comes back with a puzzle book?

“Junie!”

“Class!” June yells from the kitchen. Not that there’s any class around here.

“C … L … A … S … Won’t work!”

Won’t work? Just like ED. “Style!”

“S… T … Y … June? Are ya even tryin’?”

Am I even trying? Dear God, give me grace to not kill this man.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

She slips between the two ships, suit nearly touching the metal walls of her shuttle or the rock hull of Daedalus. She glances back at the cut flexible docking tube hemorrhaging air and the bodies of infected into space.

The knife slips back into its sheath, and she focuses on holding the air bottle with both hands. Icarus – home – is far away.

Her suit’s HUD informs her that Daedalus is headed for Icarus. Daedalus. The second asteroid ship, full of infected.

She triggers the air bottle, tracing a graceful arc toward her shuttle.

Her work is not done.

SERENDIPITY

Pastor Joe insists that we say grace before every meal, he says it’s a means of asserting our humanity.

I disagree.

It isn’t that I’m not religious, or I have any particularly strong feelings about saying grace but, given our circumstances, I really don’t think that it’s terribly appropriate… so I just mumble and pretend to participate, before we get stuck in.

I look around at my companions and the wreckage of the plane behind them, then I look at the meat in my hands.

Can saying grace really assert our humanity, if we’re eating the ones who didn’t survive?

CALEDONIA

The Power of Grace

She pats her pocket, totally aware of its contents.

He sidles up to her with that unique sideways lope of his. His smile is ingratiatingly confident.

She smiles back, her thoughts completely different from what he believes they are. She wonders why she didn’t see through that smile before. How had she found it charming?

He is thinking that all is well when she quietly says, “It is over. Goodbye.”

She turns and walks away from his incredulous, drop-jawed face. She pats her pocket, totally aware of its contents. She grins, knowing now that grace is more powerful than revenge.

Grace Beside Itself

“It’s your turn, dear. Don’t mumble”

“Our Father in heaven, our thanks now we bring, for food, and for clothing, and for every good thing…”

Gramma smiles proudly.

“Oh give of thy blessings to those who have meat …”

“Meat? No dear, I think it is ‘need’, not ‘meat.’”

“Don’t they need meat too?”

“Well, perhaps they do, but…”

“…and teach us to love thee in word and in deet. Amen.”

The smiling young face looks up triumphantly, eyes large and expectant.

A thoughtful pause.

“Thank you. That was lovely, dear. Pass your sister the potatoes, there’s a good girl.”

TURA

There were always doves in the temple, a symbol of God’s grace.

Gaia was twelve when she was first presented. The priests liked Gaia very much. Gaia did not like them, or their rituals, but her mother would not listen.

One night, she crept into the temple dovecote, with a stolen lantern and rags soaked in oil. When the fire took, she made her way home, climbing in her bedroom window.

Later, the commotion woke her mother. From a window they watched the spreading flames.

“The doves!” Gaia cried.

They wheeled above the burning temple, and fled into the night.

NORVAL JOE

A young woman approached the low dais. Her gown was clean and presentable but nowhere near as expensive as she once wore. Her chin held high and her back straight she glided toward the duke. Only when she reached his knee did she bow her head and dip into a low curtsey.
“Your Grace. I come begging my brother’s release from prison.”
“Do you bring a ransom, or someone in exchange?”
Her hand went to her throat.
“No, Your Grace. I only beg your endulgence and mercy.”
The Duke laughed.
“Unfortunately for your brother, my grace will not be his.”

ISHTAR

The guitar plays a soulful Lullaby in the background. The smell of cigarettes fills the room. A lullaby of loss can be heard as a harmonica wails.

“Grace can you hear me. Don’t Gun me down”

“Grace can you see me. Don’t Gun me down”

She steps into the saloon. Spurs’ spinning as she searches the audience. He’s there in the spotlight. Stepping closer she hears him again.

“Grace don’t let the light fall from your eyes. Forgiveness is calling”.

She storms forward. Pulling her gun ready to fire. Click. Misfire. Click. Misfire.

“Will you forgive me” He asks?

Bang.

PLANET Z

Princess Margaret gave her older sister a box full of condoms for her baby shower.

“I guess you ran out of the ones I gave you as a wedding gift,” she said, “or did you lose the box? You should have told me. I’d have given you some more.”

Everybody else gave presents more appropriate for the child that would be the next in line to the throne.

Margaret often put on her mother’s crown and dreamt she was an only child.

Two weeks later, her sister died in childbirth. The baby was stillborn.

Margaret cried at the funeral.

Briefly.

Weekly Challenge #380 – Spark

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 SPARK.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 9

Timmy made his way across the lobby. The kid behind the counter was just a few years older than he. “What you got?” asked the kid, his LED nameplate flashing SPARKY. Tim laid down a Silvian Wheel. Sparky shook his head,” Sorry, Pilgrim two Cubes.” Organic Replicating Programming Cubes were the wealth that had made Anonymous the Knights of Templar of the Outer Rim. Over Sparky’s shoulder Tim saw his John Wayne Altar bathed in the pulsing glow of a Jacob’s ladder. He started whistling “She wore a yellow ribbon.”

“THE PROFIT,” yelled Sparky

“May the Duke be with you.”

LIZZIE

“Perish the thought!” said his mother alarmed, when he showed her the website. But the thought refused to perish. This particular thought seemed rather appealing to Johnny, the geeky kid. He always wanted to be one of the cool boys. The expectation of partying all the time made him walk boldly to the pub where the cool boys hung out. There was a bit of pushing and shoving, which he thought was quite inconsiderate, but, after that, all he could remember was seeing beautiful sparks flying in the air and not so cool boys screaming. It was an explosive party.

JEFFREY

Sparks Fly
by Jeffrey Fischer

Cliche though it was, sparks *did* fly when Al met Bernice’s eyes and their hands touched. True, the sparks were from the static buildup on the carpet in the dry dance hall, but from that moment on they were inseparable.

When, after more than 60 years of marriage, he died during the coldest December that anyone could recall, Bernice was paralyzed by grief. At the funeral, she finally brought herself to say goodbye the only way she could: by scuffing her feet on the carpet, touching his cold hand, and seeing sparks fly one last time.

Shaken, Not Stirred
by Jeffrey Fischer

The Professor tightened one last bolt before stepping back to admire his handiwork. The spark of genius! he thought. Now to test his masterpiece. He pulled the lever and watched as gears whirred and set various components into motion. Faster and more precise than any human hands, the machine set about its mission. With one final clank, the equipment shut off.

“Mwa-ha-ha,” the Professor cackled. “With this device I shall rule the world!”

He picked up the glass. Sipped. Ah, the perfect martini, down to the olive garnish. Now for the next step: an option to make a Manhattan instead.

RICHARD

#1 – Night Freight

Quickly, George jumped down to examine the nearest container, it was chained shut, which suited him fine.

Grabbing a metal bar from the floor, he began to prise the doors open, desperately trying to make as little noise as possible, knowing it could attract unwelcome attention and spark who knows what trouble?

Finally, he was inside, jamming the doors shut behind him. Exhausted, he settled down to sleep.

He was awoken by the groaning of metal and an enormous shudder, as the shipping container tilted crazily and began to sway from side to side.

What the hell was happening now?

#2 – Chemistry

Doc. Schwartz was always trying to spark our interest in chemistry, but the odds were very much against him – we were more interested in carving our names on the lab desks and setting fire to the gas taps.

It didn’t help that he was completely hopeless at chemistry – almost every experiment was either a total flop, or so utterly pointless that we lost the will to live before it was over.

That was until he tried to demonstrate the explosive properties of hydrogen!

The explosion sent both the school and Doc. Schwartz into orbit… now, that definitely got our attention!

#3 – Wildfire

The fires had raged for over a week now, relentlessly destroying towns and communities in their path and claiming innocent lives – they were the worst experienced for as long as anyone could remember.

The cause, according to official sources, was almost certainly a spark from a careless camper’s barbecue – such devastation from such a tiny source of ignition.

It never ceased to amaze me that people could be such idiots when the conditions were as dry as these.

‘When will they learn?’, I thought to myself, walking away, whilst absent-mindedly tossing my cigarette into a handy patch of undergrowth…

#4 – Twinkle Twinkle

Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how we wondered what you are.

And how we watched your spark of light, growing ever brighter every night;

As astronomers, each day by day, carefully tracked your route across the Milky Way;

Your presence grew until scientists knew, the shocking truth that you brought with you;

For you were no star, but a glowing rock – a meteorite that held a shock;

For your route now known, it was clear to all, that upon the earth you would finally fall;

That tiny spark would bring death to all: the end of life… the final curtain call.

SERENDIPITY

“Hi! Long time, no see!”, I exclaimed, giving the guy a huge hug.

To be honest, I didn’t recognise him at all, and judging by his expression, there was no spark of recognition on his part either.

It had been like that all evening – I hated reunions at the best of times, but this was dreadful – so far I’d not spotted anyone remotely familiar. Still, thirty years is a long time.

It was only when I nipped outside, I spotted the sign above the door: ‘Office Supplies Conference’… ‘Class of ’76 Reunion’ was across the hall and down the corridor!

CLIFF

My grandfather was a spark. That’s the nickname they gave telegraph operators back in the old days. He’d spend his days sending the private messages of others around the country. What no one realized was that the sparks would often add their own postscript to the telegrams they sent. When a well dressed man came into the office and sent a marriage proposal to the daughter of a powerful industrialist, Grandpa sent the message and added an instruction to the spark on the other end. “Advise her to say no stop/ he is cheap bastard stop/ no tip full stop/”
___________________________
When a civilization was found, it was pounded until life was obliterated. Worlds with simple life were poisoned until sterile. The last world that the robotic probe had visited had been covered in single celled creatures. Seemingly harmless but one day, they could evolve into a threat. The world was bathed in radiation until everything was dead. This world was no threat however; a barren sea and empty rocks. The probe removed it from the list of worlds to watch and blasted off, shedding passengers from the previous stop, tiny sparks of life that would someday challenge the stars themselves.

SINGH

When Ivan Seow saw a hand-sized bag on the side table he couldn’t resist grabbing it. There was a camera inside. Conscience told him to hand it in, but the tag attached read: Journey beyond your expectations. Use me and upload to freecamera.blogspot.com. Afterwards, relinquish me at any airport. ‘Timesparks’ was written on the flipside. Ivan accessed the site on his phone. Yes, there was a blog and this was the password.

Now his flight was being called. He quickly popped the camera into his bag, intending to use and pass it on, honouring the instructions.

Aunty Ming Xia lived in Caulfield. She had fed Ivan so amply he wanted to show his appreciation. “Let me take your photo, Aunty.”

Next morning he got a train to Flinders Station. Killing time, Ivan clicked random shots — a punk girl with rainbow hair, an indigenous man dunking donuts at a stand-up cafe. He snapped Melbourne’s rush-hour trams appreciating their slow historical charm. After his meeting, Ivan got someone to photograph him with his client.

Back at Aunty’s, checking the blog, it said he could only upload five pics. Ivan selected the best.

He liked the portraits and the street shots, but wasn’t expecting what uploaded in their place. The city of trams became a Melbourne of futuristic flying shuttles. Uploading Aunty revealed a Chinese lady in Nineteenth Century blue silk robes. The rainbow punk girl morphed into a Marie Antoinette-style aristocrat, her high coiffure ribboned with rosettes and central sun brooch. The indigenous donut man — now an Aboriginal on one leg balanced by a spear was offering the welcome gift of gum leaves.

Ivan studied more closely. No travel shots anywhere – just history and incomprehensible futures.

Not all the pictures were pleasant. There were also scenes of poverty, starvation and panoramas of chaos. The photograph of himself and his Melbourne client seemed privileged by comparison. He recognised his own face in the Chinese waiter accidentally upending a cocktails tray over a colonial man puffing on his cigar.

Modern Singapore hadn’t prepared him for these time-bending images. Were they sparks from the past, glimpses into the future — reincarnation evidence through ultimate time-lapse photography?

That night he taxied to Tullamarine Airport and discretely left the camera on a bar top before joining his flight home.

Ivan lost the Melbourne contract and some office prestige. Was this connected to the blog? As Regional Manager he travelled more, and luckily, business improved in other sectors.

Meanwhile, he studied world civilisations’, the engineering feats and natural resources needed to create such epic structures. He also read up on projected technological ‘toys of progress’. Flying cars were coming. He imagined them against Singapore’s Astro Boy skyline.

From time to time Ivan checked out the blogsite too. Yes, the camera was still travelling, uploading provocative posts under the common ID – Spark.

With economic balance shifting in Asia’s favour, would greed breed global reprisals?

Thus, Ivan’s sleep was disturbed. He saw India dying of famine, China’s robot armies on the move. Checking the blog the next day he was shocked the camera had also gone to the Subcontinent, documenting both past palaces and grandeur alongside future turmoil. He saw eruptions in Indonesia, mass death in Africa, civil disobedience in Europe, US annexation of Canada. Weeks later he dreamed of Dubai with its offshore Palm Islands – 520 kms of artificial archipelago in the Persian Gulf. He checked the blog again. Sure enough, here were post-tsunami pictures showing how the sea had taken back human reclamation projects.

Ivan went to Bangkok, Bangalore, Mumbai, Hong Kong, Shanghai and elsewhere. He compared present realities with the blog images’ shifting futures: some cities would thrive; others would take a dive. Headlines of acute global problems made Ivan feel both socially impotent and vicariously responsible. Did the bizarre blog mirror or orchestrate mayhem? Countries’ fortunes were on a roller coaster. The postings reminded him how one era’s wretched coolies become another age’s industry captains.

Next, Ivan was sent to Taiwan for an IT networking conference. Afterwards, he took a bus from Taipei to Yangming National Park.

Ivan climbed Grass Mountain and breathed. Returning he found thousands of Papillion butterflies feeding on and fertilising pink azaleas.

Somewhat revived, he headed straight for Taoyuan International.

Having time and needing coffee he found an airport cafe. Sitting, there was something lumpy on the padded booth seat. He retrieved it. Not here! Surely, it couldn’t be — the camera? Or were zip-bags circulating en masse through the world?

Wanting no unlucky Melbourne replay, Ivan stretched, depositing it gingerly on the next table.

Soon, a Caucasian woman sat. She was unzipping it! Ivan didn’t wait to see whether or not she would pop it into her bag.

ZACKMANN

He pulled over in front of the girl pushing her motorcycle wearing a Sparks Nevada shirt.

He said “I saw the sparks from your tire rim. Would you like a ride into town? I think with my back seat down your bike is small enough to fit in my Chevy Spark.”

“Do you promise you’re not crazy?”

“Well, I promise I am not a threat. May I buy you dinner?”

“Are you trying to spark me?”

“Not in the traditional in front of the fireplace way. It’s a Spare the Air Day.”

He was crazy but she felt that spark.

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

John leaned back in his chair closing his eyes pushing away the thought of tomorrow’s presentation.
A successful bid will guarantee a sweet commission and a major bonus. His reward? A first class flight to Alaska, for a month long walking tour.
He looked forward to his sharp metal knife making a spark against ancient stone, and then coaxing the fire to warm him.

His scotch arrived. He noticed the red head smile from a couple of tables away, he returned the beam.
He rose and approached the woman. Time to coax a flame from this intriguing initial spark.

NORVAL JOE

Long John Silver slept with his muzzle on his paws while Missy nursed the five Boarder Collie-Weiner Dog mixed puppies. The Dollie-Cockle puppies were cute with their longish hair and stubby legs, and their sire and dame were quite comfortable with each other as well.
Dergle wondered if he would ever find someone with whom he could be so happy. He looked up and saw Finklestien eyeing him with a Mona Lisa half smile. A spark puffed into flame in his heart. Wanda was only a few years older than himself and a right fine looking woman at that.

JUSTIN

Private Fenton scrambled to gain purchase, but he continued to slide down, rocks scraping against his battle armor. He struck a ledge and he tumbled until he landed on his back.

Cacophony warnings blared as his armor didn’t respond when he tried to move. Sparks popped from joints as servos whined. Then an orc stood over him, slugga aimed at his eye.Then its jaw exploded.

Captain Grigg thudded beside Fenton, bolt pistol smoking. “Trying to be a dreadnought already, Private?” He thumped off, Pistol blasting. A techmarine started repairs, shaking his head. “I just serviced this suit, you know.”

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

His cry echoed from the shattered wreckage of the car. “Nothing!”

His son shook his shoulders. “Dad, I called 911.”

The man shook off the boy’s embrace. “Those fools! They’ll be too late!” He bent over againaudac, orange cables trailing from gloved hands to the car battery. “Too late, do you hear?”

“Dad. It won’t – ” His son broke off, sobbing.

“It must!” He leaned forward again – he’d lost track how many times – and sparks flew.

But as his wife’s chest refused to move, as her heart refused to beat, Doctor Frankenstein refused to give up.

KIM

The Knife at the Bottom of the Bottle

Spark. Warmth. Heat. Ignition.
The Amaretto down my throat to
The engine, my bruised heart,
my depressant dipped mind.
One, two, three glasses.
Enough for tickets to ride when I
Want a one way for a non-friend.
Four, five, six, glasses.
Fill the tank because I’ll need more courage once its done.
Seven, eight, nine,
and Lady Macbeth would be proud
of the grip I have on the butcher’s knife.
I’m a greased machine without breaks,
but with a Purpose.
Kill.
Lift, stab, breathe.
His blood coats the floor,
and the cherry fumes lift like fog from my lungs.
Exhaust.

REDGODDESS

Movies have given women a false sense of romance and created an obsession with love at first sight. After years of watching princesses kiss slimy frogs, with the power to grant happy endings, we now expect every relationship to ignite with an infinite spark. We tell ourselves, “If it’s the one, I’ll feel it instantly.” Lola sensed that connection months after meeting her lover. With all the grandiose gifts and the spontaneous weekend get aways,she remembers the almost missed intimate gestures. The moment she discovered that “thing” between them was in their shared quietness. Often, she secretly watches him while cooking their favorite meals. She then sneaks back into bed and pretend to be in deep sleep. His gaze reveals more than words and the heat that burns when apart. He still looks at her in wonder and his appetite for her expands with time. In essence, they fuel the spark with constant kindness.

MUNSI

Helping

By Christopher Munroe

The place is a powder keg.

No, seriously, I’ve filled your home with gunpowder.

I’ve also saturated the floors, walls and furniature in kerosene, because why not? If you’re going to do something, go all the way.

Speaking of…

…there we go. Now you’re covered in kerosene too. The slightest spark would turn this whole place into an inferno.

Because the time has come for you to quit smoking. I promised I’d help, and by god I’ve taken my duty seriously.

Gotta run, tho’, I’m meeting people later. You hang out here, not smoking.

Let me know how it goes…

TURA

“Igor, the Spark!” I shouted to my hunchbacked assistant. He grasped the great switch with both hands and wrenched it closed. Blue lightning crackled between the generators and the machine at the centre of the laboratory. Water flashed into superheated steam and hissed through intricate pipework into the extraction chamber, from which slowly oozed a thick, black, almost living fluid.

One by one, the generators shut down, their task completed.

I approached the machine, unscrewed the collection vessel and drained its contents in a single gulp. “Ahaha!” I exclaimed. “The true, the perfect coffee! Now I shall conquer the world!”

PLANET Z

Dad said that Sparky ran away to join the Doggy Circus.

But I know that’s a load of crap.

Sparky’s been sick for a while. The Doggy Circus doesn’t audition sick, old dogs.

I know what really happened when Dad took Sparky to the vet.

Sparky’s in the Dog Army. He’s going to sniff out land mines and bombs so that he can save a soldier’s life by giving up his own.

I’m so proud of Sparky, and I will always remember him.

That is… assuming that he joined our country’s Dog Army and not the enemy.

Bad dog, Sparky!

Weekly Challenge #379 – Pork

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 PORK.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part Eight

Mother sat silently, hands in lap. A tall raven haired woman glided towards her. She nodded and took the seat at the opposite end of the table. In short time all but one chair was taken. All present stood when Magdalena Bowsmen made her way to the table.

The dark haired woman went about introducing each of the quests to Mrs. Bowsmen. Each was greeted with a smile of solemnity. When Mother heard her name she felt a hand reach out. “Major Parsons was indeed an excellent man. His council will be missed. Senator Smith please see to Widow Parsons.”

Mother would have rolled her eyes if she could, but years of enduring the gauntlet of social events had taught her no matter the contention at hand always project a zen mask. All the same the mere mention of Senator “Pork Barrel” Smith in close proximity to her late husband has distasteful

“Thank you Mrs. Bowsmen,” said Mother catching a peripheral glance at the honorable gentleman. The Parsons family’s wealth came from cattle and her father made sure his daughter could size up a competing bidder. The look in Senator Smith’s eyes was of a man sizing up a heifer.

JEFFREY

How the Sausage is Made
by Jeffrey Fischer

The process started out innocently enough. Senator Graft wanted a post office named for his political mentor, a six-term Congressman currently serving a 15-year sentence for bribery. “Sure, roll it into the Defense bill,” said the Majority Leader.

Next came Senator Sleaze, who wanted some federal dollars for repairing an old drive-in movie theater back in his home state. A couple of million dollars was nothing to the Farm bill, and if that’s what it took to buy Sleaze’s vote, so be it.

From there the pork kept oinking. A billion here, ten billion there, and soon they were talking about borrowing real money. Yet no one understood why Congress was so unpopular.

The Civilized Way to Resolve Disputes
by Jeffrey Fischer

“Beef brisket!” Tex said, cocking his hat and touching the top of his holster.

“Wrong! Pulled pork,” replied Sam, smoothing his mustache and giving a reassuring pat to his own revolver.

“Spice rub.”

“Sauce.”

“Wood-burning grill.” Tex was turning red with rage.

“Smoker.” Sam looked Tex in the eye, trying to maintain his breathing.

The rest of the customers in the diner looked nervous. Some had even sidled near the exits, having a fair idea of what would come next. The two combatants nodded at one another. “Draw,” said Tex.

Sam placed a plate on the table, a grilled bun heaping with pulled pork and a side of slaw. Tex whipped out a second plate with brisket on toast, with a side of beans. Each sat, tasted the other’s, and decided that the world was big enough for different types of barbecue.

RICHARD

#1 – Twilight

With the threat of night drawing ever closer, George’s positive mood began to fade as quickly as the daylight. He became acutely aware how conspicuous the noisy bulldozer was in the empty streets and he realised the slow-moving and cumbersome vehicle had its drawbacks.

He had visions of zombies overpowering him and feasting on his brain… vaguely he wondered what human flesh tasted like – was it chicken, or pork? He couldn’t remember.

He rounded another corner, where his headlights picked out a yard full of rusting shipping containers – at last, he had a perfect retreat for the night ahead.

#2 – Pork

I looked dubiously at the plate of meat, potatoes and corn and gave the waiter a questioning look – I’d learned to be wary about food during my South American journey, and although this appeared to be rather an upmarket restaurant, this was still Ecuador.

“Are you sure this is pork?”

“¡Si, señor! Eet ees peeg.” – the waiter smiled.

“Pig?”

“Si… peeg.”

I shrugged and reluctantly tucked into my meal. It didn’t taste like pork to me.

Later, leaving the restaurant, I stole a glance through the kitchen doorway: there, neatly skewered over the barbecue, were rows of roasting guinea pig.

#3 – Muppets

It always amazed me that The Muppet Show made it past the censors – if ever there was an abusive relationship and a bad example to set for kids, it was the pairing of Kermit and Miss Piggy. What chance did poor, puny Kermit stand against his domineering, violent, other half?

I shudder to think of the damage that infamous pork chop might inflict if she ever cornered him.

However, it seems Kermit had an ally…

I have it on excellent authority that the Swedish Chef was know to turn a blind eye to Kermit’s occasional misuse of the bacon slicer!

MUNSI

The Nostalgia Files: Television

By Christopher Munroe

It was a monster hit, and no mystery why.

A woman in Boulder, Colorado takes a pig, fresh from the farm, as a roommate, and hilarity ensues as it does it’s best to fit into human society. The clash of cultures was a goldmine of comedic possibility, a well that would never run dry.

Yeah…

By the third season the show had run its course, midway through the fourth it was cancelled, and most agree it should have ended two years sooner.

Still, many fans of classic TV still have a soft spot in their heart for Pork and Mindy.

EXPLORER

I Have Issues With Pork By helen r starr
I have issues with pork. Pork is not kosher; we call it treif (Non-Kosher Food). I recently had to take my mother shopping, and of all the places she needed to visit, it was Walmart.
Walmart is company based on pork, not necessarily the kind you eat, but the kind that pads their pockets. Walmart pads the pocket of other porkers, i.e., the Koch Brothers. What really irks me is how Walmart treats their employees like pigs in a trough. Walmart partnered with the International Labor Organization (ILO) to create Better Work Programs; something’s not Kosher, and I smell pork.

SINGH

(Text not available)

LIZZIE

The swineherd was tired of having to deal with the increasingly frustrating low profits. Intermediaries drove him crazy with inconceivable demands. Before, he sold everything, that’s what was good about pork, no waste. Now, only certain parts were favored. So, he decided to give away “the waste”, roasted and with a “twist”, as a personal gift to the intermediaries, who eagerly took it all. They asked what the “twist” was, but he never gave away the secret to the other tasty bits of meat in the inviting roast, especially when the headlines said “Business man of pork industry vanishes mysteriously”.

TURA

Pork
——–
Rabbi Dougal visited Rabbi Hamish. After they greeted one another, Rabbi Dougal said, “I see ye’re havin’ yer tea, Hamish? But surely that’s not bacon ye’re fryin’?

R. Hamish replied that it was kosher beef, genetically modified to taste like bacon.

R. Dougal asked, “But what if they used pig genes?”

R. Hamish argued, “They’re pig genes alright, but they didnae come from a pig. Completely artificial, same genetic sequence, but made in the laboratory!”

R. Dougal then asked, “Could ye make a whole kosher pig that way?”

At this G*d declared, “NO!”

R. Hamish responded, “Well, that’s one opinion…”

SERENDIPITY

Any devotee of TV crime dramas will tell you that pork is the nearest thing you can get to human flesh.

If you want to see realistic results from your ballistic tests; or need to know what a frenzied knife attack will do to a body, just hang a pig in the lab, and away you go!

Whilst you’re at it, throw in a few sharpened screwdrivers, power drills and blunt instruments – it’s all good, clean fun!

Personally, I find that pork is far too expensive to waste. So, I’ll be sticking to the real thing, for the time being.

CLIFF

Jimmy Ray knew barbeque. He had already spread his brand of pulled pork barbeque sandwich shops over the southern United States when he came up with the idea of a world tour. With a portable kitchen and a hundred year old recipe, he set out. In England, it flopped. In France, it fizzled. In Germany, things picked up. After all, barbeque goes very well with beer. He was an unexpectedly big hit in Bulgaria but then the whole thing came crashing down in Afghanistan. Jimmy Ray may have known barbeque but he didn’t know squat about religion or international politics.

RED

Lola revels in the chaos before work. There is a level of traffic that’s cosmopolitan, and the usual early birds are all in the streets. The toothless man who empties out the burned cigarettes from the public astray, every few seconds, he lets out a disturbing laugh and mumbles “who’s fault is it, anyway?”
An older Black woman, head wrapped in a colorful scarf, sweeping the front of the university theater. She always stares towards the marquee as if thinking, “What if?”
Lola walks by the pan handler sitting on a rusty bus bench, tapping both hands on her starved thighs, humming to herself. Lola smiles and hands her a crumpled dollar bill.
In the distance, Lola can smell the tiny shops, she sometimes stops by the meat market to buy pork for her grandmother to make a spicy stew. She can taste the stew in her mind.
As she approaches the hotel, she notices Tom, a proud grandfather of twins doing his morning stretches before his daughter drops off the kids. There are runners, cyclists, dog walkers, parents waiting for school buses and restless children chasing pigeons. She peers inside her favorite wine cellar with a fat golden cat in the display window. Lola inhales the sweet smell of fresh bread and coffee brewing from the hotel kitchen. On a day like this, she’s exactly where she belongs.

ZACK

“Looky there, I sure would like to pork that.”

‘’Sir, as your advisor I must remind you that you can never know when there might be a mic on.”

“When are you going to start dating me to save me from myself?”
“When pig fly sir, is when I will date a client. Don’t go hog wild during tonight’s event. Avoid any references to getting rid of pork. You don’t want to lose the farm vote. Do not make any allusions of putting Lipstick on a Pig because that type of relationship is still very much frowned upon in Iowa ”

NORVAL JOE

Dergle smiled across the table at Widow Finklestien and wiggled his eye brows, his mouth too full to speak.
“I’m glad you like the meatloaf,” she said, smiling shyly. “Too bad Long John doesn’t feel the same.”
It was true, while the widow’s shelty ate with abandon, Dergle’s corpulent wiener dog didn’t share her enthusiasm.
“He usually loves meatloaf. What did you put in it?”
Widow Finklestien scowled. “It’s my mother’s recipe with ground beef, veal and pork sausage.”
“Oh. That makes sense,” Dergle said. “He has a friend who’s a pig. He wont eat anything with pork in it.”

JUSTIN

What? Where am I? An, island? Nothing to be found here, I’m all alone. Maybe I should build a house. There’s a tree, I’ll punch it for some wood.

OK, got some wood, I’ll make a workbench. Now a wooden axe since that’s faster than punching to chop down more trees.

OK, got a little shed build over workbench. I’m getting hungry. I heard something. A pig! Let me, whoops, broke my last axe. I’ll punch the pig!

Better cook this meat. Punch some trees, make a pickaxe, and get some stone for a furnace.

Time for some pork chops!

JUNE

Sam liked lolling in mud.

Sam did not like waking up.

He also did not like being forced out of his pen for what the man called “exercise” and “fattening up.” They seemed exclusive. If he was to be fattened up, why did he also need to exercise?

This afternoon was different though. There had not been any slop in his trough, and the man had yet to come. Sam was confused, but the mud was helping to calm him.

He didn’t like changes in routine. He’d seen what happened to his mother when she wasn’t let into the field.

DANNY

You bet your ass war is fun, especially when your foe is suddenly vanquished by choking on a piece of pork when said foe was not even eating any food to begin with! The story comes from a contrived notion invented in the bible of all places, Wait, the spice of Lifeless? What the hell happened to the NESS! Dammit! Brilliant! You only have less than forty words until the end of this story.” “Oh go choke on a piece of pork, which he promptly did, except, his death was ruled as an accidental parsley choking. Blah, Blah, Blah, sleep.

PLANET Z

I can tell by the scent
on this wine bottle cork
That the wine you have served me
Contains feces and pork.
I don’t know why you’d offer
such a disgusting selection.
Have i done something to earn
this cruel disaffection?
Who would concoct
such a foul potion as this
That I’d sooner drink
than seek out Death’s kiss.
Did you make it yourself?
Or did you buy it online?
What kind of mad fool
Makes this kind of wine?
But if you insist
I will sip and then pass
Hold on… let me think
Pour me one more glass?

Weekly Challenge #378 – Original

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 ORIGINAL, which is also the topic of this week’s Single Frame Stories challenge. There’s a lot of good images to view and ponder there, and I strongly encourage you to participate in those challenges.

Over here, we’ve got stories by a lot of people:

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

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.

BOTGIRL

I died again and it’s starting to bother me. I know it shouldn’t. We are taught that the Self is nothing more than identity and the continuity of our memory. So every time they restore an archived brain scan into one of my clones, it is the real I who awakens.

But what about the lost memory of each death? All gone. A sniper’s laser. A drone’s warhead. An enemy’s blade. Abandoned in the black hole between my last scan and the last breath of each incarnation. They who died are dead and gone. Irrecoverable. May we rest in peace.

ASIAH

The sun was setting and orange light filtered through the half drawn blinds. Sheets upon sheets of newspaper were scattered across the floor, the smell of fresh paint was thick in the air, almost suffocatingly. Daniel stared at the canvas which rested upon the paint stained easel, his brush, hung loosely in his hand dirty from his work. “Damn… I really fucked it up. Heh, call it exotic, original, one of a kind, and some pretentious prick will spend thousands just to buy a paint covered mistake.” he chuckled to himself. Yes, he supposed it would do.

JEFFREY

Everyone’s a Critic
by Jeffrey Fischer

The curator was practically beaming as he told the guests about the museum’s find. “A lost Botticelli – can you imagine that! He was one of the great painters of the Renaissance, and created slightly more than 100 paintings. A new Botticelli – half a millennium since his death – is just astounding! And what a find for the city of Baltimore!”

One of the guests, a middle-aged man with a young daughter, raised a hand. “Has the painting been authenticated?”

The curator waved a hand. “A mere detail. Just look at the brush work, the delicate features…”

The little girl peered closely at the portrait. “Look, Daddy! That man is wearing Ray Lewis’s Super Bowl ring!”

The curator took out a magnifying glass and read the inscription in oil: “Baltimore Ravens, February 3, 2013.”

“Well, perhaps another test or two might be in order before any final conclusions.”

Bureaucrat Season
by Jeffrey Fischer

At long last, it was Max’s turn. He presented the form to the woman behind the counter. “I just need to renew my hunting license.”

The woman popped a bubble and glanced at the form. “This looks like a copy. We need the original.”

Max looked exasperated. “Where does it say that? Look, I’ve been in line for an hour. Can’t I bring the original by later?”

“Next, please.”

The next time through the line, Max presented the original form. “Needs to be notarized.” The third time, the woman said, “Has to be two witnesses.” Trip four found his signature to not match that on file.

The last time through the line, Max shot her twice. Among the charges levied against him: hunting without a license.

MASHA

She’d been safe in the shelter of his arms, the cocoon of his protection. She’d wanted to stay that way forever, sunlight pouring through their windows, warmth moving throughout the day.

Until he could no longer be warmed, and arms grew too frail, too weak to remain about her waist. Until all that remained were his unwashed sheets, abandoned wrappings with a fading scent.

She wrapped herself within them, burrowed deep, lain still to let the sunlight bake her into something else. No warm safety for her transformation. No witness to her rebirth.

Painted in sunlight, she conjures the storm.

RICHARD

#1 – Dozer

With a cloud of exhaust smoke, the bulldozer roared into life. George finally felt he was gaining some control, although he realised that there were still some things he had no say in.

The light was fading and his original plan was now far less attractive – he had no wish to be driving around unfamiliar roads after dark and not knowing what to expect… wasn’t night-time the natural preserve of zombies, after all?

Once again, he found himself rethinking his strategy – his priority now was to find safe shelter for the night – but the big question remained…

Where exactly?

#2 – Apple

In my childhood, my dad bought me an Apple One, thinking it would be my meal ticket to a bright future. Of course, I was more interested in sport and girls and it ended up in a box in the loft.

Then I saw the prices that Apple Ones were now fetching – it seemed my bright future was back on the cards.

An exasperating search through the dust and cobwebs of my parent’s loft proved fruitless…

“Oh, that old thing”, exclaimed my mum when I questioned her; “we thought you weren’t interested in computers… we threw it out years ago!”

#3 – Original

It’s said all music shares the same twelve notes, yet even after all this time, people still come up with original tunes.

There are only three primary colours, plus black and white, yet artists manage to create seemingly endless unique works using these.

How is it then, that with hundreds of thousands of words to choose from, and a vocabulary of, maybe twenty thousand, I find it so difficult to put together a measly hundred of the damn things, in any fashion that resembles an original story?

I bet someone else has beaten me to it with this one too!

LIZZIE

The original was sold for millions to a flamboyant millionaire. It was on the news for days as the biggest sale ever of an artwork piece. Photographers snapped hundreds of photos, journalists wrote dozens of articles, made countless interviews. Everyone wanted to be a part of this extraordinary event. So, thousands of copies were made, numbered and sold as a limited edition. After the whole commotion cooled off, he opened his safe and unrolled the painting. It was his, only his. That millionaire had paid a fortune for the perfect fake and he’d never ever know it, the original loser.

SINGH

(Text has been entered into Ubud Writer’s Festival)

TOM

A well defined Relationship Part Seven

While Timmy concentrated on presentable Mother set her sights on pretention. As the clock stuck 4 she joined the swirl of women headed for the Empress hotel for High Tea. In 1092 the original structure was disassembled, packed, and shipped on Angus Bowsmen’s largest ore transport. Angus’s wife Magdalena, an actual descendent of Victoria herself, held without tea there was no civilization. She wasn’t about to set foot on P348 until a proper public dining place was in place. Despite her current station Mother’s family was highly regarded and thus a chair was set for her at the Founder’s table

NORVAL JOE

Dergle donned his wiener dog nose and eared hoodie. He slipped onto the dark street, a wiener dog pup cradled in the bend of his elbow.
Half way to the drop point a police car pulled onto the street, drove to him and shined a spotlight in his face.
“Just what are you supposed to be?” A voice asked from beyond the light.
Trying to sound normal, he held up the puppy and said, “I’m Wiener Dog Man.”
“I’ve heard of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny,” the cop said, “But Wiener Dog Man is a new one to me.”

TURA

“Happy birthday!” I said to my girlfriend. “I made you this CD.”

The first track was “Yellow Submarine”, sung by Kathy Berberian with a string quartet.

“Cool arrangement!” she exclaimed.

“Next track’s the killer,” I said. A string quartet played the same music. “This was recorded in 1932.”

“You mean, they didn’t write…?”

“Boccherini, 1763.” An ancient, scratchy recording of a mournful Russian folk song began, strangely familiar.

“Ok,” she said, “nobody believes that Paul wrote ‘Yesterday’.”

“Name one they did! I’ve traced half their back catalogue already. When I publish, I’ll be the first celebrity forensic musicologist. The original!”

MUNSI

The Crisis

By Christopher Munroe

The prompt was the word Original, and lo did I quake with fear.

What? How? I’m widely known not to have an original idea in my head! I never have! I’d been skating by on a hodge-podge of dated pop-culture references and non-sequitors too long to come up with an original thought at this late date, would this be the end of me?

But no, I persevered, pushed forward, and soon I had the stroke of genius that would prove to be my salvation.

I’d go Meta, write a story about writing the story.

And that would get me there.

SERENDIPITY

Sheila’s original recipe burgers were hugely successful – the succulent, juicy meals she served up turned fast food into fine dining. The recipe was, of course, a closely guarded secret and despite numerous cash offers from several giants of the food industry, it wasn’t for sale.

Despite her success, Sheila never sought the big time, selling her burgers from a mobile kitchen at the roadside. She’d stay for a while, never more than a few weeks in one place, then move on.

Oddly, the neighbourhood cats and dogs seemed to follow her – because there were never any about after she’d gone.

BARBARA

I started out wanting to write something original.

Then I began again, because I had written it before

Surely a third time would be the charm, as I began once more

Then, to my dismay, I found that I had been writing the same thing, over and over again.

That was hardly original, so I contemplated starting over again.

But I was in a quandary as to whether I could start something original if I did

I compared my three previous efforts, each of them, identical.

So I destroyed the first two, and alas, I had an original at last.

ZACKMANN

“What we need is an original idea.” said the manager “something to make us if not rich at least well known.”

“How about using urine to power a battery that can charge a cellphone?”

“Joe, now that is the type of thinking we need but someone in UK does that already yet still there has to be something no one has thought of yet.

“Solomon said “Vanity vanity all is vanity there is nothing new under the sun.””

His manager says “Something new Joe. Are you going to listen to your friends or are you going to listen to me.”

CLIFF

Working homicide has never been fun but lately, it’s been a real nightmare. Take this guy. When I got to him, he was lying in a parking lot with most of his head missing due to a shotgun blast at close range. The fellow that put him down was Jeff Spence. Sounds pretty simple, right? Wrong. Spence is part of a Hospice Intervention Team. Jeff kills zombies. So we know the final cause of death. Now I have to find out the original cause of death. Heart attack? Murder? Choke on a pretzel? See what I mean? A complete nightmare.
———————–
So, the idea was that we would produce original plays from unknown playwrights like me. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but we soon found out otherwise. Audiences didn’t want originality. They wanted the tried and true. Oklahoma. Annie. The Odd Couple. If they hadn’t seen it a dozen times, they didn’t want to see it at all. So, I found a loophole. Turns out you can copyright a story but not a title. So I changed everyone in my murder mystery to a feline. I was quite happy with the turnout to see Clifford Lowe’s Cats.

DANNY

Wentworth spent weeks slaving at his typewriter hacking away at his next novel. “This is BRILLIANT!” Wentworth screamed, frightening his neighbors, as he hacked away at all hours of the night. Finally, the day arrived, his transcript finally complete. He skipped down the street in leaps and bounds to the publisher’s office merely 200 yards away. “I’ve got it this time!” Wentworth screamed at the publisher’s face, who calmly responded, “Look, I get it, your whole thing about being original, writing about the George Zimmerman trial 2 weeks after the fact. When you actually have something more original, get back to us.”

JUSTIN

The volcano erupted! Lava poured over Omnitron and his minions, but immune Ra projected his protection to Tempest. Omnitron blasted out an electro-pulse, wounding the heroes! Another gout of lava melted more of Omnitron and its devices. Ra pulled out his staff, gaining strength. Tempest collapsed when they brushed some deadly plants! Enraged at how such a small thing nearly killed them, Ra hurled his staff at Omnitron, shorting it out. Omnitron submerged into lava with the smell of melting circuits and metal. Ra carried Tempest away from the volcano as the last of Omnitron’s drones burned in the fire.

RED

People think the most meaningful words in a relationship are “I love you” and “I’m sorry.” Regardless of the nature of your involvement, you will find yourself apologizing and declaring your love. There is no original way to express those emotions. The order of words of choice during an argument is irrelevant.
Lola couldn’t care less about minced words. She wants to see bold gestures yet thoughtful. To her, romance is in the intimate details and subtleties. Her boyfriend has been traveling more than usual for business. Sometimes she hears from him daily. On other trips, he barely emails her. She sometimes wonders, does he even think about her when making his plans?
As if he has psychic powers, the day before he flies back, he ships a box of velvet cupcakes soaked in rum, with a letter on each one. It reads: “FYI T O U. I wish I were here to feed them to you.” With a goofy grin, Lola sticks her index finger in the creamy icing. She closes her eyes, with one sweet finger licking taste, she suddenly develops temporary amnesia.

WHISKEY

“Where do you get your ideas?” they asked.
“How did you get so creative?” they wondered.
If only they knew how easy it is. Original ideas grow on trees. They
can be plucked from the gnarled branches in bushels. Ideas are the
fruit of the stubby trees of despair, euphoria, loneliness, and
strife. These trees feed from the loamy soil of hardship, watered by
the rays of a smile and fertilized by longing. For every idea that is
picked, three more grow in its place.
Just pay no attention to the serpent, out on a limb.

PLANET Z

What you can’t fix with bioengineering, you can replace with cybernetics.

In fact, most people pass on replicated meatware and go straight to the TurboHuman dealership for polymer. You can get better performance from designer flexware.

The danger is that you can’t buy cyberparts, you can only lease them from TurboHuman. And they don’t come cheap.

Miss a payment, and you’ll find your Jarvik heart skipping a beat.

Miss another payment, and you’ll get a visit from the chopwagon.

I stuck to all natural. Because driving this chopwagon only pays commissions.

Or bribes.

Fifty, and I’ll let you go, kid.

Weekly Challenge #377 – Anonymous

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 ANONYMOUS:

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

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of ORIGINAL – it’s a special collaboration with Single Frame Stories, so be sure to go to the topic post/episode there for details.

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.

JEFFREY

Memories
by Jeffrey Fischer

The anonymous note came through Bill’s mail slot one morning. “I know what you did last Friday.” He crumpled the note and threw it at the trash can. He missed.

Bill returned home after work to find a second note, on thick cardboard this time, so he couldn’t crumple it so easily. “I know what you did last Friday.” He ran the note through his shredder.

When the third note came through, pasted on the back of an old frying pan, even Bill acknowledged he couldn’t readily dispose of it. Instead, he attached his own note and slipped the pan back into the hall. “Good,” the note read, “because I’ve completely forgotten.”

The Manuscript
by Jeffrey Fischer

Barbara read the manuscript with growing excitement. This was not just good, it was astonishingly good. As an editor for a literary magazine, reading stories from the slush pile was generally a thankless part of the job, but someone had to do it. But this piece… it pushed all of Barbara’s buttons as a reader. The piece was just what Barbara would have written herself, had the magazine not prohibited editors from submitting stories. The author wanted to remain anonymous, however. He had left a correspondence address and nothing more.

Barbara sent an immediate acceptance letter, but couldn’t help ask why the author of such a wonderful piece insisted on anonymity. Two days later, she received a reply: “Have you forgotten our split personality?”

MARIO

I stood there long after everyone had gone. I am not sure why I stayed, its not as if you would suddenly pop up and say, “hey, how ya doin’?” I also wasn’t sure how I was supposed to be feeling at that moment. I was angry because I couldn’t call out your name. I was sad because I would never see you again. I was anxious because time was so short. I was happy because you were somewhere better than you had been before. I looked down at the inscription on the tombstone that seemed to mock me, ANONYMOUS!

TURA

There was once a woodcutter, who lived with his wife in the forest. They had little use for names, so when they had a son, they did not give him one.

When he was old enough, he must cut and carry wood, and if what he got for it would not feed him, he would go hungry.

One day his father died, and his mother, and he was alone. He left to travel in the wider world, which he had never seen.

But what became of him then, none can say, for he had no name to be remembered by.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part ^

Despite the addition of about 100 kilos of noodles Banister was able to
reach Bowsmen Station with out further incident. “This will not do,”
exclaimed mother. Red head to toe draped in noodles and lightly dusted
with Parmesan Tim was less then presentable. Bowsmen prided itself in
providing all a traveler could want. Tearooms, MusicHalls, but in Timmy’s
case The Guy Fox Nano Showers was what he needed run by a more
materialistically driven branch of Anonymous. It seems cascading a
firewall produces the same effect as random falling drops of water. A
cheeky grinning pencil mustached mask greeted him.

RICHARD

#1 – Hotwire
Hotwiring always looked simple in the movies!

Now, faced with trying to start the huge bulldozer with no key, George realised he hadn’t the faintest clue how to go about it.

Not ready to give up quite so easily, he jumped down from the vehicle and – carefully checking for signs of life first – kicked in the door of the site office… again, not quite as easy as it looked in the movies.

Grabbing all the keys he could find, a pang of guilt stopped him, and he hastily scribbled an anonymous note as he left:

“Sorry for wrecking your door!”

#2 – Anonymous Post

The anonymous poster is the scum of the internet – a coward without the courage of his convictions; a posturing loser who hides behind the veil of obscurity.

The words he employs are an affront to decency – self-righteous, opinionated, misinformed and toxic… words that, more often than not, serve only to demonstrate a woeful lack of understanding and humility. Words that care not for the feelings of decent, upright people or the values of those they insult.

The anonymous poster is a festering disease that must be eradicated for the good of all.

But they’ll have to catch me first!

#5 – Focal Point

Why is it, no matter how good the photographer, how expensive the equipment and how much time is spent setting up the perfect shot, somebody – or something – always gets in on the act, stealing the show.

The anonymous photo-bomber in the background, the unknown stranger in the group or the animal wandering into shot at the crucial moment. At weddings, it’s the guest fighting to keep her hat on in the wind, or the bridesmaid picking her nose behind the happy couple.

Without fail, it’s these anonymous strangers who get all the attention – more photogenic than any other subject.

#4 – Tick the box

My brother, Arnold, was obsessed with privacy. He spent his life in paranoid fear that the government was spying on his activities. He’d shred his mail so his identity could never be stolen and wear dark glasses when travelling on public transport.

He’d stop at nothing to guard his private life – always paid in cash and never subscribed to mailing lists.

Even in death, it seems he’s had the last laugh.

His unmarked grave is out there somewhere, but I’ve no idea where… trust him to tick the ‘I wish to remain anonymous’ box on the instructions to his undertaker!

MUNSI

The Mask

By Christopher Munroe

The mask cost twelve dollars at Expo when we went in the spring.

Well worth it.

I took it home, put it on a shelf, and waited.

Summer rolled on and into autumn, and once she’d forgotten we had the thing, I knew the time had come.

I greeted her at the door as she got home from work, naked other than the plastic, V for Vendetta-style Guy Fawkes mask.

“Hey, baby,” I said, the leer she couldn’t see nonetheless perfectly clear in my voice, “want to have some Anonymous sex?”

….I’m as surprised that it worked as you are!

LIZZIE

“All I want is to be anonymous,” was the last line in the short note he left behind. His phone was tapped, his Internet access logged for future reference, the front door barred by police tapes, his windows closed to the curious eyes of unfriendly neighbors. He was the outcast everyone knew, all because he spoke up against the Registry where all details of people’s lives were available publicly. When he terminated his life, an option provided by law to those who refused to follow the Code blindly, he hoped for peace and quiet for his family. That didn’t happen…

SERENDIPITY

I remember a visit to Pompeii: I stood before an anonymous, petrified, long-dead Roman citizen and wondered about their life… who were they, what were their dreams and aspirations, what were their achievements and successes?

Then I realised the stone figure in front of me was simply a cast, of a mould, of an empty space where once a fragile person had tragically lain – a void… a profound gap in time and space.

And it reminded me that – no matter who we may be – the sum total of our lives will almost certainly add up to… nothing at all.

ZACKMANN

“I am so mad because of all the extra effort you caused me. What were you thinking? Now I will have to spend several days trying to fix this. This is what I get for hiring a hipster.” ranted Larry

“You had to because I am your cousin and my father is you biggest backer. Since I want to be unnoticed I must sign everything Anonymous.”

“But as my business partner you are a signer on the business checking account and unless it says Anonymous on your state Identification Card the bank will not cash or deposit checks signed Anonymous.”

CLIFF

During my time at the paper, I was amazed at how stories were gathered. Anonymous tips were a big source of information. This one time, we got a tip about a popular national cookie company. The caller alleged that the company used sawdust in its recipes, that children were forced to work in the hot oven rooms, and that the white icing in the middle of their most popular cookie was made from shoe polish. The idiot editor was ready to run the story until someone pointed out that the caller sounded very much like a certain famous tree elf.

____________

I thought I’d come up with a great money making scheme. Every year, there are dozens of things published under the name Anonymous. Poetry, news articles, novels, exposes, the list is endless. So many people want their work out there and don’t want their name to be attached to it, so they sign it Anonymous. So, I went down to the courthouse last week and legally changed my name to Anonymous. Now, all the royalties from those works are legally mine. I have run into a snag, though. I’m having trouble tracking down the authors so I can sue them.

STEVEN

We all look the same to you.

Dress us in black and muted colors, in uniforms that designate us by role, not by name.

Pack us in squares with gray rug-covered walls that we are free to decorate within anxious corporate guidelines.

Keep us “backstage” out of the public eye. Hold out just enough impossible hope that we step on each other for the brass ring.

We could be the fixtures, the appliances, the automatic doors.

To you, we are simply cogs in the machine. Background. Forgotten.

We are anonymous.

You order the clam chowder.

It will not be clean.

NORVAL JOE

Weeks had passed since Long John Silver’s midnight romp through the female’s kennel. Six of the girls looked more like meat balls with legs than wiener dogs. On top of that Long John was responsible for Widow Finklestien’s border collie’s pregnancy. Dergle would have to figure out their dispersal as well.
His wiener dog eared hoodie hung in the closet with press-on nose and whiskers. The urge was strong to don the outfit and cruise the cold night streets in search of recipients for his anonymous gifts.
Yet, the memory of his week in jail was still way too fresh.

JUSTIN

I haven’t yet seen either Battlestar Galactica, but I have played the board game, and I really love it. Everyone has the same goal: Not die and get to the goal planet. A nice co-op game, right?

Wrong.

Because not everyone does have the same goal. Some of the players are secretly Cylons! They have to as secretly as they can sabotage the missions while wild accusations fly around the table. Better yet, half way through the game, someone who wasn’t a Cylon becomes one! Mayhem!

I love the dastardly skulduggery and secrets and lies.

My dad hates the game.

DANNY

I understand the shock of the George Zimmerman verdict, despite the facts that clearly
screamed innocence. I have been a criminal defense attorney in the state of Florida for over 16
years, I’m quite used to the distortion of the actual facts created by our media. Outside the
courtroom, the “media,” or better yet, whoever owns the media, controls the message. I’m not
saying we are lied to, I’m saying when we watch “the news,” it is a production, one where
choices are made behind the scenes about what is stated, and who exactly gets to make those
statements. When a producer permits a person on air to state an opinion contrary to the story the
network owner wants broadcast, that producer is promptly fired, and the person making the
statement, no longer appears on “Face The Nation,” or any other network. We, the people, simply
are not privy to the controlling decisions made behind the camera of the news we trust to deliver
actual facts. What goes on in front of the camera, is what I call “the noise.” The evidence
presented and cross-examined in a trial, such as in the Zimmerman trial, I call “The Signal.” The
signal in the Zimmerman case screamed “not guilty” despite the noise created by our media
screaming “racism!” YouTube and other online technologies have become an equalizing force
against FOX, CNN, and MSNBC, but only if you can hear the signal through the noise. Of
course, this message probably angers you, and your first instinct is to take your rage out on the
attorney who took the time to try to explain something to you. So, let me leave by signing my
name. Yours truly, ANONYMOUS.

REDGODDESS

At midnight on Friday, Lola received an anonymous call with an urgent message on her cell phone. The voice on the machine was overly excited for a stranger. He states, “I’m happy to tell you that your boyfriend made it!” Lola was now worried. Was he in an accident? Did he travel somewhere and made his destination? What the hell does “he made it means” in the wee hour of the morning. She couldn’t go back to sleep. She called his cell but went straight to voicemail.
She checked her emails and text messages. Nothing. There are the side effects of being a caring relationship, she thought to herself. Worries and sleepless days will consume her until she sees him.

PLANET Z

Ted worked on the global organ donor tracking research for months, and then he analyzed the data to find patterns with race, religion, and other factors.

After checking the European figures, he found a strange anomaly in the data… wait times for livers were minimal in Greece. And all the procedures were performed by a clinic called The Prometheus Institute.

Ted looked up the name and read the legend.

Vultures? Titans? Regenerating a liver?

Ted passed word to his supervisor, and heard nothing else about it.

Then, his funding was cut off, and the lab caught fire.

Fire, from Olympus.

Weekly Challenge #376 – Yellow

WARNING: My audio quality sucks this week. I used a Logitech H540 USB headset because my H530 broke. The H540 sounds muddy and awful. I’m heading to Micro Center to pick up an H530 if they have one, or a Plantronics if they don’t. (Anyone need a free crappy Logitech H540 headset?)

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 YELLOW:

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

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

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.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 5

Denman is the 5th rook from the sun. Your average M1 planet secondarily
known for Agro-mining, but primarily and singularly known for its D
classification. Denman was a Deity planet. Any signal act of sufficient
devotion could and often did manifest the god of your choosing. Timmy
hadn’t chosen the Flying Spaghetti Monster currently silhouetted in the
twin moon of Denman. “Look like were about to become the blue plate
special” “Not today” cried Timmy point at his Zauberlehrling creation.
John Wayne and the whole F! US cavalry slammed into the FSM. Banister
triumphantly whistled,” She wore a Yellow Ribbon.”

JEFFREY

On the Road
by Jeffrey Fischer

The yellow car turned the corner and accelerated on the broad highway, only to be stopped again by a traffic light. The car looked like something Big Bird might drive. Melvin assumed the buyer had lost a bet. The driver appeared nervous. He wore dark sunglasses and his hair was close cropped. When a police car pulled up behind, the driver of the yellow car looked in the rear-view mirror and reached across the passenger seat, perhaps to open the glove compartment.

The cop fiddled with his computer – maybe running the yellow car’s plates? – as the light turned. Both cars rolled through the intersection, and Melvin was left to wonder how the drama, if any, would unfold.

The Crossing
by Jeffrey Fischer

In the third week, our caravan began to run short of water. The yellow sun hung huge in the sky and beat down mercilessly. We had underestimated the amount of time to cross the desert, and found no oasis to restock.

Rain was an unlikely wish, and the intense heat of the day meant we had to stop and take shelter under the canopies until the heat began to break for the evening.

We traveled as far as possible at night, driving the horses to exhaustion. Two collapsed, and we had no choice but to leave them behind. At our current rate, we would be lucky to reach the edge of the desert alive. Still, this route was the only way to get the child to court in time for the coronation.

Yellow
by Jeffrey Fischer

“You callin’ me yellow?” the cowboy said, glaring at Sam. Sam, a bespectacled man of slight build, took a step back.

“Er, no, sir. I just said you appeared jaundiced, that your skin has a yellowish tone.”

That didn’t mollify the cowboy, who shouted to no one in particular, “You heard that – he thinks I’m a coward.” To Sam, he said, “Draw, or I’m gonna gun you down anyway.”

Sam thought quickly. He didn’t want to die in a disreputable bar in a nothing town, merely because a cowboy had more aggression than vocabulary.

“No, sir. I said you’re a mighty fine fellow.”

LIZZIE

Yellow Future

A yellow line divided the town in two. On one side lived the blue-eyed, on the other the brown-eyed. No one remembered why this division was implemented, yet everyone remembered who had used the yellow paint to draw the line, McAllister. His descendants retouched that line every year, perpetuating its forgotten meaning. One day, yellow was banned from the market due to a toxic component of the color. McAllister’s descendants tried a red line that year, but the result was disastrous. Blue-eyed and brown-eyed crossed the line defiantly, back and forth. The town completely forgot the line. The McAllisters didn’t…

RICHARD

#1 – Yellow

Fairly quickly, George learned that carrying forty tins of tomatoes was not conducive to rapid progress and, struggling with his load, it soon struck him that he’d been a complete idiot.

Why walk when there were abandoned vehicles everywhere he passed?

Not just any car would do though: he wanted something with a bit of muscle that he could rely on in a crisis – speed was out too; the streets were littered with debris and would likely be a death trap.

Passing a building site, the brutal yellow bulk of a large bulldozer caught his eye.

Now, that would do nicely!

#2 – Custard

Yellow is definitely not my favourite colour – it may well be the colour of sunshine and happiness, but it’s also the colour of custard – in my mind, a substance more vile and repulsive than any other.

Whether the cloying, sticky ooze, sandwiched between the pastry of the confectioner’s creation, or the pale, thin dribble of nastiness, clinging to your rhubarb crumble desert, there is nothing more disgusting than a dollop of custardly gloop.

By all means, surround me with hues of red, green and blue, they’re just fine by me – but keep your custard yellow to yourself, if you please.

#3 – Volcano

Scientists tell us that lurking deep beneath Yellowstone National Park there is huge super-volcano that will, one day, be the death of us all.

It’s cataclysmic eruption will annihilate much of North America and plunge the unprepared world into another ice age: we will all perish in the dark, cold fury of the endless volcanic winter.

So, what are the scientists doing about it?

Well, they’re investing their time and energy researching the geology and mechanics of Yellowstone.

No, scientists! Stop researching geology and how we’re going to die… and start inventing anti-volcanic disaster safety domes, or something!

MUNSI

Black and Yellow

By Christopher Munroe

Yup.

Alright.

You know what it is.

Black and yellow.

Black and yellow…

And thus, Wiz Kaleefa sang my very favorite song about bees.

Or maybe it’s about Pittsburgh.

Maybe it’s about that time Pittsburgh was infested with angry bees?

Did that happen? Was it a movie? Because I’d watch that!

Anyway, my second favorite song about bees is by Coldplay.

Look at the stars, see how they shine for you?

And all the things that you do.

And they were all…

…black and yellow.

Black and yellow.

Black and yellow…

TURA

Did your school physics teacher ever set the question, if the sun’s yellow, why does everything seem to be lit up by white light? That one’s easy: it’s because the rest of the sky’s blue. With yellow that makes white.

But try this one. The Moon shines by reflecting the Sun’s light. So why isn’t it yellow?

It’s because the Moon itself is blue! It’s made of blue cheese, not green! That’s why we’ve not been back since Apollo. The Swiss bankers don’t want competition for the Swiss cheese industry.

UN-altered REPRODUCTION and DISSEMINATION of this IMPORTANT information is ENCOURAGED.

STEVEN

We were placid calm blues and violets, the predawn still, bodies
wrapped around each other, radiating warmth against the slight summer
morning chill.

The dark still night is the place where busyness and activity and
words cannot hide you from yourself. Cannot save her from her fears.

She wakes with the first slivers of sunlight, and once it’s safe
enough, busy enough to start the day, the jealousy begins with demands
and screams and shouting loud enough to save her from her own
insecurity.

She is backlit, yelling, by the morning sun. Her words smear the
colors of our relationship.

SERENDIPITY

Jack Knife knew fortune was smiling on him when the swing of his pickaxe striking the rocky surface revealed the flash and sparkle of a rich vein of gleaming yellow… he’d struck the motherload.

Later that day, his triumph turned to woe, as he ran from the assay office, the laughter of his fellow prospectors ringing in his ears:

“That’s fool’s gold, you darned idiot! Nothing but iron ore!”

Now, thirty years later, he gazed through the window of his plush office at the huge operation that was ‘Jack Knife Mining Industries’. He smiled.

“Who’s the fool now?”, he murmured.

SINGH

(The text will be available eventually… he’s entering this piece into a writing competition.)

JUSTIN

Parents dead, killed by a mafia hit on the wrong house. Growing up on the hard streets, alone. He learned to live by the way of shadows. Then one day he met a washed up hobo drinking a bottle of tainted whisky, and he watched him transform into a monster, right before his eyes. Evil had gone too far, crime had overstepped the line of tolerance! He donned the mask, slipped into the spandex, and alighted a fedora upon his head and became

THE SLY DRIFTER!

Then he learned to use a sword after punching evil made his knuckles sore.

ZACK

There is a crash and someone screams “Aray. Hielo”. That was his contact.

She continues “I bet someone emptied that ice chest here intentionally. Why did I agree to meet that yellow journalist?”

Frank offers a hand to help lady up saying “I’m not a yellow journalist, I had jaundice.Do you have it?”

“Why could you not have gotten this yourself” she says handing him the Cap’n Crunch box.

“My wife doesn’t allow sugary cereal in our house but I have to see if there’s any truth in Dan Brown’s conspiracy theory. Starting why Cap’n wears a Commander’s uniform.”

CLIFF

Hello? Yes, I’m still holding. Yes, the bomb is still ticking.
When’s the bomb squad going to be here?
Why not? Retirement party? Well, yes, forty years is a long time to defuse bombs.
So what am I supposed to do?
Nail clippers? Yes, but…
ME?
Well, ok. Yes, I see the wires.
Red, yellow, blue, and green.
Really? In the movies, they always cut the red wire.
Ok, cutting the yellow wire.
What? The red wire? But you said the yellow one.
Just how long HAVE you been an intern there?
Yeah, well, the first day’s always the toughest.

JUNE

Yellow

by June Faramore

Yellow filters down to a tree not yet touched with dew as Cerwin ducks behind it for cover. The chase is on, and constant awareness is necessary, even in these quiet morning hours. The tealans squack, announcing the approach of the hunt, and with every wet sound he prays for the rain to return to cover his scent.

Cerwin did not realize filching a lemon cake would cause this much chaos. Leanna wanted it, and he wanted her, wanted up her short-skirt and whatever else hid behind the long-jacket worn by all girls not yet betrothed.

Cerwin runs from yellow.

NORVAL JOE

Dan shovelled a mouthful of his breakfast cereal into his mouth, savoring the crunchy sweetness. He knew from experience if he didn’t eat quickly the trademarked crunch would soon become mush.
With shock he looked to the box before him and gasped, “The primary colors.”
He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. There, before him on the box, yellow, red and blue. He turned the box sideways reading in blind disbelief, “Corn Flour, Sugar, Oat Flour, Brown Sugar, Coconut Oil.”
An image of the smiling Quaker Oat man loomed in his head as he whispered, “The Captain Crunch Conspiracy.”

DANNY

The expert went on describing his qualifications as an expert. It goes as follows: After I received my bachelor’s degree in Yellow Lunch Box Technology and DNA collection, I was then somehow hired by the State of Florida, in a demented state, then underwent extensive training packaging sandwiches wrapped in wax paper put into yellow lunchboxes, followed by a six month apprenticeship. The State Attorney continued, Your honor, I would like to submit Mr. ChingChingChuCiWApromiseI’mnotaracistjustsoundlikeone as an expert on packaging sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and placing them into a yellow lunch box. Any objections, Mr. Weiss? YES! I object to the term Yellow.

REDGODDESS

It’s wedding season! The hotel Manager announces gleefully as she walks through the lobby to her office. I guess, “good morning to staff” is not worth the same effort. Lola has too much on her plate, so she ignores her and focuses on the guests checking in. Violet, the Hotel Interior designer is getting married on Independence Day and she wants Lola’s opinion on the color scheme. Violet’s favorite color is saffron yellow. So she decided, everything except her gown will have a touch of yellow. The bridesmaids would have to find matching shoes. The men must wear the exact shade of yellow tie or they’ll come face to face with a bridezilla.
Lola nods and smiles as she shows her the wedding plan, guest list, cake choice and the piece the resistance, her massive yellow diamond ring. This is all too consuming for Lola without caffeine or a cocktail. Wedding talk is like asking a new guest about their day and they derail into details about their whole trip, including what they ate on the plane. All of a sudden, Lola says, “oh wow, look at the time.” I have a meeting with the Manager, as she slides away from the counter. Lola wishes her luck on her big colorful Independence day bash and trapped herself into the dragon lady’s office.

PLANET Z

When she was a kitten, her eyes were yellow.

But after she lost her mate, her eyes turned green.

Then, when we got her a kitten to keep her company, her eyes would change from yellow to green, depending on her mood. They were usually a muddy yellow. Never were the same again.

I hear her howl from the bedroom. I know she is carrying around a toy ball and searching for her mate to give it to.

She will never find him.

Green. Yellow.

These are merely colors. What matters is that you see what you want to see.

Weekly Challenge #375 – Tomato

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 TOMATO:

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

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

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

Finally, if there are any errors or corrections, please let me know, and I’ll get those fixed up as soon as possible.

JEFFREY

Frank
by Jeffrey Fischer

I was in the middle of “One for My Baby” when she caught my eye. She was a real ripe tomato, the kind of girl with a mouth made for kissing and hair made for tousling the next morning in bed. I winked at her. The band kicked into the last tune, and I had trouble keeping my mind on the song as I made sure she didn’t leave the room.

“How ’bout a drink, sweetheart?” I asked. She nodded quickly, so I added, “I have a nice bottle of bourbon in my suite.”

In the morning she was gone, of course. It was always like that, but it didn’t make any of them less special.

Roadhouse
by Jeffrey Fischer

The tricky thing to learn about playing in a band in honky-tonks is how to dodge tomatoes while still keeping the rhythm. Sure, beer bottles hurt more, so you have to steel yourself for the impact and not flinch, but most of the drunks can’t put a lot of strength behind the throw. These guys aren’t Nolan Ryan, zipping a fastball at your head.

No, it’s the over-ripe tomato that causes the most damage. There’s no way to remove the stains on clothing, and chunks inside a hollow-body guitar wreak havoc on the sound. Even the chicken-wire barrier doesn’t help – it just slices the tomato before it reaches you.

For particularly nasty crowds, I’ve started carrying my own supply of rotten fruit to gigs. If nothing else, it keeps the crowd’s attention.

MUNSI

Pronouncement

By Christopher Munroe

I say tomato, you say to-mah-to.

Seriously, stop saying to-mah-to.

It comes off as weird and affected, nobody talks like that. Maybe they did when the song was written, when regionalisms like that were more widespread, but as the world increasingly globalizes certain common pronounciations become widely accepted and you just have to learn to live with that.

It’s tomato. Everyone agrees that it’s tomato. Get over it.

I mean seriously. To-mah-to? What on earth were you thinking?

For reals.

Anywho…

I say potato, you say po-tah-to….

Are you fucking kidding me?!?!??

That’s it, we’re calling the whole thing off.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part Four

Tim pulled the trigger too late. The Clark exploded like a bushel of Roma
tomatoes. The coach was covered in red. Banister laughed while clocking a
floater, which was performing an un-natural act on one of the Batlofts.
The danger from the Clarks wasn’t due to direct injury, the danger was
from uneven distribution of weight. It didn’t take much to send the stage
into a barrel roll. Timmy doubled his efforts and extended his firing
range. “Not Good,” roared Banister over the gathering storm. A Russell’s
Teapot was doing a Z-drop. Timmy yelled back, “Is that the FSM? OF!”

RICHARD

#1 – Tomato, Tomato

It was going to happen sooner or later – it was just a matter of time before a word cropped up, over which myself and my American peers simply didn’t share common ground.

You say, ‘tom-ay-to’, I say, ‘tom-ar-to’ – but which should I use? Just like the song, I felt like calling the whole thing off.

I was going to compromise, but then I thought, to hell with it! Be true to yourself… be proud of your heritage!

So, ‘tom-ar-to’ it is, and ‘tom-ar-to’ it’s going to be

And, if you don’t like it – you know where you can stick it!

#2 – Tinned Tomato

All George’s efforts were now focused on finding human company – he headed in the direction from which he’d heard the squeal of tyres.

As he jogged, it occurred to him that he could well be running into danger – after all, the vehicle he’d heard was trying to get away from something, and fast!

He looked around for a weapon and soon came across a pile of cans strewn across the road. He hefted one in his hand and nodded to himself, then filled his rucksack with as much tinned tomato as he could carry.

Now, he was armed… and dangerous.

SINGH

Bali Snapshots 2 (Tomato)

1
My nasi goreng arrives tomato-red on the plate, a rounded mound of Balinese fried rice. It’s different to your normal Chinese take-away. There is none of that black soy sharpness. Instead, kecap manis sauce carries a salty sweetness, especially sitting in this bamboo restaurant in the green paddy fields. We walked a trail to get here. A thick wooden straw is a periscope rising from the fat coconut. Its lid has been carved like a lotus flower. Meanwhile, a red hibiscus dangles over the bamboo railing nodding like someone tuning into our conversation. We smile, we smile, we smile.

2
They spread a thin mattress in the Balinese hut. I’m told to strip to my shorts, and when they drop the muslin curtains my wife does the same. We lie face down with sarongs over us. As they press and knead our Western flesh, my wife who speaks Bahasa learns both the women are widows. One lost her husband to a heart attack and the other keeps silent. I think of my own red face. Has my blood pressure dropped or risen since arriving here? My wife doesn’t turn over. She is still shy, due to her mastectomy nine years ago.

3
 One the way to the cockfight, I see a white-haired grandmother with dried dugs exposed above her red sarong. She is hitting at coconuts with a long pole outside a house. I am reminded of old sepia-tinted photos of Balinese maidens who wore only sarongs in the streets, the rice fields, at festivals, in temples. The paradisal image immortalised by impressionist Gauguins survives now as a cheap model of sexy art sold from roadsides, thanks to the Protestant Dutch reformation making women cover up last century. Meanwhile, topless Grannie whacks the coconuts. They jiggle like breasts full of milk.

4
After independence Bali survived, clean-minded and house-proud with competitions for the best-kept walled homes and gardens. Our driver stops to showcase one owned by his friend. From outside there is not much difference between ornate temple and the average house of sculpted volcanic rock. Inside, we see separate buildings – the ‘head’, the ancestor temple points North to the mountains; the ‘body’ holds the family rooms; and the feet form the wood fire kitchen with its big rice pot; at the garden’s centre each child’s umbilical afterbirth is buried under the hibiscus tree linking the family to this place.

5
Women fold pandan leaf strips into square trays to hold prayer offerings. Then, thrice daily they take flowers and morsels to the temple. This eats up forty percent of the family income. Elsewhere, women are in paddy fields, are cooking, or sweeping the paths. Even in the temples, women priests mutter the same prayers and drip holy water from a long folded leaf into your hands like their male counterparts. Some men carve gods, while women slog to keep up the rituals, but mostly their husbands sit smoking clove cigarettes, watching football and drinking endless cups of the thick Balinese coffee.

6
We join 2000 men for tajen. Banned throughout Muslim Indonesia as an anti-gambling measure, the cock fighting arena survives in Hindu Bali’s province as religious blood sacrifice. Our driver says this is just a front. Under-the-table ‘licenses’ are provided by the police. Gamblers bid “Chok-chok-chok-chok!” as the black bantam and white are held up, a blade tied above hind claws. Released they fly at each other. The black one strikes and soon blood oozes like chilli sauce through white feathers soon to be chicken soup for the Balinese soul, betting stubs dropped in the dust.

7
We reach the professor’s home for our appointment. We sit upstairs to discuss shared interests. He has many students and is a leading figure in the Bali Arts Festival. Soon an American theatre director arrives to lead a group rehearsal for her coming show – a Balinese version of Shakespeare’s The Two Gentlemen of Verona. She explains the plot’s twists and foolish turns of cross-dressing infidelity and love. It all fits perfectly here. Nyoman our new young friend says he wants to be Romeo. “Wrong play!” someone shouts. “Don’t worry,” says the director.”There are plenty of Romeo’s in this one.”

8
The professor drives us through a traffic jam to the festival, picking up an Australian woman on the way. Tall, red-haired and loud, she launches into her day’s report: prison work for convicted Western drug mules learning to draw, act and write with the aid of the professor’s students. Some are on death row for the stupidity of coming to party in the night clubs of Kuta Beach in Denpasar, bringing in cocaine and marijuana to finance their holidays; others will be here for life. She reports on the good effects of art used as a tool for prisoner rehabilitation.

9
Weaving through clouds of clove-smoke, we escape inside to the Wayang Gong — folk opera with drum and flute orchestra. Nasally singing starts behind the curtained entrance. Next to me sits a sandal salesman. Girls caress mobile phones. Its a typical Shakespearean Balinese crowd.
Two women heel-step out with elegant red and gold dresses of formal brocade silk wearing bantam headdresses. They drag long hems between feet like the feathers of shaggy fowls. Suddenly, one is a slim standup artist working the crowd, the other a chubby buffoon wiggling her butt. An ancient story, new jokes and the crowd roars.

10
Outside we go to see a shadow play with the professor as Independent Judge. Behind the screen the dalang performs scenes from the Mahabharata with intricate stick puppets cut from buffalo hide. Painted in red, green, silver and gold only black outlines project in the coconut oil lamplight. Noble characters speak ancient Kawi and comic servants with bellies and bulb noses translate in Bali Bahasa. Father and son attend heroes and gods, while the bad guy’s servants’ schtick is to fall over, fart and fill in the story details. It ends with a battle between the good guys and the demons.

11
The next day we meet Nyoman. This Topeng mask theatre student has a passion for Marcel Marceau-style mime picked up deftly from You-Tube. He shows his own group’s video clips. The Balinese are brilliant mimics hiding their true selves equally behind traditional hibiscus wood masks, or modern white face-paint. He narrates the true tale of his girlfriend and love thwarted by overprotective Dad. Another Tempest on the island of Bali? He sips his smoothie, wearing its slice of watermelon, cut like the tail feathers of a fighting cock, still the best emblem for the spirit of this place.

KURDT

He lays half naked, body slightly twitching, head glowing red. A quick opening of his eyes is followed by a catapult from off the ground.
“Johnny?” I inquire.
“What?!” he responds, eyes still half glazed.
“Are you alright?”
“Where’s my goddamn shirt?!”
“Will you please quit yelling at me?!” I turn, charge towards the bedroom and slam the door shut behind me. The pounding footsteps become louder…
I lunge towards the door and quickly lock it.
“Let me in!”
I close my eyes and envision Johnny at the machine shop, laughing with his co-workers. “Good ol tomato head,” they say.

STEVEN

Oh good. You’re awake!

Look, I have something to tell you. You were…

You were right. There. I said it. Not that hard at all. It’s not as easy for me as it is for you, but I can admit when I’m wrong, just like you–

Hm? Oh, right, I know. I search for similarities. 23 Skiddoo, right? Seeing things in clouds. You’re so quick to tell me that I’m “imposing a pattern of similarities onto dissimilar data”. And let me tell you, that’s just not true. We have SO much in common, and you just refuse–

Ah, right. Sorry. Starting to argue again, and it’s not really fair with the gag in your mouth. And besides, I already said you were right. We’re very dissimilar. It’s true. I mean, look at us. Look at what we do. You’re a banker with your suit and briefcase, and I’m a sculptor with my smock and my chisel.

That’s the answer, honey. The sculpting. You don’t build something up – you take a rock and then you chip away everything that doesn’t fit. Everything that’s different.

And then we can be happy together!

Tomato, tohmahto, let’s just chop the whole thing off.

SERENDIPITY

The headline was intriguing – ‘Killer Tomato Destroys Family!’, and the news stand was doing a brisk business on the strength of it.

I queued, paid, then ran for my train; and settling comfortably in my seat, shook the tabloid open to read this extraordinary news.

The huge headline dominated the front page, followed by ‘Turn to centre pages for full story’ – I dutifully complied.

There, tucked in the corner was the simple story: ‘John Smith, aged 43, recently choked to death on a small piece of tomato. His wife says the family has been ‘destroyed”.

Who says the press never sensationalise?

ZACKMANN

“Do you have any two pound heirloom tomatoes?”

“Sorry Not this week” replied produce guy.

“Too bad you don’t have any this week because my last one was magical.”

The produce man wondered if his client knew of the dimensional pathway not far away. He liked the man so he decide to investigate further before having to kill him to protect the secret of access to real magical worlds

The produce guy asks “Was it really magic?”

“No but it did taste wonderful and it was priceless to hear my wife opened the produce bag then say “It’s so big.”

LIZZIE

“A tomato is the perfect addition to a perfect salad.” He chopped the tomato in half. “Real food, tomatoes. They’re very healthy.” The rookie lawyers who drafted his contract messed up and didn’t state that he had to say the name of the kitchen knives he was selling. So, he never did. This generated a colossal confusion amongst the viewers. Knives or tomatoes? Hundreds of calls flooded the lines bringing the TV station to a halt. No sales whatsoever. He was fired. Well, invited to leave. He asked for a million. “The perfect addition to a perfect life,” he thought.

CLIFF

They warned me that stand up comedy was tough.
“You won’t make any money,” they said. I replied that I was already broke.
“If you’re any good, other comics will steal your material,” they said. I said that I’d write more jokes, better than before.
“They’ll heckle you,” they said. I replied that I was good with a snappy comeback.
“They’ll throw tomatoes at you,” they said. I replied that I doubted if they did that anymore and if they do, at least I’ll eat healthy that night. They forgot to tell me that the tomatoes would be canned.

+++++++++++++++++++++++
Building the perfect BLT is an art. You start with the toast. If darker than a light golden color, it’s too dark. You don’t want it burnt, just toasted enough to support the fixings. The lettuce should be crisp and dark green, not pale and weak. The tomato should be firm and ripe, juicy without leaking. The bacon should not be fatty but not too lean and be cooked to perfection. You only need a thin layer of mayo for a bit of zest. There’s no M in the name, so you don’t need much. Garnish with cyanide and serve.

DANNY

When I first came into Second Life, there was a comedy stage on the mainland called The Flying Tomato. From the first time I discovered it, the stage and parcel was always empty. In these moments of solitude, I would wonder what avatar would want to get on stage to do a comedy act just to have flying tomatoes hurled at them. With the lag in Second Life, it would be impossible for any avatar to get out of the way of such a barrage. Then one day, the stage was converted to an open store selling flying tomato chairs.

NORVAL JOE

I hate thee little worm, in truth
You haunted my dreams when but a youth
With bulbous head and spiked tail
With which you threatened to impale
my tender hand.

Two eyes could see, but many more
Run down thy sides, and I abhor
Your clinging feet upon the vines
Of tomato plants, which do at times
Grow on my land.

Camoflage of silver and green
a grand disquise to look like leaves
I see you not ’til I wish to take,
The ripened fruit, but I must make
another plan.

If tomatoes you wish to grow,
Poison is best.

TURA

I don’t like tomatoes. Nasty, cloying taste. But I once imagined I did. I’d fallen ill, getting sicker and sicker for two weeks. Then it turned round and I started recovering.

During that recovery, I read a novel, in which there was a small scene of an impoverished priest frying some tomatoes, sprinkling salt on them, and, his hunger being so strong, eating them straight from the pan. The author made it live, so much so that I nearly went straight out to buy some tomatoes and do the same. But I didn’t, of course, because I can’t stand then.

JUSTIN

John Mullins, Soldier of Fortune, crept through the jungle, drops of rain bursting against the barrel of his assault rifle. The sound of muttering being cut off by “Hush!” gave him pause. Through the foliage he spied two terrorists attempting stealth through the trees. John swayed his gun towards them and bullets popped out through the silencer. One terrorist took a bullet to the arm and one to the neck. He died from shock. Two more bullets struck the other terrorist in the head, which turned into an exploding tomato. The bodies slumped to the ground quieter than when walking.

REDGODDESS

A lot of celebrities have fallen for the GYOP (Grow Your Own Produce) marketing hype. Even the First Lady has jumped on the eating fresh bandwagon. She holds fruit and veggie parties on the White House lawn for the children. For entertainment, she performs the hula hoop without breaking a sweat. Ah yes, save the children, Lola whispers to herself.
You have to admire a well-liked mother, wife, public health advocate who finds time to grow her own tomatoes. She then shares her bountiful crops with voters and visitors. Five blocks from the White House, CNN reported that a homeless woman was arrested for stealing bread at the Farmers’ Market. She confessed she lost her food stamps at the shelter and needed to feed her only child. I guess when it comes to feeding the hungry, not everyone can eat from the land.

PLANET Z

Ted likes ketchup on his burger, but he hates tomato.

Fred likes tomato on his burger, but he hates ketchup.

So, when the waitress got their burgers mixed up, they attacked her with a chair.

Then, they sat back down, traded plates, and finished their burgers.

By then, the waitress had crawled to safety, and the owner of the restaurant had called the cops.

Ted and Fred asked for separate checks.

When nobody responded, Ted and Fred Each put down a twenty and walked to the exit.

What happened next?

Who cares. I’m hungry.

Let’s get a burger.

My treat.