Weekly Challenge – Page 67 – The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Weekly Challenge #397 – Family

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

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

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

The topic this week was FAMILY.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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

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

MICK

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

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

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

SERENDIPITY

Let me introduce you to the family…

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

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

It’s so much more peaceful now.

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

We’re such a happy family!

JEFFREY

Love the One You’re With
by Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

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

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

Family Ties
by Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

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

MUNSI

On Dinners Missed

By Christopher Munroe

I usually work family holidays.

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

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

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

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

TOM

The Music Story Number 8

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

Marquettes

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

We Are Family

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

A Well Defined Relationship Part 26

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

John
“Village of Freaks”
by John Musico

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

TURA

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

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

RICHARD

#1 – Friends and family

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would anything ever make sense again?

#2 – Hand-me-down

“…But, what exactly is it?”

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

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

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

It’s a family hair-loom!

#3 – Nuclear Family

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

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

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

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

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

SINGH

21.1

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

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

Chai, mittai,” he barked toward the kitchen.

Margot rose up from the sheeted floor,

piling a ziggurat of dirty dishes.

Margot felt his eyes deflecting hers. Restraint

rattled her middle dish. They crashed.

“Madam please. You are our family guest,”

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

neutralise the wife before this Yogi was

firm in his grasp. Margot refused the servant,

and toted all stainless steel back to its source.

21.2

Mrs Barhai, a multi-handed goddess,

and shock absorber of her husband’s stress

was the right grind mill for his woody grain.

She could push and press to juice his sugar cane.

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

If kitchens work like wheels she was the hub

and spin of power. She checked her ample self

by the rich array of eatables on each shelf

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

Then, this chairwoman of the cutting board

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

before her senior, then sat, sighing out loud.

21.3

Her morning had backfired
with a car banging doors,

“Mrs Yogi. Mrs Yogi!”

The note, a grabbed guitar,

and ride to Garhmukhteshwar.

She’d heard the knee-cap tale

from host, Brijpal Chauhaan,

while window vistas showed

floating heads with fodder

and dung cake girls returning
from storage cones of thatch

to light up pulmonary fires

with babies strapped to backs,

baking hotplate flat bread

daubed with buffalo butter,

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

Here with Mrs Barhai

in her cuisine demesne,

again Margot was glad

she had escaped most kitchens,

so many slavish lifetimes

lost to the Indian woman.

21.4

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

said Mrs Barhai, “Living in the village.”

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

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

couldn’t fathom why this foreign woman

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

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

Mrs Barhai was stuck inside this puzzle.

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

Margot was getting tired. “And your children?”

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

“Then Yogiji is not…” A snooping nose,

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

21.5

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

banging her head. Divorce here meant taboo,

although in cities there were modern rifts,

while burning brides were still the ghosts of shame.

Carnivorous of course, an eater of husbands

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

the conversation shifting to her son

at college nearby in Meerut. Draughtsmanship.

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

Margot was nodding, while wondering how to exit.

21.6

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

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

How to wake up wifely here?

Years as slave and mother had

trampled down her lily pad –

those badboot husbands and their beer.

Her village hut was not so near.

Clinging cloth was starting to cook.

Would karma let her off the hook?

Diamond sweat dripped from each ear.

Family? Was it all past?

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

Regret and guilt both breathed aghast.

21.7

She drank the chai, then rising like a ghost

drifted inside. Yogi was still perched up

on the couch and holding court. He was

so wrong, she thought — so selfish, overtime.

Did she exist? Should she lean back into

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

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

JULIE

OK, So Dominant Genetics Rock

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

Cherylann drove to my hotel.

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

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

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

It’s great having a doppleganger.

I love having family.

ZACKMANN

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

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

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

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

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

LIZZIE

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

SPATE

Emily’s Family

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

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

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

The conversation fills with polite niceties.

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

REDGODDESS

Family by RedGoddess

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

CLIFF

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

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

EXPLORER

Family

by helen r starr

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

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

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

normal postmodern family.

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

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

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

Family Gatherings

compounds

characteristics

looks

blood

closely related

postmodern

social

functional

dysfunctional

families

laughing

shouting

all the

way

houses

blended

extended

nuclear

tribes

keep it coming love

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

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

NORVAL JOE

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

JUSTIN

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

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

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

JUSTIN

DANNY

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

PLANET Z

Grandma Parker died last week.

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

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

She’d hang up.

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

He’s not named in the will.

Neither am I.

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

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

My brother lets loose a stream of profanity.

At least I got to tell her all that directly.

Weekly Challenge #396 – Turkey

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

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

The topic this week was TURKEY.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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

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

MICK

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

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

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

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

“Have you actually tried it, yet?”

Franz shook his head and took a sip.

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

MUNSI

Aftermath

By Christopher Munroe

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

Your breakfast tomorrow? Turkey Omelet.

Lunch? Turkey Sandwiches.

Dinner will be Turkey and tomorrow it all begins anew.

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

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

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

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

Wait, that sounds delicious.

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

JEFFREY

Midnight Show
By Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

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

The Assignment
By Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

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

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

A Noble Bird
By Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

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

JULIE

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

I have to get on this plane,

On Wednesday

And go home to Poland.

Your Babcia died,

and well, I need to be there.

I talked to her on Sunday.

I am glad I saw her last summer.

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

Still, I’ve got to go.

For twenty two years

I’ve been sad somehow here

Even more so now

That you kids are grown,

And on your own.

So, there will be no Turkey this year.

TOM

Mating Season

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

Dharma is the Age of Kali

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

Three Strikes

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

A Well Defined Relationship 25

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

ZACKMANN

“Hey hey good looking what’s cooking.”

“Pizza”

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

“No, Dearest.”

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

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

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

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

SPATE

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

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

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

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

LIZZIE

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

RICHARD

#1 – Scuppered

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

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

George nodded, easing his way over to the controls.

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

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

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

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

#2 – Christmas Fare

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

“Turkey dinner”

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

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

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

“I hear that reindeer is very tasty!”

#3 – Ice-breaker

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

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

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

I chose ‘turkey’.

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

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

SERENDIPITY

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

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

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

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

‘It was delicious’!

SINGH

20.10

The epic credits rolled through drums of war,

a reverb Voice informed the Milky Way,

the Wheel of Dharma turned with cosmic law

as people bowed before the teleplay.

Chariot-driver Krishna drove Arjuna,

discharging arrows at his loved grandsire.

Neither could Bhishma find a clear lacuna,

trading shots with Arjuna’s rapid fire.

Lame effects make drama hard to swallow

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

Hindi was equal to Greek, or turkey gobble.

No one thought to translate. He looked around,

then turned down mentally the TV’s sound.

20.11

Closing eyes he listened to his heart rate

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

when the hand of Dad stung like a killer bee

sending him to bed. He felt the blows

again; and then the Mahabharat war

was back, more volleys of rapid arrows,

elephants, fake swordplay, tomato gore.

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

a tragi-comedy all at once,

philosophy turned into cartoon hour.

Now Krishna was telling Arjun — be a man:

just kill your Grandad and fulfill my plan.

20.12

Grandfather Bhishma was fatally bound to black

deeds through blood duty; but the evil side

made accusations. Yogi, dubbed his soundtrack

from versions he had read, more bone fide,

giving speech to actors on the screen,

while Hindi sat enthralled below the fan

tearful, angry, righteous, stunned, serene.

Bitter Bishma cursed his Kaurava Clancy

telling that Duryodhana, the ruling prince,

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

Yet, fire among dry trees of summer, I

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

20. 13

Knowing the tale, Yogi recast old gold

in his own way to keep himself inside

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

the storyline had long back kept him tied

also to Margot, met that summer night

in Klopper’s quarry through dramatic art.

Just a car drive from the burial site

he wondered then, if one chariot cart

had been his own in some past time,

how otherwise had he landed here?

Next day’s battle heat began to climb

as massive Bhima and his charioteer

clubbed with his gold mace and grunted breath

a dozen Kaurav cousins to the death.

20.14

As Bhima felled opponents, one by one

the sound effect of each gold hammer blow

reminded Yogi of High Striker fun,

hitting a bell with a puck at a country show.

He was no Bhima built to crack and crush,

nor an Arjuna with an archer’s eye,

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

A soldier? Spear thrower, a charioteer?

Yogi speculated scene by scene.

Meanwhile, the Kauravs fell like hunted deer,

while in the palace, parent king and queen

grieved for slain sons. Here, end credits flowed

closing sadly this week’s episode.

20.15

Women were tearful, moved by child death

and men moved quickly for the squat latrine

just down the hall. Barhai rose to switch

the TV off. Its picture tube fizzed blank

and at that moment up the stairs Chauhaan

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

in her Punjabi suit, red-striped with gold,

her head covered, trained by local custom.

She then saw Yogi, and could not get to him

so reached across, passing his guitar.

All was falling well together. Barhai smiled

announcing Yogi would now lead a bhajan.

20.16

to speed date god inside the krishna lila

body neck tune head-tone to krishna

bhajan fusion english off the cuff

krishna bol sing krishna hare krishna

one hand clapping two hands clapping krishna

krishna bol sing krishna hare krishna

glass lady bangles tinkle bells of krishna

krishna wheel krishna wields chakra

plastic pail upturn my soul percussion

krishna bol sing krishna hare krishna

Persian wheel scoops up wet cups of krishna

on each hair a thousand flutes of krishna

thumb the strum strum light strings of krishna

krishna krishna krishna krishna krishna

finish with a slow last dance with krishna

20.16

The success of Yogi was the joy of Barhai.

“Can you come home Saturday, Yogi ji?”

“We also want your darshan,” asked another.

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

Margot saw the wheel of competition,

an endless turning, one household to another.

How much of him would still be left for her?

Yet, she would go along and make her place.

School was due to break. Big monsoon wet

the farmers said would bog down village roads.

So she did nothing and sat apart and watched.

TURA

The journey ended, then began, at Osmaneli.

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

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

Rumours, passed on from the attendant’s radio.

We see a few collapsed outbuildings, fallen plasterwork.

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

What now?

—-

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

—-

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

EXPLORER

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

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

then a loud thud from up above.

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

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

was Thanksgiving.”

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

dismay we saw a glowing, spinning, bright light.

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

Thanksgivukkah, shouted Hanukkah Harry.

KRISTINE

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

CLIFF

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

NORVAL JOE

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

JUSTIN

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

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

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

PLANET Z

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

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

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

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

Whew.

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

“Not yet,” I say. And I put it back.

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

Weekly Challenge #395 – Burning

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

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

The topic this week was BURNING.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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

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

MAGGY – NO RECORDING

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

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

MUNSI

Celebration

By Christopher Munroe

Welcome! Glad you could make it!

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

Have a seat.

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

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

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

JEFFREY

Dangerous Liaisons
by Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

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

Both Ends
by Jeffrey Fischer

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

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

TOM

1 Dancing on the Bubble

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

2 A Well Defined Relationship Part 24

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

3 A God Damn Forest Gump Life

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

4 Loud

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

JULIE

I was full of pulchritude and lacked punctuality.

It was all staged, of course.

They sewed me in my naked dress,

Trotted me out,

The trollop offering.

My cotton-candy hair,

Even the white ermine was fake.

Peter Lawford had a few before we took the stage.

I had a few too.

He asked for a blowjob.

That limey skank.

I knew what was up.

I went through the motions and gestures,

Sang my silly words off key—

Ignored the crowd.

Don’t judge me.

For all the things you’ve done,

To me,

I thank you so much.

Happy Birthday, Mr. President.

RICHARD

#1 – Escape in the night

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

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

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

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

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

#2 – Roma Invicta!

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

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

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

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

Then I spotted my fiddle…

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

#3 – Burning Man

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

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

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

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

CLIFF

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

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

ZACKMANN

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

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

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

SERENDIPITY

Can you smell burning?

That wasn’t the deal!

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

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

But burning at the stake is another matter entirely!

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

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

DR FRAN

What makes a visionary?

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

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

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

SPATE

Dreams

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

I sleep alone now.

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

I know that what was, is now not.

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

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

You will not return.

But when will you be gone from my dreams?

LIZZIE

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

KATHARINA

Burning by Katharina Bordet

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

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

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

SEVI, REDGODDESS, and BONCHANCE

Burning by Severina, RedGoddess and Bc

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

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

NORVAL JOE

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

DANNY

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

JUSTIN

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

TURA

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

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

SINGH

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

20.1

The last bus left in a cloud of diesel grey

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

without his Margot next to him on a bed.

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

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

20.2

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

to hear his high-pitched voice pull rank.

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

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

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

20.3

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

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

“Of course, Sadhu Sahib,” Barhai added.

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

In a strange land, one should be vigilant.

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

20.4

The leader and his deputy knew each other.

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

to show appreciation and share our home.

Mrs Barhai will be thrilled on meeting her.”

Yogi succumbed again. The air-conditioning

was softening his tired brain and bones:

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

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

20.5

Then Barhai barked in Hindi, “Khana banao.”

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

“Indian food you like?” “Very Much”

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

then paused: “Perhaps we shouldn’t start on

Mahabharat here.” “Why not?” Asked Yogi.
“It is the story of discord in the home

and splitting of the atom of the nation.

Ramayan is a ghee lamp sharing light,
Mahabharat is the wick snuffed out at the end.”

“Come. That’s superstition,” Barhai said.
“Twenty crore watch it on Doordarshan

and still the nation hasn’t split your atom.”

20.6

“Twenty crore?” asked Yogi. “Two hundred million,”

said the man of rupees. Then told how

from week to week, at nine on Sunday morning
India stopped to quaff down myth like milk

from the sacred teat of new technology,

skyline satellite dishes, ham-wired, poking

above slums, bazaars, the colonies, mosques and mandirs,

the public spaces emptied, all at home

seated, reverent as inside the temple

through far darshan’s audience with the past

on national television. “It is tomorrow.

You will see,” Barhai added. “Well

we will take our dinner. Hungry, Yogi?”

“Yes,’’ he said, a growling dog in his gut.

20.7

They tore up steam balloons of roti
scooping deep the seas of chilli,
lady fingers, chopped green bhindi,
something cabbage, fried and windy,

deep brown dhal thick with hours,
aloo gobi’s hidden powers,

paneer slabs swimming cream,
floating in the Indian Dream.

Barhai, a man of chicken meat
went pure veg tonight, discreet,

while Chauhaan, scion of care

sniffed and tested with despair

spooning past the globs of ghee

gold whirlpools of high B.P.

Then the sweet dish, food for brain –

rice cream kheer came again and again.
Yogi’s robe earned its battle stain

a victim of the gravy train.

20. 8

“Don’t worry for the washing, Sadhu Sahib.’

Barhai called the servant to bring kurta
and white pajama as a sleeping suit.

“Thanks Chauhaan,” he said in advance for
Margot’s early car and gave a note.

Dear Margot, you must be anxious. Sorry.
Skinned my knee. Am resting up at Barhai’s.

Waiting. Yogi. P.S. Bring guitar.

Note pocketed, Chauhaan said: “Right Sir!”
descending stairs like bass notes on a keyboard.

It was time to shake the hand of his host and close
the door. But he felt like a rock. Food overload?

Laying down he sank in a dream of water.

20.9

darkness is poison stone body creepers

arms tied ankles rope-burnt thinking unwinds

reels out an oxygen lifeline bubbles bubbles

serpents swim scarlet green injecting venom

straight to bottom and through to another place

creepers break cobra hoods smash like tree roots

slither cold tunnel jewelled walls emerald cavern

the thousand thousand coils of serpentry

turning human with honeyed speech

poison is nectar each bite a burning antidote

each bite one hundred elephants of strength

after each fang clasp strange transference upsurge

sunlight kingdom surface breaking

awake in the mind asleep in the body

laying until the lotus-pink of dawn

20.10

When he woke, Yogi’s robe was clean
upon the chair. Showering, he changed
remembering the poison night. But noises
lured him via sprinkled scent of rosewater

in a front room spread with cotton sheets of white.

The ceiling fan spread air-con cool, but squeezed

too close, the men swabbed sweaty necks.

A girl passed round a tray of clinking glasses.

Barhai made way for Yogi, pride of place.

Garlanded with marigolds, red-sareed

Sri Lakshmi blessed all with wealth from her

pink lotus, framed above the television.
Herded together, ladies covered heads

as the picture tube fizzed into holy life.

PLANET Z

Long ago, I worked at the same TV station as a famous reporter.

Most people knew him for doing good deeds for the Houston community. But he was utterly cruel and vicious to his editor, producer, and the rest of the news staff.

The last thing I said to him was: “You attack the people you utterly depend on, and you know they will never fight back. When you burn in hell, you will burn brighter than anybody else, and you’ll be proud of that, you monster.”

He thanked me, and smiled his shit-eating grin.

He’s dead now.

And burning.

Weekly Challenge #394 – Voyage

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 VOYAGE.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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

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

MAGGY – NO RECORDING

The voyage had been awkward, slow. Dan threw up a lot. He refused to go near the piano. He repeatedly said he wanted to go back. As for giving a concert with him, it was the silliest idea I had ever had.

He would sit on the desk for hours gazing out at the sea. Meals were brought to his cabin. He appreciated silence.

It was then that I realised his hearing was out of order. A bumpy voyage.
I sat with him most of the time, but I preferred to listen to the music coming from the dining hall.

JOHN – NO RECORDING

An ember smoldering, momentum gathering, even a quiet voice will eventually set fire to the kindle tossed in an effort to cover it, giving light and warmth to those around it. The brilliance of the fresh born flame, its appearance hypnotizing and dangerous in its beauty, it’s energy focused protects those that understand, burning and destroying when improperly tended.

Such is the power of voices; our soul’s message to share. No words are mere words; they have power to create or wreak havoc, shaping the world around accordingly without guile.

Billions of voices, billions of souls. Billions of smoldering embers.

MARCOS – NO RECORDING

My name is Sahil, and i woke up on a boat that was about to crash into a giant cave .I told all the crew members to jump off…..they all die -i stay on the boat and survive ”shit” i said. i (slowly) climb off the boat and see a lonely dragon. i wake it u and ask it for directions.It eats me.I wake up again. im back home next to my mum. her head blows up and blood goes all over my face.It tastes like Ketchup.i eat the rest of her and fall asleep.

MUNSI

That Great Adventure

By Christopher Munroe

My mind is the center of my universe, and no matter where I go, there it is.

Everything I’ve done, every place I’ve travelled, I’m the one constant, the thing that there’s no escaping.

So I’m left with two choices. Continue running, or take time and look deep within, figure out who I am and why, and try to make my peace with that.

That’s no choice.

So, much though the prospect of introspection frightens me, alien though it seems to my worldview, I shall do what I must.

The time has come to voyage to the center of me.

JEFFREY

Does Anybody Really Know What Time It is?
by Jeffrey Fischer

As Daylight Savings Time ends, I embark on the twice-yearly voyage around the house to identify which clocks reset themselves and which ones need the human touch. Computers, cell phones, tablet, DVR – check. Bedside clock – a pleasant surprise. Watches, the microwave and stove, and the coffee maker all require a manual reset.

The disappointing clocks are those in the cars. They can sync with cell phones, they can receive satellite radio signals, and they can reach a person in case of an accident, yet apparently none of the systems can let the clock know what time it is.

Bon Voyage
by Jeffrey Fischer

The anniversary cruise had been booked for a year. Barbie had been packing and re-packing for it for what seemed like an equally long time. Now the moment had arrived. The ship eased away from the dock. Well-wishers at the port cheered, and passengers on deck raised glasses to the receding shoreline.

As the rest of the guests relaxed, Bob’s work started. He needed to slip the tranquilizer into Barbie’s drink at just the right time, then induce her to take a late-night stroll around the upper deck. Finally, when no one could observe him, a well-timed pushed, a frantic call for help, and a convincing display of mourning before he would be rid of the nagging woman once and for all.

JULIE

Voyage

-for Michelle Knight.

The deck was stacked from the start.

Call me Shorty.

They all did.

Call me stupid.

They all did,

took my baby from me.

I was never on a poster,

or a milk carton

I wanted to get the boy a puppy.

I took that ride out of lost desperation.

A last resort.

Instead I ended up,

Tied up like a fish,

An ornament in your basement

For 11 years.

Now, I call on

ME–

indignant survivor

Damaged, transformed

Now I have my voice–

I send yellow balloons

On a voyage

Into the sky

And I

Will not be silent.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 23

Sparky hit the Hydrogen binder setting on the nano interface. The high
priest floated upward, meatballs intact. Banister tossed an effigy of the
Wayne into the noodlie center of the FSM who bellowed “May the Duke be
with you.” The Pastafarites prostrated themselves before the profit. Dino
Mod’s voice rang out in song, quickly join by the throng. “Ram noodles,
Ram noodles, Hare noodles, noodles noodles.” The Pastafarites locked arms
and swayed in rapture. Mother passed out garlic bread, as the Senator pour
out Dixie cups of red. Doc Proctor’s airship The Voyage pulled-up to the
back of Mea Cupa.

Some peak early, some peak late.

I am exactly five weeks older than Mike Oldfield. While he was composing
Tubular Bells I had successfully mastered tieing my shoes. After following
his career for a number of years I lost track of his music. I was not
impressed by Bells II or III. Sometime in 2002 I found a used Cd of
Voyager. A way Celtic price that was highly lessenable every with its nod
to Riverdance. On the CD cover was a photo of Mr Oldfield looking will a
Malibu surfer. Being English when he and Tony Blair turn 60 neither
looked like a Malibu surfer.

We hardly knew Ye.

Patrick Cuilleanáin had seen his fair share of American Wakes, but being
on the receiving end was quite a different story. “You don’t go soldiering
in them American wars.” His father handed him a 20 pound note. “Find
yourself a good Irish girl.” His mother’s embrace drove the air from his
lungs. “Yes Mum.” he squeaked. A voyage to America was a one way trip.
Every face in that room was a face he would never see again. “A grant
wake it was,” he said walking out the door. Before his steps had faded he
was already dead to them.

LIZZIE

His fingers slid over the keyboard, barely touching each key. Soft sounds echoed in the concert room. He closed his eyes and traveled through an avalanche of sounds, from one piece to the next, from one composer to another, from time and space to silence, the audience suspended in a timeless stillness. He stood up and took a deep bow. You could hear a pin drop. The audience looked at him, mesmerized. “I took you on a voyage. I hope you enjoyed it,” he said. A roar of applause erupted. They were not the same anymore, and they knew it.

DEXTER

Dragooned into Reacting

It was an unsettling situation. My student’s grades were preposterously bad; I’d explored all avenues. It was in vain. Though I try to be positive, there was no incipient of improvement. I relinquished all hope of pursuing the adventure with him.

“If you don’t get a respectable grade, you won’t see me again.”

When we next met, he looked at me with a jaunty smile and said “I got an A!”

I felt a sense of elation as I checked the paper.

“It worked! Here’s a ticket for “Voyage in Space”.”
I knew movies had a cathartic effect on him.

RICHARD

#1 – Sail away (33)

George was acutely aware that his assurances to Emily that all was going to be OK, were pretty meaningless if they couldn’t make their escape.

“What the hell are we going to do?”, he muttered.

“The river!”, came Emily’s reply.

“This is no time for your ‘life is a river’ philosophy, Emily!”

“No… if we can get to the river, we can take a boat!”

Of course! The river flowed right past Fort Hope… to take a boat would be tricky, but not impossible. It would be a nightmare voyage – but no worse a nightmare than they were already in.

#2 – Bon Bon Voyage

The voyage had been meticulously planned – our journey would start in the Balti Sea, (we thought that might curry favour), then sail south, dipping into the Bay of Biscuit, then eastwards and on through the Suet Canal.

Entering the main course of our journey, we planned on taking in some Turkish Delights before turning around to head back westwards, towards distant Cape Cod, stopping off en route to enjoy a large helping of Chile, followed by a maybe just a sliver of Atacama dessert.

All in all, a very tasty itinerary – and, no doubt, a real feast for the senses.

#3 – Land Ho!

After eighteen long months at sea the cry finally went up: “Land ho!” and our hearts leapt at the sound.

Weak from scurvy, and sick from rotten food and bad water, we gazed with joy as the rugged coastline grew steadily closer.

Unsure of our reception and what might lie ahead, we despatched a landing party and waited, with parched lips and hope in our hearts for their return.

Finally, some hours later, they hove into sight.

“What news?”, we called

“It’s no use”, came the reply across the water, “they won’t let us in without valid passports and visas!”

#4 – Martian blues

If they ever offer a voyage to the stars

I certainly wouldn’t want to go to Mars

There’s no atmosphere and the seas are dry

It’s full of dust and there’s no reason why

You’d want to stay in such a place

When there’s better planets for the human race

Send me instead on a voyage to Venus

and who could refuse a trip round Uranus?

There are trendier planets and worlds to explore:

asteroids and meteors and moons, and far more

send me to see the comets and stars…

But please don’t send me to a dump like Mars!

SPATE

New Horizons for the Discovery Channel (or Why You Should Never Insult an MIT Grad)

Two months ago I packed up a U-Haul and moved from Boston to a small town in New Hampshire.

Hostile natives greeted me.

Up here, they call people from Massachusetts “massholes”.

Okay, so I don’t hunt or fish or own a snowmobile or an ATV. And you’ll never convince me that car racing is a sport.

Live free or die? I’ll cling to life under any circumstances.

But call me a masshole? Really?!

My doctor got me the video file of my colonoscopy. I hacked into their cable.

Hope my new neighbors enjoy their visual voyage up this masshole’s canal.

SERENDIPITY

That fabled last voyage into the sunset isn’t usually a return trip; although there are some who come back to tell the tale.

Take it from me though – whatever they might say – as far as I’m concerned, it’s a bit of a rip off!

Where was the tunnel of light and the celestial choirs? And where was the white-robed gentleman with open arms and welcoming smile?

Not even the vaguest of out of body experiences to reflect upon, I’m afraid.

Nothing at all.

Perhaps they save all that stuff for the first class ticket holders, not stowaways like me?

SINGH

Chapter 19. Journey

19.1

Laloo Barhai spat a gob of betel,

and scored a hit to the head of the ginger cat

slinking about the workshop.

“Hah!”

He beamed.

Chotu his journeyman worked on, chiselling.

Barhai he hated, and hardened up his smile,

“Ji Sahib,” whacking with the mallet.

Next, that regular with a withered stump

came rattling his tin heart.

“Chotu, you give

the fellow. I have hundreds only.”

Thus

Chotu lost rupees daily.

“Ji Sahib,”

and hid

his poverty. Boss was mean and yet

the carpenter had to do or risk the job.

Difficult to find work in this highway town.

19.2
The tall step into the bus was a slip on a journey,

a trip on his chola ballooning with air as he leapt

and missed to skin a knee, raw as a cut pomegranate.

It stung as he limped to a seat where the bloodspot seeped

and suppurated an hour to Gharmukhteshwar town.

He held a handkerchief firm till the bus crunched gears

and snake-breaks hissed to a halt outside Barhai’s.

Good location had chosen Laloo to craft the bhairagan,

the t-shaped armrest now hung on a wall, decommissioned by Yogi.

He was soothed to see his corpulent sponsor sprawling.

19.3

Barhai rose from his chair like the nose of a leopard.

He smelled opportunity knocking. Here came his Yogi

in a holy outfit, limping to his shop verandah.

The bloodspot stain, a fallen warrior knee

and the heavenly knocking at Barhai’s nose got stronger,

the scent of a plan formulating.

“Sadhu Sahib,

my friend Doctor Kashyap is in dispensary

just three shops up. Can you walk? Good. Now, we go.

Chotu, tell my wife upstairs we are coming.”
Yes, Barhai

had a higher purpose waiting ahead at home,

but now he was serving to shoulder the infirm one.

19.4

Kashyap’s Clinic was a cave of coughing.

Yogi entered the medicated room

where iIllness had no privacy and sat

listening to tales of confidential fevers,

until Barhai barged and jumped the patient cue.

Social rank assumed false privileges

pushing Yogi onto the consult chair

where a foreigner in religious garb

was entertainment for the belly-aches.

Kashyap colluded, saying,
“Show me”.
So,

Yogi revealed his pomegranate knee

and all leaned forward to gasp communally

at the nasty scrape of crusting-over blood.

Dr Kashyap swabbed and dressed the wound,

while the bug zapper plugged in on the wall

loudly popped and vaporised a fly.

19.5

chai and pakoras, Mrs Barhai’s frontroom
chai and pakoras, Indian comfort food
chai and pakoras, Yogi on the couch
chai and pakoras, the guest is always God
chai and pakoras, pictures, holy brass

chai and pakoras, boombox chanting Krishna

chai and pakoras, mint chutney red chilli
chai and pakoras, flattery fried gossip

chai and pakoras, Barhai’s salty cunning

chai and pakoras, trustees called short notice
chai and pakoras, Maha Kirtan Mandal
chai and pakoras, the coming festival
chai and pakoras, “you will be Chief Guest”

chai and pakoras, grease for wheels of profit
chai and pakoras endless chai and pakoras

19.6
After their lunch — the Ganga Temple called
to where the river flowed six decades back.
Now, one hundred one steps were eighty six
and the river swelled on five kilometres south.

The attendant in a singlet and white dhoti
was cynical, sure the lack of offerings

was his bad Brahmin luck.
“These days none come,”

he said to Barhai.
“The government should fix
the road for tourists, or this place is finished.”
“What did he say?” Yogi asked.

“He wants chooti.”

“Chooti?” Yogi queried.
“He wants Leave,”
said Barhai, trustee of this shrine and others,
staring hard at the priest who understood.

19.7
Sri Ganga Devi in her curtained alcove,
stood her ground in marble, looking out
to four-headed Brahma, the Creator
so rarely found inside a Hindu temple
in polished stone, or any other form.
As her Father, he looked on with four faces,
rarely interfering with god or human,

self-born and blossomed from a lotus,
holding books to represent four vedas.

His bearded faces mean that life grows on

ever creative, birthing his Brahmand

in all directions of the universe.

Barhai with showiness now placed
one hundred and one rupees as donation
and the three trusted trustees copied him.

19.8

As they left in Barhai’s Ambassador
shifting through the cycle of its gears
the Mahabharata came to Yogi’s mind.
He knew this was its home. Brijpal Chauhaan
spoke up :
“Our town was part of Hastinapur,

the ancient Bharata capital.”

He told
how the Ganges, shifting course so often
put fifty kilometres of bitumen between
what had been a stroll across the river.

“At Mukteswar Temple there is one well,” he said
telling his driver to make a turn ahead
for Nakka Kuan, the Well of Nahusha.

“And who was he?”

asked Yogi curious.
Chauhaan would tell.

“Yogi ji, first we’ll reach.”

19.9
Chauhaan soon told how Rajah Nahusha,
a forefather of the five Pandava brothers,

doing penance had also dug this well
and became the King of Heaven, displacing Indra.
Power-crazed he wanted Indra’s wife,

but his palanquin bearers, the Seven Sages cursed,

turning him into a python. Generations
would pass before someone of his line

could lift the spell. King Yudhisthira,
saving Bhima his brother held in the python’s death-squeeze
instructed Nahush to curb his mind and senses.
The snake let go and journeyed onto heaven.

Nahusha’s Khoo now wore a scum of leaves.

“It comes from Ganga Devi underground.”

19.10

“It’s getting late,” said Yogi. “Thanks so much
for this.”

“Wait,” chimed Ram Prakash,

and brother Kartik, the final trustee added:

“He has to see Ghat Ganga. We have to go.”

Barhai nodded, so they rode roughshod

over potholes in a village track, until
the main road brought them finally to Brijghat:

the bazaar, the nearby marble stairs, the modern bridge.
They slammed doors, making their descent

down white steps to river silt and bathers

pouring water over heads with mantras.
Boats advertising Suhag Saree Kendra
were plying trade for sunset pleasure jaunts

and touts were here who Barhai shooed like flies.

19.11

But it wasn’t over yet. Just further down

Yogi saw fire.

“That is Murda Ghat,

where they do cremation,” Barhai said,

No one added a word.

A blaze was raging.

The mourners dressed in funereal whites

watched the attendant ladle on last ghee.
They huddled stunned beside the final flames

and cold case coming, a conundrum of bones
soon to be swept up by the river tide.

Is that all, thought Yogi, at the end of the journey?
Yogi remembered Margot waiting at school.
His mind had been distracted all day long
forgetting her. And now he felt the guilt.

DANNY

What if the final voyage we take when we die is just like the 1960′s television classic, “Voyage To The Bottom of the Sea”? That would explain the lights everyone sees during near-death experiences, they’re actually the lights of the Seaview. Having a near death experience myself, I’m convinced the constant pinging noise I heard was the sonar ping of the Seaview guiding me to the next plain of existence, despite my nurse insisting the noise was likely coming from one of the many machines I was hooked up to. The afterlife, strangely nothing more than an Irwin Allen creation.

TURA

No-one knew old Kjetil for a seafarer, so they were surprised when he began to build a boat. He only said, “I must make a voyage.”

One day in spring, before dawn, he went down to his boat and waited for the tide.

“You’re leaving,” said a small voice in the glim.

“Yes, Liljá,” said Kjetil.

“Can I come?” she asked.

“Oh no,” said Kjetil, “No child should ever make this voyage.”

The boat shifted on the tide. Kjetil poled it away from the beach, then began to raise the sail.

Liljá watched until the boat faded into the mist.

ZACKMANN

The teen waxes cross country skis then straps them on. No school again today. Parents not going to work. Several inches of snow and a terrible wind chill factor but he has donned several layers of winter gear. His father fearing the result of cabin fever being riskier than a two mile trip to town agrees to let him go if he takes a cell phone and calls when arriving and departing. His father asks if he understands the difference between need and want. The coffee house being a want. Teen Says “But I hasta gets me some Peet’s Coffee”

CLIFF

Mary stood as far forward as she dared, trying to see the water rushing past. The rocking of the deck beneath her feet was unpredictable and she held on to a rail to keep her balance. Her mother had told her to stay below with the others, but Mary wanted to see where they were going. Soon, they’d arrive in a new place with a new home, far from the persecution and danger that had been Mary’s entire life. Once the ferry docked in Brooklyn, they would be in a new world where her father could never touch them again.

NORVAL JOE

Piermont Freedangle had been teased as a child, but when he heard the same question in the executive washroom, “Are you wearing underwear?”, he had to find the origin of his name. The search was a voyage back through history to thirteenth century Netherlands.
An inland lake, well known for an abundance of large trout was owned by a powerful baron. The baron taxed all who wished to fish in his lake except for a few local families. These people became known as the Vry Dangelen.
When Piermont’s great-great-great-great-grandfather moved the family to England, he anglicized the name to Freedangle.

PLANET Z

The harbormaster spotted something on the horizon.
He pulled out his spyglass and looked… a lifeboat.
So, he rowed out to the lifeboat.
Inside was an emaciated and weathered man wearing rags.
The harbormaster splashed him with fresh water and gave him a few drops to drink… not too much.
“Oh, what adventure that was,” whispered the man.
The harbormaster lashed the lifeboat to his rowboat, and he rowed back to shore.
But when he pulled the lifeboat in, the man was dead.
He had no papers. No journal. No records at all.
The harbormaster buried him in the dunes.

Weekly Challenge #393 – Voice

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 VOICE.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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.

THOMAS

Her voice, specifically her fully, open mouthed, “performance laugh”, could cut diamonds. I was sipping coffee last Monday, when a burst of sharp sound cut into my brain from my left. The source of the explosion was a skinny, short haired woman of middle age yucking it up with her husband and another couple. Why did she make the noise project even more by opening her mouth and throat to allow this painful noise to escape into the crowded room? Did she want us to notice her? I wanted to throw my heavy mug at her temple to silence her.

Today, while submitting a lesson for my course at Penn State, I mistakenly used the word “deadloin” instead of the word deadline. My writing “voice” has aided me in using these errors in ways that are valid and pertinent to my poetry and prose. Deadloin could be a title for the story of a man, whose age has left him tired and limp, when he should be vigorous and prepared at a moment’s notice by merely putting his hands around the waist of a woman, as it does in the sweet dreams that he recalled from last week’s dream fest.

During the monthly meeting at the mayor’s coffeehouse gatherings, a few of us voiced our opinions about the recent additions to the streets and downtown core. A large, circular logo was embedded in the center of the street at the main intersection, and several bicycle stands and metal waste containers were placed strategically, around town. The logo depicts the teats of one of the original dairy farmers prize milkers, and measuring ten feet in diameter, shocks tourists and young children. The waste containers are painted fluorescent orange, with glow in the dark lettering that reads, “Waste Management Fondles Your Trash.”

Her voice was tiny, and she kept to herself, having been kidnapped by human traffickers and sold as a sex slave to the Sudanese Coast Guard. She looked like Sally Fields when she played in The Flying Nun. Now, working quietly as a Barista in Sylvester’s Coffee Emporium, she breaks down every couple of hours and retires to the storeroom to cry and grab hits off her glass pipe. Over the past six months, I’ve noticed she put on some weight in her behind, and carries her wallet in her hand now, as it won’t fit in her back pocket.

He screwed the pooch by giving voice to his feelings about public education when he spoke to the board of education at an open forum. He lambasted the superintendent for allowing the first two hours of every Monday for “special teacher’s training time”, and a number of other special days set aside for meetings, inclement weather, assemblies, picture day, senior day, statewide test day, etc. Turns out the district had 90 actual school days last year, and 80 percent of the seniors failed the state exams, behind Arkansas and Mississippi. His application to teach advanced placement math was rejected malevolently.

JEFFREY

Taking Advice
by Jeffrey Fischer

Sarah had always suffered from hearing voices in her head. Some part of her was aware that this was only a damaged part of her mind speaking, and she could usually push those voices away and ignore them.

A deep male voice would tell her to diet more or she’d never find a boyfriend. A sexy female voice would give her clothing advice. A shrill voice of indeterminate gender provided feedback on career decisions. When all three spoke at once, Sarah ended up with a headache.

In her firm’s kitchenette, Sarah stared at the last piece of cake left over from Jim’s retirement party. “Don’t eat the cake,” a deep voice said. She pushed it away. “I mean it, don’t eat the cake.” She closed her eyes and ignored it.

As she reached to take the cake, Betty from accounting slapped her hand away and grabbed the piece for herself. “You selfish jerk,” Betty said in a husky tone, “didn’t you hear me? Leave some for me.”

Democracy in Action
by Jeffrey Fischer

Ten-year-old Timmy came home from school, excited to tell his parents about his civics class. “Miss Crimmons says in a democracy everyone should have a voice.” Timmy’s parents were so charmed by this that they agreed to run the household as a democracy. Mom and Dad winked at each other, because they knew their two votes would always win over Timmy’s single vote.

The next day, Timmy explained that protecting the rights of the minority was important, and demanded a supermajority for important decisions, such as bed time or how many Brussels sprouts he had to eat. After that, Timmy had no trouble with his parents.

FOURWORLDS

Three rounds of chemo and thirty five radiation treatments killed the tumor at the base of my tongue. They also damaged my body from head to toe. I’d make that deal any day, but I miss my old life. I miss being able to sing. I miss being able to eat without sipping water after every bite. I miss understanding speech without captions or lip reading. I miss waking in the morning without ringing in my ears and pins and needles in my fingers and toes. But what I long for most of all is the blessed illusion of invulnerability.

DECATER

The Voice:

Stephen had a conversation with the voice every day. It tended to be an incessant dialogue until one or the other of them fell asleep. The voice cajoled and upbraided and urged him to do the worst things.

There was the time the voice commanded him to steal the money from his coworker’s till and she got fired. Or the time it wanted him to cheat on his girlfriend with that woman in the bar. Or his ongoing cocaine addiction.

What made the whole thing even more perverted was the voice sounded just like his third grade teacher, Miss Boggs.

TOM

Back in The Day
STAB was the most eclectic hair band of the 80s. Probably never hear of
them, in spite of the fact they released 14 albums and were the opening
act for Spinal Tap. Their debut record “Bonfire of the Vanities” a
selection of Shakespearean soliloquizes in Esperanza was an international
success. Rolling Stone called them the masters of Acid Raga. Front-man
Punchinello Tirebitter wailed with the phrasing of Sinatra and the
syncopation of Shatner. STAB’s seminal work “Three Forks and a Spoon”
never gained the air play of “Timmy in a Box” the deep track Schrodinger’s
Cat was totally prepost human.

A Well Defined Relationship 21
Mother turned to the Senator, “I’m not fond of heights,” she said staring
down at the ground four stories below. “Sorry, out of time,” replied the
Senator giving the Widow a push off the platform. Mother flew down the
zip-line, sailed over the Arno. A stabbing pain in her stomach rose up
into her throat. “Breath, silly woman,” she chastised herself in a
frontier fought with fear she was not about to let a childhood trauma get
the better of her. Hadn’t she stared down a Cathsore Viper and clocked a
Varsin Exopath. To no avail she lost her lunch.

A Well Defined Relationship 22

The Voice echoed out from heights of Mea Maxima Culpa. “Blood has been
spilled, blood is now demanded.” Timmy scanned the silver horizon and
found in the sea of angry faces a few earnest ones of support. Mother and
the Senator, Banister and Dino, Sparky and much to his surprise Doc
Proctor himself. Seven against thousands, well actually millions against
one. Timmy tapped the dermal control pad as he brushed the high priestess
hand. For the better part of a thousandth of a second Master Parsons
pondered the ethicacy of reprogramming another human. “BEHOLD HE HAS
RETURNED.” voiced the profit.

You Can’t Help Yourself

One of the simple joys in life is messing with people’s heads. It takes
the form of getting them to embracing your silliness just as they’re about
to dismiss you. One of my favorite gambits is the inverted “Have You Stop
Beating Your Wife” trap. In the original silence is the proper response.

Here goes. Michael is repairing a broken computer in your class. You
announce to the students you are hearing voices. Michael smirks. Then you
say: The voices tell me to give all my money to Michael. Nine out ten
Michael will yell out “Listen to the voice.”

MUNSI

Me in a Nutshell

By Christopher Munroe

You misunderstand me, I’m not unfeeling, merely uncaring.

As such, I feel your distress, I understand it completely.

I just don’t care.

I know you find me unbearable at times. It’s only natural. I am, at times, unbelievably irritating. To you, anyway.

Indeed, to most people. You’re by no means alone in your assessment.

I understand this perfectly. I simply choose not to act upon it.

Because, you see, I find the sound of my own voice incredibly soothing. Hearing me speak relaxes me to no end.

So, in answer to your question, no, I won’t shut the fuck up.

RICHARD

#1 – The attack

The attack happened later that night.

A sudden shout and the sound of gunfire roused George from sleep – something had gone wrong, badly wrong! Quickly, he grabbed his few belongings and ran for cover.

Hidden behind a stack of oil drums, he peered into the darkness, apart from shadows and the flash of weapons there was little he could make out. He shivered and crouched in the shadows.

A quiet sob in the darkness.

“Emily… is that you?”

“George? Where are you? I can’t see a thing.”

“Follow my voice Emily… I’m here. Everything’s going to be OK, I promise.”

#2 – Always the last place you look

When grandfather lost his voice, we practically turned the house upside-down trying to find it. We tried everywhere possible, and good few places that you wouldn’t have considered possible too. We checked the refrigerator, under the kitchen sink, in his sock drawer and even emptied the compost bin – but it was no use, grandpa’s voice was well and truly lost.

Eventually, tired, dirty and more than a little fed up, we decided to call off the search and I sank gratefully into my seat…

“OUCH!”

You guessed it… it was down the back of the sofa all the time!

#3 – How much?

Apparently, the pen is mightier than the sword and a picture is worth a thousand words, but I’ve never found anyone who can tell me what a voice is worth.

You’d think speech would have some sort of measure or, some method of calculating its value… but no, at least that’s what I thought.

It took me a while to work it out, but there it was, staring me right in the face and somehow, I’d never made the connection.

You want to know how much your voice is worth?

Just open up your phone bill and take a look!

#4 – Sounds familiar

My first day on the job: training fresh in my mind, script to hand – I was ready, with a sense of supreme self-confidence that only the foolish can boast.

I quietly repeated my mantra… “Grab their interest, grab their cash, grab the commission!” – Oh boy… was I going to be the best telesales agent ever!

Deep breath and dial.

A pause… one ring, two, three and, click!

Typical – my first call and I get voicemail! But hang on… that voice… strangely familiar.

I checked the screen in front of me – would you believe it? I’d dialled my own number!

ZACKMANN

STORY #1

“I might be overstressed. I have been hearing a voice saying the oddest things.”

“Nothing bad I hope. This voice isn’t telling you to do things?”

“Well actually yes but not anything really to fear. It tells me to wash behind my ears, balance my checkbook, and text my mother.”

“Son, does this voice sound very familiar to you?”

“Yes, like my mother’s.”

“With work and school you haven’t been spending much time home, have you?”

“No.”

“Ask your roommate when is he going to tell you he bought an answering machine for which he gave your mother the number?”

STORY #2

“Hey look that’s the Fuck You Song Guy on TV.”

“Honeyko, if you don’t want to have an unpleasant night you better watch your vulgar mouth and and not talk bad about Cee Lo Green.”

“Dearest, just because you have only heard the radio version of the song doesn’t mean the original isn’t still online where it was popular first.”

“Honeyko, Just quiet and let me watch The Voice.”

“You mean they made The Voice form Three Minute Danger Theater into a TV show, cool.”

“No”

“How can this be The Voice when it doesn’t even have a ventriloquist policeman?”

SPATE

Voice of Destiny

Thus little Jonathan was thrust into this world exhibiting vocal qualities unremarkable to all except his mother. She lay drenched in sweat, half delirious, weeping from pain and joy, thinking “This voice is destined for greatness.”

“Maybe he’ll be a singer,

or an actor,

or a politician.”

But our lives rarely turn out the way our mothers expect.

And while he wasn’t rich or famous or powerful, John was very happy. Ironically, he was most happy about his voice. You see, at his job he enjoyed making women quiver with desire whenever he asked:

“Would you like fries with that?”

SERENDIPITY

You should speak, they say – use your voice.

To me, that seems all wrong: I am not real – I’m an imaginary person – a construct of pixels and ideas, not real at all.

I cannot eat, sleep, drink or breathe; my every action is dictated by another; I am as distant from the world of flesh and blood as a dream is distant from reality. Why give me a voice when the words I speak are those of another and the thoughts I express are not uniquely mine?

And if I did have a voice… would you listen to me anyway?

CLIFF

The first thing I checked was the communicator station. It was silent. Mission control wasn’t talking to us. Then I checked on Orlosky. He was sound asleep in his bag and after three months in orbit with the Russian, I knew he didn’t talk in his sleep. So, where was that voice coming from. It was intermittent, quiet, and annoying as hell. My mind listed possibilities. Ghost? Stowaway? Space madness? It turned out to be a preprogrammed microspeaker that I was sure Sullivan left on his last tour. So, I set it up for Orlosky. We astronauts can be assholes.

Her voice was a kind of sexual magic. Men would empty their accounts at her request. They would abandon families just for a chance to carry her bags. Her power had corrupted her and she would ask men to do things just to see them destroy themselves for her. She met her match in Roy. Her voice had no effect on him. The reason eluded her and she hated it. Was he gay? Deaf? She discovered the truth when he calmly strangled her and saved the world. Her voice simply couldn’t compete with all the ones already in his head.

TURA

Everyone has a voice. The ones you usually hear about are the multiples, Legions saying nasty things from within, but we’re all sorts. Still small voices, voices pretending to be spirits from Mars, thunderous voices like the chap in all the Hollywood film trailers. Some are silent– you know, the inner urging of conscience in the still of the night, the presence closer than your own heartbeat.

You probably think you’re a real person, and the voice is just some sort of brain quirk. The truth is, we’re the real people. You’re just the semi-intelligent machines that move our bodies.

HELEN

I love my friends for sharing their Voices, and I love the 100 Word Story prompt, Voice.

My Voice represents truths, honesty, and engages logical thinking. My Voice is inspired by other voices that engage the mind to use knowledge versus stupidity. What’s your voice?

My Voice

My Voice fights for justice freedom and equality

My Voice fights hatred Antisemitism and ignorance

My Voice helps, feeds, and clothes

My Voice is fragile, soft, and loud

My Voice is quiet

My Voice is mysterious, and creative

My Voice has a mission

My Voice is love

My Voice is original and my own…

JULIE

I am home. There is a party downstairs to which I was not invited. I am pissed off. I like a party, and I wanted to wear a pretty dress.

This band seems to specialize in voices. First, one man sounds like John Lennon, and then Frank Sinatra. There is a lady who does Etta James. I am not there, of course, because I was not invited and pretend not to listen. Now, there is a George Harrison voice. The Paul harmony guy sucks.

I dance better than all the hedge fund wives and swirl happily in my cheap apartment.

JUSTIN

It’s always different when you meet someone in person. I’ve heard his voice is some Starfleet training and while researching some records, but to meet Ambassador Worf face to face was something else. Deep below the surface of Mol’Rihan, standing before an Iconian gateway controlled by the Romulan Republic, witnessing history. I’ve had many great moments in my career as a Starfleet captain, but this was the start of something huge, something bigger than I ever would have expected. Someone has been pulling the strings of the galaxy for an age. I aim to be there to sever their ties.

NORVAL JOE

Piermont Freedangle sat alone at a long table in the back room of Seniora Pinche’s Cafe y donuteria. His local writer’s meetup group had met, drank coffee and ate donuts, then critiqued one another’s monthly submission. The rest of the group had left long ago, and quite abruptly when he may have overreacted to a critique by an older woman who claims literary fiction is the only prose worth reading.
Piermont stood and shouted, “You want me to find my voice? Well, here’s my voice. Now, why don’t you find it?”
He sat down, realizing he had clearly lost it.

DANNY

(The Village) Voice

I still read the Village Voice online, but it just isn’t the same as when I would read my free copy every Wednesday while attending Law School in NYC in the early 1990s. Right after the Wednesday morning lecture, I would rush to the main hallway, grab my free copy off the stack, sit down in the cafeteria, and immediately flip to the back pages to determine what music club I was going to Saturday night after work. CBGB’s, Wetlands, Kenny’s Castaways, the Limelight, clubs that no longer exist, distant memories in a corporate city that has lost its soul.

MAGGY

Suddenly he heard a voice – Dan. No. There was no one around. Dan was gone.

He checked the recorder. Dan was often recording stuff. Reckoned it kept him sane.

Poor old Dan. Lost a lot of his hearing after the beating he got.

No. No voice on the recorder. Bit of piano music, that’s all.

But it was a voice. Whose? Not mine, not Paddy’s…it sounded more like Dan’s.

This room…This is where he…Better get out of here. “Hello, Szy.” It was Dan’s

voice, deep, soft. “Where are you?” I stood by the piano. It played.

SINGH

16.10

the voice was a bird on a buffalo

the twitter of crimson claws

boys raised bhangra digits to the sky

pink ribbons jiggled on girls’ plaits

the voice rattled the pipal leaves

the harmonium wheezed through its puncture
the heel of a hand worked its drum-skin

palms clapped with happy static

a deep pulse tolled from head to head

and finger cymbals set off other ringing

now the voice was a river in a flood

flowing through the ether through the akaash

the bird voice rode the back of power

and swallows did their figure-eight flight

and wrote infinity above

16.11

His voice became a tall tale taken home:

White Yogi with a guitar and happy clapping.

Passed around, the God chants kept repeating.
Celebrity swelled weekly to a crowd

that gathered in the mandir where bells rang

each time a parent came to offer fruit

or sweet rice, a flower, then sat down

to join the swelling sea of Hare Ram.

A drummer brought his expert dholak fingers

and a line of ladies chimed their finger cymbals

as Yogi led the chant and added English.

It sat awkward on their rustic tongues
while Foreign Madam clapped on at the back.

16.12

He took Bob Marley’s rock words

and sang them to their source:

bum bum Bhola bum bum Bhola
hail the Simple, Lord of Blessings
bum bum Bholenath

A masala of holy Names

a salty namkeen mix

Om Jai Shiv Omkara
Hail Shiva who is Om

Shiva Shambo Shiva Shambo
Shiva Shiva el Supremo

He wanted to sing more
from his notebook songs:

carry me over the worldly ocean,
over the sea of samsara

Hey Mahadeva

Oh my Lord Deliverer.

In the end he sang simple, Bhola,
Bam Bam Bholenath

call and response call and response
like the tides of the Ganga.

16. 13

Fame spread far, while Yogi kept on singing A to Z in school beneath the wish tree.
The alphabet song would rise and fall until

strumming stopped; he’d sign language

to their giggles, then started off again.

They followed his songlines beyond letters

into words. Soon were trading Hindi:
apple for saib, rice for padi field
orange was mosmani, banana became kela

a conga line made ‘elephant’ a hatti

a yogi with kids in tow went trumpeting
up and down the dirt with arms raised up
to noses like baby trunks, while little Atul
clapped hairy halves of a coconut behind.

16.14

Overbrimming with curriculum and accounts

she wiped the office desk of mouse dirt

and listened through the window with no glass

as he free-styled out there beneath the tree.

She was glad to let her barked-out voice rest up,
although she’d have to whistle him along

with pedagogy. Just a lesson plan or two.

Yes, he had great entertainment value, but

would run out of steam. Or they would, sooner or later.

A teacher needed more in the bag of tricks

to do her sleight of hand to pass the ace

before the God of Structure rang the bell.

16.15

And then it hit her,

sitting on the throne

of her flat metal chair

that bit at her hipbone.

Yogi was good with kids

although not her own.

For all that Adelaide time

and hard travelling alone,

they hadn’t let him in

and did their spoilt moan

to Papa, their howitzer

first chance on the phone.

He’d fired it back at her

his rain of shrapnel blown,

even though he had left her

for that sharp-nosed clone

of a wife who had stolen

the Frenchman, She would atone

one day for husband theft.

All was on short term loan.

16.16

She voiced sharper feelings to herself,

then realised she shouldn’t speak at all.

Margot was free as the gecko on the shelf,

while Yogi was a snail learning to crawl.

For now, he had song’s aura and could wow

a crowd of devotees and do child care.

In this place of wheat fields ready to plough

he might grow up to speak true through hot air.

But fans were closing ranks. Was he the star,

the next to fall flat through fame’s love affair?

She closed her eyes and saw the town bazaar
and beyond her singer with his hot guitar.

MAGGY

Suddenly he heard a voice – Dan. No. There was no one around. Dan was gone.

He checked the recorder. Dan was often recording stuff. Reckoned it kept him sane.

Poor old Dan. Lost a lot of his hearing after the beating he got.

No. No voice on the recorder. Bit of piano music, that’s all.

But it was a voice. Whose? Not mine, not Paddy’s…it sounded more like Dan’s.

This room…This is where he…Better get out of here. “Hello, Szy.” It was Dan’s

voice, deep, soft. “Where are you?” I stood by the piano. It played.

PLANET Z

The opera announced that the entire week’s performances were cancelled.

The diva had lost her voice. The performances would be rescheduled when her voice returned, but refunds were available.

I know they’re lying, because her voice isn’t lost.

It’s being held for ransom.

Here. In this coffee can.

That’s right. I stole it.

I want one million dollars for it. And I know that the insurance company will cover it.

They tried to trick me into letting them hear it over the phone, but I know that’s how voices can escape.

It ain’t over until the fat lady pays up.

Weekly Challenge #392 – Stab

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 STAB.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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

Questions and Answers
by Jeffrey Fischer

Sweat trickled down Billy’s armpits as the time ticked away. He needed a good grade on this history test to avoid failing the class and being sent to summer school. That one question, though… he didn’t want to leave any blank answers, so he took a stab in the dark.

Mrs. Henderson asked Billy to stay after class. “This -” She waved his answer sheet in his face. “- shows that you have no command of the material. What were you thinking when you wrote that Custer’s Last Stand was, and I quote, ‘That shack on the beach that’s now a t-shirt shop’?”

Billy mumbled, “In class, you always say there are no stupid questions.”

Mrs. Henderson replied, “Yes, but there *are* stupid answers.”

The Stabbing Game
by Jeffrey Fischer

When we were young and, yeah, maybe a little foolish, my friends would play what we called the Stabbing Game. Remember “Name that Tune”? Contestants would bid down the number of notes in which they could name some popular song. “I can name that tune in two notes.” Insane, I used to think.

Our version involved a pen knife and a dare: where would you be willing to stab yourself? Highest bidder got to do it and won…well, our admiration. I was a wimp and always picked some small body part: a little finger, or a foot. I never won. Yvonne occasionally got to stab her palm. But the biggest winner was the kid we later called one-eyed Pete.

A Stab at Bats
by Jeffrey Fischer

The Animal Control guy emerged from the attic, covered in dust and ancient cobwebs. “Ma’am, I hate to say this, but I’ve looked everywhere in your attic and I don’t see any evidence of animals. Usually there’d be droppings at the very least, and most times we’d catch the critters napping at this time of day. But I found nothing.”

The woman put a hand on her hips, lit a cigarette, took a drag, and stared at the man. “Didn’t you see an entire bag full of Louisville Sluggers up there? My lazy ex-husband left them behind and I want them gone.”

“Why would you call Animal Control for something like that?” he asked.

She replied, “It says quite clearly on your truck: bat removal. Now get to it!”

THOMAS

Anyone that has read my previous work surmises I will use “stabbing pain” in at least one of my submissions. Nope. Sorry. I won’t. I will, however, take a stab at some stories that do not use “stabbing pain”, and see how I do with a couple of rollicking fables. Let’s see. Maybe a story about how a friend was stabbed in the heart as a result of losing the love of his life to a cabana boy during a short vacation in Baja. Better yet, an erotic animal fable about the turmoil between two pigs on my uncle’s farm.

The stab method of Japanese book binding was taught by an older woman in her home studio near the shore. She charged a modest fee for the day, which included all the materials, snacks and drinks, and plenty of personal instruction. I made two books that day, and started on a third. The little books are covered with cloth, have end papers, and are sewn or bound together with waxed sail twine. I treasure them, and keep them safe on my bookcase in plastic bags. Some day, someone will be going through my possessions and use them for grocery lists.

It just wasn’t the knife in my back, it was the size of the knife in my back. Stabbed in the back over a minor quibble with the sister of a student that was visiting my classroom. I asked her what she was doing there, and why couldn’t she stay home by herself. She was college age, but there must have been something wrong at home. She had no business being there, but I was in trouble with the female dean, guilty of some trumped up charge of harassment, so I found myself being asked to resign, immediately. I refused.

As counselors for the summer camp, each of us was issued a stab vest. A stab vest, or stab proof vest is a reinforced piece of body armor, worn under or over other items of clothing, which is designed to resist knife attacks to the chest, back and sides. Last summer, one of the campers was angry with the lunch menu and attempted to stab three counselors with a sharpened butter knife. The camp, sponsored by the Mormon Church, was used to rehabilitate those that toppled monuments in the ancient desert rock formations in the Goblin Valley Park in Utah.

STAB (Stupid TA Bastard) is British Army slang for a Territorial Army soldier. Territorial Soldiers come from all walks of life and work part-time as soldiers for the British Army alongside regular soldiers. Lucy Vallender spent years denying her feelings of being “in the wrong body,” joining the Territorial Army when she was twenty one in an effort to become more manly. Laurens “used to love firing guns,” and drank regularly with other members of his squad. Now, as a transgender, Muslim Woman, and married to a Muslim man she met on line, Lucy no longer plays with her gun.

JOHN

Internet Date

I thought; “With the right catch; you are sure to become successful, wealthy
and happy.”
She was a perfect specimen. Young and strong, and in this day and age I must
add; free of disease.
I looked down on her nude body adorningly as she lay peacefully.
My peaked anticipation was such that I had to steady my hands from
trembling.
I opened my bag of “toys” that I had brought for this evenings desire.
The ice in her bathtub began to melt where she lay face down.
After the precise incisions, extracting her kidneys was easy; a perfect
harvest.

ZACKMANN

“Welcome to Mandania General. Please tell us about your injury. Oh my you are bleeding and your leg has turned white as paper. Tell me what happened as you fill out these forms.”

The receptionist returns Charlie’s insurance card attached to a clipboard.

“I had to fight the evil wizard, who may not actually have been evil but still thought it inconvenient for me to live. As I thrust my blade through his chest he plunged the tail of a small demond into my calf. I fear it has to be amputated because I wasn’t just sliced, I was imp-paled. “

MUNSI

A Pep Talk (part II)

By Christopher Munroe

Waiting tables isn’t tough, once you get the hang of it.

When things become stressful, just remember my simple, four-step process, and it will get you through.

See to your guest’s every need, want and desire.

Treat them like you’d want to be treated, were you in their place.

Anticipate requests, so you can give them what they want before they even know that they want it.

Be friendly. Above all else, be friendly.

In short: S.T.A.B. them.

S.T.A.B. the customers who sit in your section.

S.T.A.B. every single one of them.

And make it clear: “I will S.T.A.B. you.”

SPATE

Nipping It in the Butt

It was a strange twist of fate that left John living a life of clichés but he managed to go with the flow.

Like when his Dodge Dart died on a backwoods road, of course he found the farmhouse… with the farmer… and the farmer’s daughter.

You probably guessed it, one thing led to another with the daughter, until a stab in the dark by the farmer abruptly ended that roll in the hay.

You should have seen the look on John’s face: caught with his pants down, pitchfork protruding from his posterior.

That’s one picture worth a hundred words.

RICHARD

#1 – Back down to earth

Pondering how he should proceed with his conquest of Emily, George found himself unexpectedly reeling when a sudden stab of conscience brought home to him the realisation that he was thinking like a savage.

“This is how society breaks down”, he admonished himself, shocked at how easily he’d allowed his morals to fall victim to baser instincts. Silently, he cursed his weakness – if he and his comrades were to survive, it wouldn’t be through indulging in selfishness – they’d need teamwork and a common cause.

It would be difficult, but he knew it was possible.

At least, he hoped it was!

#2 – Watch Your back!

Be careful how you choose your friends – be sure you can trust them and they won’t let you down in a crisis.

Do as I say, not as I do… I’m a hopeless judge of character – many times I’ve relied on so-called ‘friends’ who turned out to be the complete opposite when the going got tough.

These days, I expect to have my trust betrayed and be left shouldering the blame… I can spot the signs a mile off.

And when I do, rather than protest, plead and reason, I simply turn my back…

and wait for the knife.

#3 – Well prepared

Packing for the holiday was proving to be more traumatic than usual:

Clothes, sunblock, toiletries, mosquito repellent, stab vest…

“Honey, why the stab vest? We’re going to Disneyland, not Afghanistan.”

“You can never be too careful – who knows what we might come across when we get there. I’d rather be over-prepared than caught out in an emergency.”

“Don’t you think you’re taking things a bit too far though? It’s Disneyland, for heaven’s sake – nobody ever got stabbed in Disneyland. You’re not going to get stabbed in Disneyland!”

“Damn right I’m not – just as long as I’m wearing this baby!”

TOM

That Was the Last Thing On His Mind

He felt a stabbing pain in his arm sufficient enough to make him pause.
That was followed by a stabbing pain in his chest that brought him to his
knees. The world turned all shimmering gray, then black, then a dull red.
A stabbing pain in the shoulder caused him to snap his head backwards. A
trolly looking creature was prodding him forward with a spear. “OH HELL,”
said Timmy. “Got that right Slim,” chortled Troll-boy applying another
jab. Sulfur and brimstone blurred his vision, through his tear he could
make out their destination. A flashing neon sign read B-I-N-G-O

JULIE

One day last year, you fell while walking the dog. “I am just dizzy,” you said. “Inoperable brain tumor,” the doctor proclaimed.

Nothing worked.

Rachel fed you while your companion went to work, or chose not to deal. She curled in bed near you, stabbing your favorite food, and kept your mind off the inevitable. That is what sisters do.

It happened too fast. 49 days. She didn’t leave and held your hand when you died.

Rachel sent off sparkly red balloons into the sky, along with your ashes into Long Island Sound. We will pretend it is the Aegean.

CLIFF

Zack was a hustler. He’d do anything for a buck as long as it was illegal, as he felt that honest work was for suckers. He cheated at cards. He ran small cons in bars. He once sold a truck to three different people. It wasn’t even his truck. His conscience finally got the better of him. He convinced Sarah that he loved her and would marry her if she could just help him pay off a debt. She did, and the guilt made him commit suicide. Stabbed himself in the chest thirty times, according to Sarah’s dad, the sheriff.

Mr. Anderson, the owner of the hardware store, stared me in the eye.
“Guns are for cowards. Anyone can shoot a gun. Point, pull the trigger, bang! There’s no art, no sport to it. If you really want to know what death is like, you gotta stab him. You gotta watch his eyes as you slide a blade between his ribs and into his heart. If you want it to last a while, try to just get the lungs. Slow and painful. You know, if he deserves it.”
“Thanks, but I need a caulk gun. I’m fixing my bath tub.”

TURA

There was once a fisherman, who fell on bad luck. He vowed to make one last trip to sea, and if he caught nothing, he would drown himself. All day he cast his nets and drew them back empty, but on his last cast it took all his strength to haul them in. Yet he found nothing but an old bottle sealed with lead. In rage he shattered it on the deck, and from it emerged a genie.

“Your wish is my command,” it intoned.

“Well, stap me vitals!” exclaimed the astonished fisherman.

And so his luck finally ran out.

SINGH

From “Foreign Madam and the White Yogi”

16.5

It was clear that Yogi had some work to do.

The collapse of his grass castle was perhaps

a blessing, she thought, although she would not say

outright and crush his heart. The winds had come

and kicked him in the gut, but had they knocked

sense into his head? Calamities were a stab

in the back of a farmer’s faith in clement weather

whose turbulent face hid the will of God.
Here, they were next day’s business to be set straight.
But what would Yogi do? Return to the river,

clear his mind of clods and plant fresh thoughts?

16.6

And so the women got down again with gobar

redoing compound surfaces, restoring chullahs,

the squat-down ovens made from mud and dung.

They fetched and carried, picked up and put down,

they shunted husbands off to the fields and brought

some food and drink at midday. Then they came

back to eat some, scrub pots with ash, take a nap
before the sibling squabbles would start up.

They were the domestic goddesses of grit

with shit up under fingernails, and yet

lost it washing and scrubbing daily clothes

which also gave them time alone with water.

16.7

Revived they came back to peel the vegetables,

crush the ginger, onions, garlic and chilli mix

to be fried flavour for the evening pot of dhal.

They cooked on hot plates, throwing down their rounds

of chapatis made from wheat ground on a stone.

Margot still held back from kitchen gossip time.

She had come to teach, not be the slave of dough.

After all, Yogi was deft with food. She washed

the dishes, cups and steel pots, while he sat down

on the bed of thali wood with a thin mattress

and pulled out from its dusty case, his guitar.

16.8

But what to do with Yogi? Next morning

she brought him to school. “Now play on your guitar,”

she asked. He settled on a hessian bag

and sang a self-made tune for Hari Krishna Hari Ram

Krishna, Krishna, Hare, Hare — the mantra

he had learned from devotees at an North Coast ashram.

He had busked his way across the continent

and had arrived here now to sing with Krishna’s kids.

It was a charming switch, a stab in a new direction.

He had a knack with groups and just maybe

he might also be taught to teach. She planned ahead.

16.9

So he became a hit

with school kids after lunch.
He chanted simple sanskrit

mixing in his English.

Ganesha sharanam
sharanam Ganesha

to the elephant surrender

surrender to the elephant.

They parroted back

singing out of tune.

Ganesha sharanam
sharanam Ganesha

to the elephant surrender

surrender to the elephant.

Squirrels ran up and down

the tree trunk where he sat

and minah birds were busy

keeping tabs on bugs,

while out on the fresh fields

where the tractor had just ploughed

the herons stepped and stabbed

into the sandy land

with beaks like darning needles

threading strings of worms.

SERENDIPITY

Stab victims are boring.

Give me a juicy gunshot through the head, or a decent drowning, with a bloated corpse and fish-nibbled flesh. Better still, how about a good old fashioned plunge from a high-rise? You just can’t beat a nice splat, with a generous helping of scattered body parts.

A simple stabbing though? – Not that much to it: entry wound, a nick to a vital organ and that’s all… finished.

Boring.

Unless you can give me a proper, frenzied, all out knife attack, with multiple wounds and plenty of blood… Now that’s what I call a stabbing!

DANNY

“I’ll take a stab at it!” George exclaimed, pulling out his carving knife and taking a stab at the pumpkin. The pumpkin screamed back, “My god! You stabbed me!” The pumpkin suddenly sprouted arms and legs, grabbed George’s carving knife, and started to stab at George, who started to run. “It’s time for you to die, meat-bag!” the enraged pumpkin screamed. “Who are you?” George screamed back. “I’m the devil,” sneered the pumpkin, “here for your soul.” “As long as I can run faster than you, pumpkin, I’m grateful you do not have an AK47.”

NORVAL JOE

Smoke hung thick against the low ceiling of the inn’s common room. Two assasins bent across a small table, so close their hoods almost touched. No one paid their whispered conversation any heed until the smaller of the two drew back and stabbed a knife into the table top.
They turned back to their own business when the second stood and pulled the knife back out.
“You’ll be sorry you chose as you did,” he said, dropped the knife onto the table, turned and left the inn.
“You’re likely correct,” the other said, slipping the knife back into her belt.

JUSTIN

I peered from the vent shaft into the room. There was a desk and chair in the subterranean chamber. Two people walked in wearing hoods. The spoke, their voices mushy, speaking of plans and machinations. These were the evil behind Innsmouth and the Marsh Refinery. After a minute, only the tall person remained to see me fall when the grate broke. He wasn’t human, not with that face. I pulled a knife from the desk and ran around the room, dodging claws and teeth, then in a moment, I used all my strength to shove the blade into its heart.

LIZZIE

Stabbing that pile of rubbish wasn’t such a brilliant idea… It looked like a harmless heap of trash, leaking a gooey matter that seemed like something coming from the remains of a dead animal. The kids goofed about, throwing the knife they stole from the butcher’s at each other first. Then, considering the real danger of such a game, they decided to stab the stack of unusual bags. When it suddenly turned around, spitting gooey stuff all over them, it was already too late. They were all the nourishment that alien needed to complete its transformation to become a human.

PLANET Z

In Dungeons and Dragons, thieves and assassins get a damage bonus when they stab someone in the back.

However, they can only use certain weapons, like daggers and short swords. They cannot use polearms. Or crossbows. Or sofa cushions.

That’s right. You cannot backstab someone with a sofa cushion.

But if you want to kill someone with a sofa cushion, you need to catch them asleep. Then, smother them with it.

You can’t do that with a dagger or a short sword, can you? Or with a polearm or crossbow?

Nope.

And you can’t cushion your sofa with them, either.

Weekly Challenge #391 – Edge

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 EDGE.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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.

DANNY

The year is 1976. David Howell Evans stands at the very edge of the roof of the Mount Temple Comprehensive School in Dublin, Ireland, contemplating his future from his precarious perch. David and his mates just formed a band called U2, and now, he needed a stage name just like Paul. He looked down at the parking lot 3 stories down, realizing how all of his dreams would quickly end if he fell off the edge. Of course, The Edge! David screamed at the top of his lungs, “I am The Edge!” Brilliant! Now, try not to trip and fall over yourself.

THOMAS

The edge of the knife was rough and dull. Henry worked at cutting his “birthday steak”. For the last ten birthdays, Henry treated himself to a big, sirloin steak for lunch to celebrate his birthday. As he shopped, he pictured his dogs at home. What the heck – a nice, inexpensive cut for the furry kids. Don’t spend more than six bucks. Roast it or grill it, cut it in bite-sized cubes for their lunch, and sit, watch, and listen to the grateful pooches scarf up their treat. Good for my heart, good for my spirit, at ten times the price.

#
Always on edge, a wreck; Nancy had trouble with her stomach and her skin. She blamed it on her work with the bomb disposal unit of the city police department. Two years of community college and ten weeks training with the U.S. Army, followed by graduation from the FBI’s Hazardous Devices School at Redstone Arsenal, Alabama. She found her first disposal job with the Cape May Police Department in Southern New Jersey. Her first assignment was at the city pier to examine a suspicious parcel. An alarm clock sounded an alarm inside the suitcase and Nancy pooped her Kevlar suit.

We moved along the trail in the bus, coming so close to the edge of the trail, we dislodged rocks and soil lining the outer edge. We watched as rocks bounced down the cliff, 700 feet to the river at the bottom. The driver carried on a conversation with the woman sitting behind him. Each time he made a point in his story, he turned around, gesturing wildly, ignoring the road. Some moved to the side of the bus away from the precipice, believing they would be able to jump out the window if the bus slipped over the side.

His heavy watch was edged with diamonds and green rubies. He was a retired manager with General Motors, living off his investments and his company retirement and stock. At 96, he still drove his Lexus SUV, although unsteadily, and with liberal use of brakes and horn. He was a nice man, in spite of being responsible for covering up unsafe production practices and faulty suspension and brake parts in the Olds and Cadillac lines during the 1950’s. The almighty took him one morning at home, when his wife backed over him in the driveway as he consulted his fancy watch.

Darryl Gripp, a fellow I knew who lived on the edge. Darryl’s life style, and his alcohol and drug habit finally caught up to him. He grew more depressed each day, not seeking any help and planning his solo demise. He weighed the different ways of cashing out and decided on “taking the gas”, as he heard it was painless, and you just went to sleep. He visited his mother for the last time in her New York apartment. Not remembering his mother had an all-electric kitchen, he suffered needlessly when he plunged his head far into her red-hot oven.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship

“We need a edge,” said Banister. The jade waters of the Arno rushing
beneath his feet. “What did you have in mind?” ask Dino Mod reaching the
eastern banks of the Mea Cupa. “What is the must questionable aspect of
the Pastafarite dogma, where is the chink in their spiritual armor.
“They’re a pretty eclectic lot. shotgun belief system. Core believes on
the weak side. Their strong suit is a near manic level of skepticism
“Paradox or dilemma?” “Not much help with either.” Priest from neighboring
temples skirted the edge of FSM sanctuary. Banister and Dino melted into
their ranks

You Had to Be a Big Shot

They called him the Edge. A German sniper recently hired by the Agency to
attempt the impossible, a mile long shot. The Edge thoroughly consider all
possibilities. In the end he presented the Agency with the following: A 12
foot rail gun with a Schmidt & Bender MKIV. At the half mile mark a pulse
magnetic field the size of a softball which would drive the bullet to its
target. The Edge fired the shot into the zone, a few beats later the
bullet exploded in his brain. The idiots at YO YO DINE had crossed the
polarity.

The Edge

It was the 80s the air waves were thick with euro syntho pop. Aghast
bands were all the rage. No love songs just proto Emo droning. When New
Years day hit M-Tv it was no big deal, but no repeated re-listens you
started to pick up on the driving lead guitar. Fast forward to Live Aid U2
takes the stage and the Edge just rips up the landscape with a drive
version of Bad. At the time I thought these guys are going to be mega
stars. Joshua Tree sealed the deal with Where the Streets Have No Name

JEFFREY

Malice Aforethought
by Jeffrey Fischer

Alan rolled his wheelchair to the edge of the crowd. He couldn’t lift a barricade and carry it several blocks, the way his fellow protesters did, not with the pair of stumps he called legs these days, but he could be there in front of the White House, shouting at its mean-spirited occupant, and adding to the number of veterans angry at what was happening.

It was one thing to refuse to negotiate with House Republicans to end the government shutdown. Alan figured there was enough blame to go around that all sides could have their fill. But closing down open-air memorials – paying the police to be on duty to arrest veterans who just wanted to see the place, for God’s sake – was merely spiteful, and the blame lay squarely at 1600 Pennsylvania. Days like this one made Alan wonder why he bothered to protect the country from foreign enemies, when the biggest threats seemed to be in power.

Coming into Focus
by Jeffrey Fischer

Jason looked at the label: Namenda. He shook the bottle until four blue pills landed in his hand. He was fairly sure his grandmother wouldn’t miss them.

Tomorrow was the city-wide Math Bowl, and Jason needed any edge he could get. He knew athletes took steroids to boost performance, so he thought about what might give him a comparable edge until it hit him: he would borrow some of his grandmother’s Alzheimer’s medication. He figured four would be enough to sharpen his memory.

Jason realized his mistake in the middle of round two: his grandfather liked to keep his Viagra in other pill bottles to pretend he didn’t need the drug. Jason only hoped he could remain seated for the rest of the competition.

RICHARD

#1 – Edge of reason

Emily’s take on reality may have been esoteric, but to George, it was simply another way of rationalising the situation he and the others now found themselves in.

During the past days, George himself had experienced circumstances that took him far beyond the edge of reason and had, at times, made him question his own sanity – anything that even remotely worked as a coping mechanism was just fine by him.

Besides, there was something about Emily he found very attractive and – in the name of survival of the species – he was quite prepared to do whatever duty required of him!

#2 – The Final Frontier

The edge of the universe isn’t what you’d expect – far from a tenuous, nebulous mass of loosely connected atoms, streaming outwards towards eternity, it’s actually a lot more defined.

It’s more like a vast rubberised wall – you should approach it carefully, sneak up on it even, because any faster than a brisk walk, you’re in for a shock.

If you hit the edge at any great speed, it’ll expand outwards, sucking you along, then at it’s furthest point, it’ll snap like a bungee cord, slinging you backwards at several times the speed of light…

Right back, to where you started.

#3 – Danger!

The sign was pretty straightforward – ‘Dangerous Cliff – keep away from the edge’ – but, boys will be boys, and a mix of bravado, a decent measure of foolishness and a youthful conviction that the normal rules didn’t apply to us, led to taking risks we should never have considered.

We’d walk perilously close to the edge to prove our boldness; we’d even sit, with feet dangling over the chasm, seemingly unimpressed by the drop below us.

Then, one fateful day, as we were larking about, Dangerous Cliff appeared, running towards us, and pushed my unfortunate companions to their death, far below.

#4 – Snip

It was said that Bernard cared more about his garden than people. Certainly his neighbour, Mrs Crump, thought so – every time she popped up with a cheery hello over the privet, he’d scowl back at her, before returning to his weeding.

Nobody thought he’d take things quite so far…

Mrs Crump’s body was found in her back garden, minus her head – which was eventually discovered lying in the middle of Bernard’s prize dahlias.

“I never meant to kill ‘er”, he told the police, “It’s not my fault her ‘ead ‘appened to pop up, right when I was trimming the ‘edge!”

RUTH

I worked for the Agency back in the eighties, before the War on Terror made being an Agent really dangerous. Back then, it wasn’t mad bombers, but more subtle, crafty foreign spies that we tracked down and “neutralized.” I was seeking a rogue MI-6 cell that had gone over the edge and was working for Stasi. The cell members were laying low in a British Literature research society, and I was close to finding the ringleader, someone known only as “The Professor.”

Silly me. I was expecting a dapper gentleman in a waist-coat; I was wrong. She was stunningly beautiful.

JULIE

Rebecca liked Jimmy. Then Jimmy didn’t like Rebecca and liked some other girl, so those girls decided they didn’t like Rebecca.

After a year of having her lunch thrown on the floor, and being pushed headfirst into the bathroom wall, Rebecca’s mother transferred her to another school.

In 1978, that would have fixed things, but it isn’t 1978.

Rebecca is on Facebook, and Twitter.

“Die, you bitch. Drink bleach. Jump.” #dieyoubitchandjumpnow.

Rebecca was pushed to the edge. She climbed the ladder to the top of the abandoned tower at the concrete factory and walked over the edge.

Bullies were arrested.

JOHN

When would it end? Once over the edge; seconds became hours. The sound was at first the rush of a breeze, then wind, then that of a jet engine.
A slideshow of my entire life rolled like a nightmarish carnival mixing images of joy with pain at an accelerating rate.
It was the constant pain of the latter scenes which had brought me to this crux- to the rooftop’s edge and then jumping.
Then, a deafening clap and a blackness that felt wet. The passerby’s on the sidewalk stared down abhorred at the splattered last of me. It was over.

MUNSI

There’ll come a time when you’ll feel pushed to the edge, when you can take no more, and you’ll be faced with a decision.

Back away, or stand your ground and fight.

I urge you, do not fight.

It’s not a fight you can win, I repeat: You. Will. Not. Win. That. Fight.

All you’ll do is destroy yourself, destroy everything you’ve worked for here, and for nothing, to no benefit.

So when the time comes, and it will, back away. Just back away.

Waiting tables is a bitch, dude. We’ve all been there. But seriously, don’t punch a customer…

LIZZIE

He walked past the woman sitting on the edge of the stone wall by the old road. She didn’t look at him; she stared at the floor. Something he couldn’t explain made him stop and go back. He sat beside her; she still didn’t look at him. He wanted to ask her why, but he just sat there looking at the same spot on the floor. They sat on that wall for a long time. Suddenly, she looked up. “Thank you,” she whispered. Later, she told him she decided to kill herself. She didn’t and never thought of it again.

SERENDIPITY

I peered through the crowd at the approaching vehicles – it was all going perfectly to plan.

Everybody’s attention was focussed away from me, no-one was looking my way, and why would anybody take any notice? I was just a nameless, faceless individual, barely perceptible, far away from the masses, on the very edge of the crowd.

On the very edge… but today, I would not go totally unnoticed.

Closer they came. I took aim, and pulled the trigger.

Then screams, and panic, while I – a solitary figure, on the edge of perception – walked quietly away from the grassy knoll.

DOUGLAS

Title: Just another day of headlines in America: 10-18-2013

Goverment reopens after Congress passes budget deal, raises debt limit

Conservative Republicans still fighting health care law

Colo. shooting lawyers tussle over sanity evidence

Suspected Victoria’s Secret shoplifters found with fetus

Blackwater guards face new charges in Iraq shootings

Man with knife forces way onto Ark. school bus

Panel: Discharge Marine captain in urination case

2 arrested in death of bullied Florida girl

Ohio trooper who gave murder suspects ride demoted

Bias alleged in Naval Academy sex assault case

Man charged with trying to carjack Cal Ripken Jr.’s mom

Couple who died holding hands ‘were always together,’ son says

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

“Answer me,” I repeat, hating my voice.

In the chair, he struggles against the ropes, grunts, but doesn’t speak.

I extend my fifth arm. The scalpel at the end glints in the flickering fluorescents. My servos whine in the quiet room.

He glances at them, at my camera, then down to his scuffed leather shoes.

I synthesize more words, the blades sliding closer to him. “Why did you make me into an ugly robot?”

My third arm reaches from behind, grasps his soft human hair, pulls his head back.

“You’re beautiful,” he says as the scalpel slides across his throat.

SINGH

7.5

Madam’s lesson – a tennis ball –

round as a planet, yellow as the sun,

could not orbit this circle of hands.

“Come on Jyoti – catch and say the word.”

The girl student stunned and speechless;

dropped the ball. Madam retrieved it,

threw another playful chance

round as a planet, yellow as the sun.

Again, the young brown girl

with pink ribbon snaking through her plait

was not so clear: is this work or play,

her face was saying: do I, do I, do I have to?

She dropped the ball, bright with future prospects –

round as a planet, yellow as the sun.

7.6

Margaret took the photo from her purse, –

her old life in a crumpled print:

she snatched quick glances between the classes –

two girls plucking Packham pears

from Adelaide backyard sunlight shining

through Grandma-hands of branches, where

roots would never die in this still-life,

leaves surviving their yellow frost-spots;

mulch remained her vegetal foothold,

although the restlessness had quit

that winter pear for these papayas.

Guilt was the spasm in the chest –

her girls were back now with their Papa:

this hard fact still goaded, till

annunciation, a voice spoke up:

bow to your path, just drop it all.

7.7

In town, at the restaurant they cleared his dishes

diced cabbage, white radish, onion slices

left on a thali of jeera rice and raajma.

His belly full, he sipped a glass of chai

and shuffled now the Bhagavad Gita cards

One flipped out and stood there on its edge

before toppling face-up on the table:

Holy role-play rescues, while black acts end in bondage;

don’t worry, O Arjuna, the light is written in you.

This was a cue to change his shirt and pants!

So obvious. Just reach for a local look.

“Dress for success,” the Western mantra shouted.

7.8

Reborn arse-about in time-pass India
‘role-play’ just meant “fake it till you make it.”

If you look like a yogi you will act like one,

he told himself. And so went off to the tailor

dodging cars and scooters, the diesel buses,

peanut-stacked and banana-mountain pushcarts

for plain white colour — a universal makeover

in tera-rubiya, thin washable acrylic.

In blissful ignorance he chose to self-bestow
the spotless look as if could be bought,

not kowtowing to monastic rules,

yet might be double-edged, a tougher standard

hard to live by, not to mention washing.

7.9

He spent some days coming and going

to the local tailor, Ram Prakash

getting some white pleated cholas, shirts

and stitching lengths of cotton

with gold edging – his snappy

yogic garb, along with leather sandals.

His hair and beard were growing

and there were beads around his neck

bought at a Delhi emporium

before they left. Yogi was a yogi

by all appearances.

Passing villagers upon the roads

now bowed or stared, astonished

at the sadhu, a White,

those envied in foreign countries.

Now one walking from the mandir,

and suddenly arriving at the village school

peering through the papaya trees.

7.10

At first she did know what to think at all,

his coming and going off secretly to the town,

then appearing back here like a holy joe,

reborn in white. It wasn’t so much the colour

as the style — the calf-length pleated robe

that spread out wide as a dress around the bottom

with sandals and white shawl over shoulder.

It was not what most men around here wore

who went modern with plain Western pants and shirt.

The women still wore Punjabi suits or saris,

last bastions of the double-standard fashion,

where women were supposed to stay demure.

7.11

The women here were expected to uphold tradition.

Perhaps it was unfair. She should let him

pass without a comment, or correction.

Anyway, their skin would always stick out here.

She was, after all, in a Punjabi suit

trying to blend in with the other women, yet

her radicalism was read here in reverse.

“We’ll, what do you think?” He asked, upon arriving.

The children tittered on their dusty mats

as he cat-walked up the centre to the tree

before her, queen-like on a cane-backed throne.

“Impressive,” she said, and nodded, and that was that.

7.12

Kuldeep! Gunti vajao! Gunti vajao!

Madam told again the monitor to bang

the shard of resonant brass –

the ‘school bell’ hanging from a tree

on its sharp ‘j’ of wire.

Let the bell sound out from the past.

This would end the cricket match

on the field beyond the hand-pump

and old brick toilet.

Ploughed just yesterday

into clumsy clods,

it had since been picked clean

thanks to the bagalas –

grey water herons with heads like wedges

and deft beaks that drill

the soil for worms.

Today, the one-day-acolytes of cricket,

who throw the red leather ball

rather than bowl it

were clomping, laughing, falling over

in the clod field.

Madam gave the cricket set

from her meagre savings

along with tennis balls and skipping ropes.

All were deposited now

in the tea chest of memory –

a magician’s trick

going back into the hat,

along with the cricket bat

wearing fresh scars.

Gunti vajao! Gunti vajao!

7.13

He heard her door bell

beyond the circling crows

and passing buffaloes.

As math class chimed its numbers,

as wind played snare drum with the pipal leaves

the Adelaide Hills bell ding-donged

as he had placed his hand, sweaty as a frog’s

upon the fly-screen mesh.

It was that first time

now how many months ago?
Were they old together already?

He’d come for dinner

gravel-crunching her drive,

a newborn crowning

through the foliage of the weeping elm

of a dry-season country

and pressed the door bell

to light up a girlish head

seven years his senior.

7.14

He was somewhere else

she was somewhere else

now that he had come

and she had her job

he was nowhere nowhere

meanwhile he sat

under the pipal

glad to be here

looking straight up

wasps hovered

where green leaves

hid the hive

one by

one they

pushed

past

fresh ones

jump jets

motored straight

into air

hovering

first like upthrust

Harrier planes

then buzzed his head

and raced for sky

they too had their work

to search out and destroy

intruders at the gate

he got up now to go

the wasps followed him

was he some Pied Piper?

7.15

She thought of Yogi gone to the edge of the river

that once flowed through Heaven –

Ganga Ma, channelled by King Bhagiratha

in deep and rolling meditation.

Starting from the Gangotri Glacier,

She unbraids like Shiva’s matted locks

through the Gangetic flood plain

to the Bay of Bengal, 2,500 miles south.

Foreign Madam thought of her Yogi

clinging to the edge

where herons pecked

a living like one half of India.

She saw him in his white robe

sitting on a mound of dust beside

a mother, a goddess, an epic, a tradition –

one white dot against the vast blue sky.

7.16

He sat upon the mud bank, feeling the edge
of the wind like a hot knife to his spine.

Sweat trickled as he tried to come to terms

with the job of having no job. Yet, he had

come to India carrying suitcases. There

was suddenly no rhyme or reason, yet

he was jobless here just as he was at home,

wandering the continent with a guitar,

Mr Part-time. Overnight she’d become

a career option. Marriage with light duties.

He felt the hot knife of the wind dig in harder

and truly wondered if the river edge was safe.

7.17

Evening back at their hut,

after washing up

plates in a plastic bucket

squatting at the hand pump.

he came back, sat and breathed.

Squirrels were curious and came

to swipe any scraps, crumbs.

She sat on a cane chair,

he – on the earth-dung ground.

One climbed onto his knee,

onto the edge of him without fear

twitching paws and whiskers.

The creature could read him better

This was the real white Yogi,

not the holy joe,

The one who listened,

who carried the bags,

whose tranquility attracted

a fearless squirrel.

She saw had something special

when he didn’t try.

7.18

The sun was down, a kerosene lamp burning.

Cross-legged on a grass mat

he was chanting with his drum

like a long boat rowing to God.

Aum the current, a river that floated all

downstream like a thousand lights.

Rishis, munis, orange-styled swamis,

sadhus in loin cloths, digambers – naked:

she saw the place fill up with

holy ghosts, a congregation:

robes, shawls, head-dresses, beatific smiles

“What are they doing, what are saying?” he asked.

“They come to hear the Name

like waves rolling into shore

from the blurred horizon edge
that joins this world to the next one.”

SPATE

River Edge Nursing Home

Hello. Here to visit? That’s nice. It seems like Mrs. Baronoffsky is away from her desk. I’m a resident here, maybe I can help …

Or maybe you can help me. This is not a good place. It’s all about profit, profit, profit! They just keep us alive at the lowest possible cost; and when you get close to dying, God… the worst! See that river? Well, they wheel you over to the edge and plop, Davy Jones’ locker for you.

Who are you visiting?

Her?! ahhh… she’s busy feeding the fish right now.

There’s Mrs. Baronoffsky…

Mrs. Baronoffsky! Visitors!

CLIFF

His name came from a mis-remembered quote. “It’s the edge of the blade that does the cutting.” So, he became The Edge. He was to be a solitary figure ridding the streets of crime. No one knew his secret. He knew that only he was above the corruption that infested the city. Only he was worthy to be this city’s protector. Naturally, he was broken within a month. As he lay in the hospital, he remembered the rest of the quote. “It’s the edge of the blade that does the cutting but without steel behind it, it chips and shatters.

###

The great explorer addressed the assembled men.
Today, we stand at the edge of the map. Behind us is civilization. Ahead of us is adventure. Ahead of us is glory. Out there, beyond the borders, we will find our destinies, our dreams and our passions. We will find out who we truly are. Out there, my friends, is immortality. Out there, we will burn our names in the sky. Now tell me what the towns and villages behind us can offer you compared to that.
One lone voice called out, “They’ve got beer!”
The expedition fell apart quickly after that.

REDGODDESS AND BONCHANCE

Edge
In relationships, just like work, it’s good to have an edge. Lola’s lover has simple tastes in food but a refined palate for good wines. He told stories of wining and dining clients to close big contracts. He’s quiet yet quite the chatterbox when relaxed. Lola has a congenial personality at the hotel and has had feelings of being out of her element with management. She soaks in his wine lists and the dishes to pair them with. She imagines the two of them traveling tasting life together. Their pairing seems to have given her that extra edge she needed.

NORVAL JOE

Long John Silver cowered beneath the junipers in Widow Finklestien’s front hard. The puppies’ hysterical yapping from the back yard drove him closer to the edge of canine sanity.
Collie dockles, dolly cockles, long-haired screaming rats. Call them what you want, to Long John they were fiends from hell.
And Missy. While she was pregnant she was a bitch by every definition of the word, but she should have mellowed since the little maniacs were born. Missy’s whine, rising from the back yard was the last straw.
Long John dashed to the sidewalk and down the street to his home.

JUSTIN

Sam and Max, freelance police, careened across the desert landscape, car catching air and kicking dust into the sky. Dodging tumbleweeds and lizard-festooned rocks, they came to their destination and did a power slide to stop near a cliff.

They hopped out of the car and Max pointed out the tentacled cactus dangling Flint Paper over the edge of the precipice. “Can I shoot it Sam?” “Hold on little buddy, he might drop Flint.” “That’s right, he still owes five bucks!”

Max walked up and grabbed the cactus and ate it, then spit Flint Paper out. “Where’s my five bucks?”

TURA

Only one tree grows in the semi-arid margins of the Sahara desert, the amberzand. Its branches make such twisted, tortured shapes that staring too long at them might drive one mad. The punctuation sign is named after it.

Its fruits resemble blueberries, but are hard as wood, as if in mockery of a traveller’s hunger. The desert Arabs suck them as a palliative against thirst, and perhaps against their harsh lives, for they are mildly hallucinogenic. In the nineteenth century, a French explorer brewed a liqueur of them, but was horribly overcome by the fumes. None have repeated his experiment.

ZACKMANN

“I hear we live our lives on the razor’s edge” Said Jake
Joe responded “I thought we lived our lives on the edge of a zombie breakout. You don’t think Chris Saint just made that stuff up for On The Edge of Darkness do yah?”
Jake answers “That’s just crazy. You know that’s fiction, right?”
“How can it be fiction when Canadian Parliament has made a zombie plan for when thousands of Ford Edges return to their birthplace of Canada filled with panicked Americans on their way to the edge of Lake Winnipeg hoping zombies won’t like ten month winters.”

PLANET Z

We live on the edge of town.

No, not on the West Side. Or East Side.

Or at the river’s edge.

And we don’t live under the town, either. That doesn’t make any sense.

The Mole People’s Empire is down there. Do we look like Mole People?

We are the Sky Lords. We live on our sky platform at the edge of the atmosphere, where the air is thin.

Too thin. We pass out a lot because of the lack of oxygen.

Perhaps we should lower the platform?

And install guardrails, too. Lost my grandmother that way. And my dog.

Weekly Challenge #390 – River

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 RIVER.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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.

THOMAS

The river of words flowed through my mind. Moving quickly, twisting and turning with the currents, bumping against the banks on their way to the river’s mouth and the open sea. When I awoke, I would try to remember the words that played tag, bumped into each other, or joined as they wound through the river’s course. I would look at the notebook on my night table, squinting to read the rough scratches I made in the night, if I awoke from a dream. Some days, I would be lucky enough to pour some of these words out onto paper.

The hobo lived in a shack by the river. As a boy, we’d go down to the river to throw stones, and harass the black man that lived in a shanty near the river’s edge. We would yell taunts, jump up and down, and run away if he stepped out of his shack. He was something unique, unusual and unknown that made us do what we did. He was attacked as he fished for his supper. He never yelled at us, and kept his head down. I am still saddened and ashamed, more than sixty years later. Forgive me, please.

In spite of a painful creek in his neck, he was able to put together new lyrics to the tune, Old Man River, employing the stream of conscious method he learned at The Little School of Mystery and Heirloom Tomatoes in Boulder, Colorado. A deluge of ideas cascaded through his brain, as he constructed new lyrics for the tune, as a present for the 44th birthday of the master. The tune began with the words, “Old Guru, Larry, That Old Man Larry, he must know something, but he doesn’t say nothing, he just keeps meditating, he keeps on meditating alone.”

#
I wish I had a river that I could canoe away on. A long, blue, sparkling, clean, river – full of jumping fish; flashes of Blue Herons and folks picnicking on the banks in straw hats, playing with their children and the family dog. A surprise around every corner.

I wish had a river, straight, and easy to paddle…a light current that would carry me forward to a place where everyone, everyone, has a good word or a smile, and the sun is out…for as long as I like. A river I could float on, as my time grows close.

JEFFREY

Honeymoon
by Jeffrey Fischer

Standing on their stateroom’s balcony, the couple watched the countryside move by as the ship left the river and slowly ventured into the ocean. Behind them, the sun sank slowly below the horizon, casting the water with a gentle orange glow. The woman shivered slightly in the cool evening air, and the man put his arm around her. Waves crested and crashed, causing the ship to bob slightly in the shallow coastal waters.

A second marriage for both of them, he couldn’t help think of it as a second chance as well, an opportunity to avoid the mistakes he had made the first time around. He knew, though, that the hard part was about to begin, that their ship had left the safety of the river for the uncertainties of the ocean, and sometimes the waves were very large.

Up the River
by Jeffrey Fischer

When Clyde was convicted of robbery for the first time, he didn’t know much prison lingo. However, even he thought he knew what it meant to be sent “up the river,” so he was quite surprised to find himself on a cleanup crew assigned to the state park upriver. Sporting an orange jumpsuit, he and his fellow convicts picked up trash left by anti-social tourists, trimmed trees, and cleared brush. It was unpleasant work in a pleasant environment.

The best part of the work was the education Clyde received. In addition to a newfound appreciation for the outdoors, he learned the secrets of older, albeit not very successful, criminals, and planned his next three robberies.

JOHN

The Journey of a River Named Emmanuel
by John Musico

Emmanuel was born of the highest mountaintop which was snowy white and looked down upon the world below.
Given legs, Emmanuel meandered down the mountainside. As he cascaded from one region to another, he cleansed the earth in his path.
Finally Emmanuel’s journey led to an arid land named Calvary where the heat beat down upon him transforming him to vapor.
He floated higher and higher above the clouds- returning to the mountaintop; rejoining with his father.
After he had ascended to the sky, there was no trace of his existence upon the land. Emmanuel wondered if he’d be remembered.

LIZZIE

The river twisted and turned in a familiar path. When Rick saw that last new turn, he was confused. It was blocked by debris, so he jumped off the boat to investigate. The more he tried to shove the debris aside, the deeper he was buried in it. First, he saw an arm… He got closer, carefully. The body was face down, bloated, scratched. Although disgusted by the looks of it, Rick turned it over and saw his own face. He remembered now. He had been lost in the river, looking for the way out for weeks, after that storm…

RICHARD

#1 – Emily

Over the course of the ensuing days, George had plenty of opportunity to get to know his new found allies. Apart from the occasional sorties to scavenge supplies for the group, there was little else to occupy his time.

He found himself gravitating towards Emily, a thirty-something woman, with dreadlocked hair and a decidedly new age outlook on their situation.

“Life”, she would say, “is a river… we are caught in its current and swept along with it – resisting its flow is pointless.”

George thought she was barking mad, but she amused him, and it helped pass the time.

#2 – Crossing over

People wonder why I do this job and not something a little less creepy.

I can understand, but every job has perks – it’s a steady wage and no chance of being replaced by a machine or a sudden fall in demand. It’s a skilled profession, and I’m not stuck behind an office desk all day.

Then there’s the people… you’d be amazed at the characters I get to meet. In fact, it’s only a matter of time before our paths cross, and it’s your turn to cross the river… and then you’ll see I’m the best damn ferryman there is!

#3 – Against the flow

A river of blood caused an ocean of tears – emotions burst their banks and flooded the land, yet peace it seems, was simply a bridge too far.

The glib words of politicians washed over us: wave after wave of meaningless flotsam, pouring from a wellspring of washed-out speechwriters – a fast-flowing current of rhetoric… we were drowning in propaganda.

It was clear the politicians didn’t give a damn. The tide of public opinion turned: anger overflowed, bubbling over in an outpouring of resentment – a watershed had been reached – revolution!

Finally… peace! And the soldiers began to stream back home.

CLIFF

Clyde stood on the moonlit bridge looking down at the river. Thin ice covered the water near the shore, but her e in the center, it flowed dark and inviting. “Looks like you could drop the whole town in there and no one would ever find it,” he said. He took a deep breath, building up his courage. “They’ll probably say it’s a cowardly thing to do, but a man can only be pushed so far. At least now, maybe I can find some peace.” Then Clyde lifted his neighbor’s musical Christmas yard statue and dropped it over the side.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship part 19

The center of Bowsmen was triangulated by three rivers. The Tiber
running North to South, the Arno East to West, the Rubicon running
North-by-Nortwest. The island in the confluence of these rivers was called
the Mea Culpa. Along the banks of the Mea Culpa stood the highest
concentration of temples, synagogs, church, Mosque in the solar system. At
it’s apex sat Mea Maxima Culpa with its newly ruined temple. The shattered
remains of a mosaic depicting the Eight Armed bringer of noodles. The
Pastafarites pour over the Bridge of Sighs thus crossing the Rubicon
“Alea iacta est” thought Timmy

The River

Alma Sue and Billy spent the summer skin dipping in the river beside the
refinery. Alma Sue ever shy always had Billy turn his back while she
undressed. Billy dutiful turned and closed his eyes till he heard the
splash. With the cloak of the dark waters she would sidled up to Billy.
Despite the glow of her crucifix Alma Sue felt safe in the river. Zombies
can’t swim, but they’re damn good floaters Prone to hyper gag reflex there
was little chance they would attempt a bit in the water.
As clusters float by you could hear: brains brains.

Broken Promise

When I saw the topic strains of the Bruce Springsteen flowed cross my
mind. “Go down to the river and into the river we dive.” Being a
contemporary of the Boss I know well the deeper meaning of that river.
When everything was extracted it was abandoned. A promise so deeply broken
it can scarey be captured in words. But he did ” I got Mary pregnant, man
that was all she wrote.” Good lord that was two generation ago. What’s
this place going to look like when the rest of the hope is gone. go down
to the river.

MUNSI

On the Subject of Wisdom

By Christopher Munroe

Every river flows into the sea.

It’s the sort of thing that sounds immensely profound, pregnant with meaning. The sort of koan in which deep truths can be found, if only you find the wisdom within yourself to really look, to truly understand…

…and yet, if you stop to think about it, it’s a completely meaningless turn of phrase. Factually accurate, but with no more depth than the equally true “ice is cold”, or “the sun does shine”.

Nonetheless, say it to somebody after a few drinks, in the right context, and who knows? It might just get you laid…

ZACKMANN

“I thought you had such a good idea to take a boat on the river and head south for the winter maybe ending up at the Red River but you know how you thought all rivers flow the same way; south?”

“Yeah Joe, since all rivers run south we’ll get someplace warmer maybe the gulf in Mexico.”

“That Welcome to Canada sign makes me think we took a wrong branch and are on the Red River of the North which flows north. All rivers do flow the same direction; downhill. Hopefully you’ll really like spending the winter on Lake Winnipeg ”
zackmann

SERENDIPITY

Old Jake was legendary to those whose weekends were spent at the river.

There wasn’t an angler among us who hadn’t lost a prize catch to him, or sat shivering on the river bank throughout the long cold night, hoping to ensnare the wily pike.

Jake was the source for many a yarn, retold in the Fishermans’ Arms, where he was known as ‘The River Spirit’. It was said with confidence that he’d never be caught, not by any mortal means at any rate.

How wrong they were!

It’s amazing how effective a couple of sticks of dynamite can be!

SEVI AND BONCHANCE

River Street Library

Jim decided to make a detour to his local library on River Street prior to the start of his work week.

Five minutes to opening there was a large crowd waiting for the doors to unlock. It had been a bitter cold night. Winter’s chill lingered in the morning air as he gathered his collection of borrowed Edger Allen Poe books.

Jim remembered days when there was less talk of economic recovery and fewer people huddled to gain access to the warm River Street Library.

Jim relished the comfort of his jacket against his skin with hope in his heart.

RED

There is a river that runs through Lola’s neighborhood to the hotel. Many residents treasure it as if it were “La seine” itself. Lola gazes through the foggy bus windows with sadness as she watches the fishermen, rowers, boaters and ducks on the water, soaking in nature’s beauty. It occurs to her, she has never taken a walk, had a picnic or even rode a ferry to the many islands close by. It’s ironic that tourists seem to explore the city more fully than those who live here.

DANNY

The movie “A River Run’s Through It” was the first thing that came to mind as heavy rain caused the river behind my home to flood its banks. Now a river literally runs through my home. Walls are missing, but frame and foundation is holding strong. Hopefully FEMA will take that into consideration before hiking my flood insurance premiums. Thanks, Florida, for not presenting any legal challenge to the rate hikes, filing a “friend of the court” brief supporting Mississippi’s case doesn’t help. I have no idea what this has to do with fly fishing, Brad Pitt, or rural Montana.

NORVAL JOE

Yellow flourescent tubes flickered and went dark, robbing the shopper of their meager luminescence. A brown glow beyond the register implied an avenue of escape. The cashier, his waxy corpse, a silouette against a shadow, sat on his stool, a rigor mortis guard.
Behind himself, buried in the darkness, a frozen-section compressor, thumped, rattled, then hissed its last, dying breath.
A mouse, alone, skittered past his feet, then another, and more, a river of peeping, squeeking vermin flowed down the aisle, past the rotting sentry and away, free.
The shopper didn’t move, couldn’t move, frozen, alone forever in his hell.

JUSTIN

I am a game character! I have mighty power! I can carry fifty guns, I can hold four hundred potions, I can survive the onslaught of innumerable foes! I fight with steel and magic. I can survive catching fire, getting shot with arrows and struck with falling objects. I can leap over chasms, swing on vines, and slide down snowy hills. Rock slides? No problem. Car chases? Easy. Drive a tank? I can do that, and fire the guns at the same time!

But if I put as much as one foot in water. I drown. What is the deal?

TURA

The Moving City was built a thousand years ago at the mouth of a great river, well placed for trade by sea, river, and land.

The city prospered, but over the centuries the river gradually swelled its flow, spreading over its banks and forming new branches. Buildings close to the river sagged into softening ground. Their owners abandoned them and rebuilt upstream.

And so, as the river mouth developed into a great, swampy delta, the city drifted miles inland. At last it reached the rocky ground where it now stands. But by tradition, they still call it the Moving City.

SINGH

From Foreign Madam and the White Yogi

a verse novel in progress

This work is set between Australia and India travelling via North America and Europe visiting relatives. In this episode Australian Yogi and French-Canadian Margot with two cranky daughters from her previous marriage are sightseeing in Chichester, West Sussex Later they get a taxi back to their friend’s cottage in Dimple Lane.

Lunch and double ice-cream. A signpost walk

to museums, pubs, a flower show, cream tea –

an hour’s stroll around the Roman wall

that’s been five metres high two thousand years.

The girls were not adventurers – just bored

and dragged their little heels on down the path

far from history – back to Australia

talking about Papa. “Can we call later?”

“I’m tired Mummy,” moaned Pauline. “Let’s go!”

while Adele played Glass Eyes. Yet, poor Margot

knew the game was up. It was time to get

a sleepy cab at the Square.

Away they went.

Miss Walkman hardly seeing the languid river;

Miss Glass Eyes paid no heed to the bumpy bridge,

stone-masoned, where those haloes of black gnats

were fish food hour upon the village water.

A man was casting a fly beyond the midges.

“Stop the cab,” said Yogi. “Do we have to?”

the girls complained. “Just for a second,” he said.

The driver stopped and Yogi wound down his window

to see the line whiplash and strike as the leaping fish

made its escape across the short fat river.

But the fisherman worked his line and soon all heard

the scream of the reel as the tussle then ensued.

The fish lunged to the right, until the angler

checked him. Then he dived, causing the rod
to dip, but the spring of it was too strong
and he had to rise, shattering the plate-glass
surface, its back smacking like a hand;

and plunged down deep, fighting the line

taut against his body, then tugging it away
from its mouth. The fish fought with water
diving to gain leverage with its tail
as if to ram its enemy. But it grew tired
and soon it was over. The fisherman reeled in
and scooped up his shining silver in the net.

“He caught it, Mummy!” said the fierce Pauline,

while Adele was silent. She was ever thoughtful,
while Yogi was remembering his father:

the fisherman, the outdoors sportsman chap

so deft and quick, unlike inadequate Yogi
who once went fishing up the Shoalhaven River
and never hooked a thing, while the Expert coaxed

a big brown trout from its hide-hole with a spinner
cast out and dropped below the spitting falls.

The fish was always himself thrashing against
superior Dad. He flinched, winding up the window.

“Let’s go driver,” he said, and soon the taxi

was puttering homebound into Dimple Lane.

PLANET Z

While Professor Walls works on the time machine, the rest of us deploy the emergency environment bubble.

There’s no telling what insects or bacteria are out there that could kill us all in a microsecond.

Or, I suppose, bacteria that we carry which could wipe out all life on the planet.

We’ve sent out a few drones to scout around and take pictures.

It’s mostly simple plants and pond scum around here. I think we overshot our mark by a few hundred million years.

Eventually, Professor Walls says we’re good to go.

I hope he doesn’t overshoot the mark again.

Weekly Challenge #389 – Deception

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 DECEPTION.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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.

THOMAS

We were deceived. Angela was an expert at deception. She accessorized with a number of plastic and rubber accoutrements which enhanced her average frame. On the dance floor, from a distance of ten meters, she was a statuesque figure; buxom, thin waisted, voluptuous hips and derriere. Closer, the camouflage was apparent. Skin didn’t match, supplements slipped out of position. Adhesives warmed and wet with perspiration were out of alignment or…pulled by gravity…shifted down and away, leaving a trail of adhesive or toner. She was the belle of the ball until she slithered out, covered in her enormous, green wrap.
#
Helmut deceived the girls at the beach. Slipping a smoked kielbasa into his Speedo, he stood proud, cocky, hands on hips, drinking from a bota. He learned this deception from his frat brothers at State. They would stock up at Safeway before driving to Santa Cruz. One of the lads used all his cash to gas up his Olds, so he had to make do without any sausage props. He borrowed a pair of gym socks to form a bolster that he stuffed into his swimsuit. Explaining his unusual outbreak of athlete’s foot to the University doctor was a challenge.
#
The magician, Jonathan, was a master of deception. His specialty was close-up magic. Years of practice honed his hand magic skills to the master level. Twice a year, he and his lady friend would travel to The Magic Castle, a showcase for the world’s best magicians, and headquarters for the Academy of Magical Arts and an exclusive club for magicians and fans of magic. Last year, Jonathan performed the Kapolowski Ultra Move, wowing the audience and the other performers at the show. His friends begged him for the details of his trick, offering money or a night with their woman.
#
Deception Lake is located about thirty miles due West, just on the other side of Nichols Corner. The lake water is dark because of the minerals dissolved in the water. Only two feet deep at the shore and two and half feet deep in the middle, Deception Lake has claimed the lives of scores of drunks and careless, show-offs that run from the beach and dive into the water, taking a high arc, and crashing head first into the rocky bottom. Signs were posted around the lake, but teenagers and miscreants removed the signs as fast as they were installed.
#
I became a purveyor of deception when I went to a writing workshop at her home. I entered the dark, tiled foyer, and when it was requested that I remove my shoes, I asked for two plastic bags so I could slip them over my boots. The ploy worked, and I was allowed entry. (I had a hole in the toe of my sock.) The four women read their work, as I sat on the couch, ten feet away from their tiny, ornate table, crowded with manuscripts. I excused myself saying I remembered I had left something in the oven.

JEFFREY

Last Trick
by Jeffrey Fischer

They say that magic is really the art of deception. The left hand creates a distraction so the right hand can whisk away the object, making it “disappear.” The magician’s stage patter and his beautiful assistant provide dual distractions for the magician to open hidden compartments.

The conjurer who called himself Mysterio planned one last deception, but it was his most important. During the trick of the Sawed Lady he did his usual misdirection for the audience, then killed his cheating partner before disappearing beneath the stage, his getaway set.

When police officers arrested Mysterio leaving the back door of the theater, Detective Smith looked the killer in the eyes. He said, “We’re not that dissimilar: sometimes police work also involves an artful deception.”

A Grey Area
by Jeffrey Fischer

When Markus began his affair, he gave no thought as to how he’d manage to keep his wife in the dark. As time went on, however, he began to run out of excuses for coming home late.

He hit on the idea of faking a book club, so he could be out of the house on a regular schedule. He typed up a list of books they would read, he invented fictional participants, and even baked cookies every few months when it was ostensibly his turn.

His deception ended when his wife followed him one night. When the door opened, the entire “club” consisted of Markus and a lingerie-clad brunette.

“Gee,” said Markus’s wife, “I didn’t realize tonight’s book was 50 Shades of Grey.”

SPATE

Triple Deception

Maybe I exaggerated the truth a little bit. Okay… I lied.

But it was my lifelong dream to be an author and when this job asking for a writer came up, well… I had to lie. Who is going to hire a writer whose only experience was a few 100 word stories? (And they weren’t even that good.)

But in the end it turned out it was their deception.

Tickets?!
The only things I would be writing were tickets!
My job was to write freaking parking tickets!!!

Well… at least my legs look absolutely stunning in this meter maid uniform.

LIZZIE

“Some doors are best left closed,” he said, when he got back home.

She became angry at him because she thought it was better to clarify things, to talk about what was not right, to be honest. It was easy to get trapped in routines and entangled in the petty little every-day-life bickering.

“To grow above that, we cannot open all doors,” he replied.

She tried to understand, but she couldn’t… Unspoken, muddled half-truths broke her heart.

He walked away. “I’m right,” he thought, only to become so lonely in his fake righteousness.

She stayed, alone, behind a closed door.

RICHARD

#1 – Fort Hope
Fort Hope, it transpired, relied heavily on the art of deception.

Clever use of shipping containers, sheet metal and bits of old machinery contrived to give the impression of a secure, well-fortified compound. The reality was very different – the fortress would struggle to hold off any determined assault and was a potential death trap for anyone caught inside. It did, however, provide a much-needed sense of security.

The ‘Resistance’ were a pretty disorganised bunch, but no more so than George himself, and for the first time, George dared to think that his fortunes had changed for the better.

#2 – Place your bets

“Now, watch my hands carefully”

Rapidly, I switched the cups, sliding them quickly across the table, under the observant gaze of the mark, egged on by his friends.

“Now… which one is the pea under?”

He chose the left and lost the bet – as he always would, no matter which cup he decided on.

The gullible might call what I do ‘magic’, others may say ‘sleight of hand’, to the cynical it’s a ‘confidence trick’ – but, however you dress it up – it’s deception, plain and simple.

You can call it whatever you like – to me, it’s ‘money in the bank’.

#3 – Monkeys

It’s not really deception – I prefer to call it ‘enterprise’.

My publisher gives me a topic, I pass it to my to my team of trained monkeys, they come up with the stories, and I claim all the credit.

Why monkeys? Well, they’re cheaper than paying ghost writers – for the cost of a few old typewriters and plenty of bananas, I get all the stories I want.

Sometimes they get it wrong; occasionally they poop on the manuscripts, and I do wish they’d stick to producing short stories…

For some reason, they’re obsessed with typing the complete works of Shakespeare.

#4 – Coming Soon

In a world where movies are sold on the strength of their trailers, deception is the name of the game.

This year, we’ll take every explosion, every car chase and every romantic interlude from a three hour movie, and cram it into a two minute trailer.

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry and you’ll be completely convinced that this is the greatest movie ever made.

But It’s not.

It’s three long hours of mindless tedium, bad acting and confusing plot, interspersed with two short minutes of stunning raw action.

But what do we care?… as long as you’re paying to watch it.

TOM

If You Try Real Hard You Get What You Need.

She was practiced at the art of deception. Yep that’s my mum. Wouldn’t
think it, but a hard core rock and roller, serious Robert Johnson fan.
Spent late nights talking politics with Mick. Even in his 20s the front
man was a serious Tory. Good friends they were, she pulled some major
strings when the lads got in that nasty business with drugs. Music money
helped her quiet rise through parliament. In 67 she, Rockefeller and
Jagger attended a reception for the International Monetary Fund in New
York all posh and all, but that night all Sympathy for the Devil.

Waltz Across America

In the US the divorce rate is roughly two out of three marriages. The sure
mass of on going infidelity should’ve had a profound effect on the
American Psyche, but thanks to refined levels of cognitive dissonance and
an open embracing of daily deception, we’ve collectively maintained a
NeoPuritan view of marriage. Personally I believe its more a matter of
Commedia dell’arte. Some of us have been give the mask of the ruling
class, others the mask of the serving class. In a futile afford to adopt
the airs of our betters we have abandoned our true nature: serial
shagging.

A Well Defined Relationship Part Isipal

Mother moved towards the street. She was checked by the Senator’s hand.
“We won’t overtake this crowd. There is another way, further no small
amount of deception will be needed.” With Mother in tow the Senator headed
back across the tea room through the kitchen entrance. He started
rummaging through pots and pans. For a moment Widow Parsons wondered what
on earth was he doing? Her son was at the mercy of some mob. The honorable
gentleman was wasting time with cooking utensils. “One size fits all,”
said Mr Smith raising two spaghetti strainers. Out the loading dock they
went.

TURA

The new client showed me his business card: “Master of the Art! D. Zepshen.”

“What art?” I asked.

“The Art of D. Zepshen!”, he exclaimed. In a flurry of movement he transformed into a tall, slender, faceless figure, tentacles waving from his back.

“Ok, Slenderman impression,” I said in my bored voice. “I can probably find you some work at Halloween parties. Anything else?”

He changed into a Jedi with a lightsaber. Then a Pink Panther. “My résumé,” he announced importantly, presenting an envelope. It was a writ from my ex’s lawyer.

He gloated, “D. Zepshen, writ server, wins again!”

STEVEN

She is still online.

Quotes pump out on her Twitter feed, one every three hours. Her Tumblr shares funny images, the occasional poignant quote. Three posts a day.

I read her blog, every Monday. Ten in the morning. Like clockwork.

The rest of it doesn’t matter. Not the bounced e-mails. Not the offline indicator on Jabber or Facebook or Skype. Not the stuffy home with the overwrought quasi-Victorian wallpaper, the smarmy attendant, the stifling heat in the suit jacket in the stone-littered field. Her weeping parents.

The casket.

None of it.

She is still online.

For now, she’s still alive.

SERENDIPITY

I received one of those spam emails from a Nigerian businessman, offering to make me a millionaire. Do these people really think we’re gullible enough to fall for such blatant attempts at deception?

It was high time that somebody fought back!

I hacked into his mail server, set up a re-direct and waited to see what would happen.

Surprisingly, it seems people are actually pretty gullible – every day I’ve been getting emails accompanied by large deposits into my bank account.

Deception – it seems – really does pay, and thanks to my helpful Nigerian businessman friend, I have indeed become a millionaire!

SINGH

78
It was dark when Bhim returned to the hut and handed over the catfish and crabs. Devika had been doing her hut chores and collecting water, but felt a nagging loneliness. Priya seemed disturbed also.
“Where is Baba?” Devika asked passing Bhim a cup of goat’s milk.
“Gone,” is all he answered, drinking only half the cup.
Devika boiled the crabs and fish pieces. She was rationing the oil. The lack of basic supplies in the shaman’s store was beginning to frustrate her. That night she pulled her sleeping mat next to her husband, but he had turned to the window.

79
She felt rows of bamboo had grown between them. It wasn’t conscious deception. His dialogues and savage journeys would have scared her. Neither would he have known how to explain about the old man’s death. Instead, he spent more hours on the water than he needed for the fishing. As weeks passed she noted him spending long hours too in the temple, and after hearing strange voices, she sometimes crept up close to listen. Had visitors come? The prospect of returning to the world of community and familial warmth was her one wish. Meanwhile, he hunted her away with harsh words.

80
Bhim didn’t mean to shut out Devika, but the inner life demanded it’s due. After the shaman’s death, he had felt the baba’s power increasing day day day in him, but hadn’t noticed a new sharpness in his tone. Devika didn’t know what to do, but kept on with her chores and purposely forgot to wear the mask sometimes when going for water just to spark a reaction from him. Although his words were jagged, they were better than no words at all. She took refuge in her Lakshmi puja morning and evening and from resentment stopped going to Bonobibi’s temple.

81
Each day Bhim Das was becoming part of the Sundarbans’ untamable ecocosm. Representing Bonobibi’s symbolic brother Sha Jungli, the go-between rider of the tiger soul prowled through the shamanic levels assuming goddess power. Each shaman became his human face, and soon he would have to assume duties with the villagers, park officials, and be ever watchful of poachers. Yet, who would authorise a young man in place of the old shaman? Now Bhim Krishna Das would have to go and assert and become acceptable as the man who could offer protection prayers for fishermen, honey-gathers, wood cutter charcoal makers.

82
Meanwhile, he went on the tiger journeys mentally visiting old villages and farms across the water that once dotted the long canal that linked the thatched communities. Eventually he saw the crumbling heap that had been the concrete flood shelter. Like a bombed out building only one corner was still standing. His amber eye couldn’t help searching for a drowned mother, for that calm, gentle voice within the desolation of broken shards and bones. But there was no presence he could detect here and reunite with. The pull of maternal blood had been washed away by the sacrifice of the shaman.

83
As Bhim desired, he saw. The floods had subsided and some people were rebuilding. But the land had been poisoned by salt. Engineered cash crop rice had rotted away into sludge. Nothing would grow for years and a farmer without land was a wage slave. Who then had endured and how? He saw scenes from the city, survivors now driving rickshaws, peddled vegetables on bicycles door to door. He saw roadside women in saris breaking rocks to layer the coming freeways and relays of people working in cramped tailoring factories to make containers of clothes for London and New York stores.

84
He followed the tributary canal beyond Sitapur, searching for his own piece of river frontage. How different it looked. The river had changed its course in the floods. He looked for any landmark and finally there was his mango grove far away from the water’s edge. The flood had almost doubled the size of his land. Bhim trained his tiger eye and saw the stone grotto. Focusing even closer, he could see the old image of Lakshmi was intact and the hand pump beside it was no longer under floodwater. But there was an even more remarkable thing that had survived.

85
It was the Lakshmi plot — that little field that his father Bapu Das had made Bhim Das promise never to uproot. Tall and spindly, it stood defiantly flood-resistant. How many generations of storm surge had this local variety survived? The salvation of the land was in the land. Here was the seed stock for a new uprising and that real endurance is in the original genes. Now he had something to offer his wife and daughter. They could regenerate with even more land than before. Bhim drew back to the jungle and regained consciousness slumped over in the forest temple.

86
So he told her. “Chello. We are going back. Get ready.”
But then her doubts and questions arose. “Where? Our farm is gone. How will we live?”
A mother needs community for her child to grew up in and she was relieved. But he silenced her. “Stop thinking woman!”
She hated that tone, yet had to bow. He was the husband, the authority, the protector who had saved them. Yet for what? To wear masks backwards throughout their lives? Who would Priya one day marry? A monkey? They had suffered enough. Leaving, she could reclaim the husband she was losing daily.

87
Although she did not understand Bhim’s inner life, she could see the modern thinker had transformed to a jungle goddess devotee. Why couldn’t he just follow Lakshmi, the wealth Devi who was the link to the comfort and community she had known and loved? But Bhim had hardened, and she blamed this wild place and Bonobibi who represented it. Neither did she want to have to wear widow whites as custom demanded whenever her husband returned here as she knew he would. Or worse still, have to one day join the village of tiger widows. No, she would rather be dead.

88
Baby on hip, Devika brought her bag, cooking pot and the goat, while Bhim did farewell prayers in the temple. Stepping down toward her, she saw the smiling husband she had once married. Yes, he seemed glad to be going home too, although he sternly reminded her to put on her mask backwards. They made their way back down the trail to the boat beached on the mangrove mud. Bhim helped Devika aboard with the baby, then gathering up the goat by its legs passed the bleating bundle to tether inside the shelter. Devika nursed Priya while perched at the prow.

89
Bhim pushed off from mud, poling into the tributary toward the entrance to open water. Seeing Lakshmi’s spindly plot of sprouting rice in his vision had returned the feelings of the farmer in him, and yet this habitat had become a home as well. It had saved his family during the floods. Devika too was feeling alive and refreshed by the open breeze after many weeks cooped up in the hut and nearby surroundings. Then she called out: “Look!”
It was the pink-grey dorsal of Gangetic dolphin. It stayed ahead of the boat as if leading them to open water.

90
Bhim thought it a good idea to cast a final net for their journey and soon he and Devika traded places. She kept the boat steady while he cast in the narrow space next to the shore. Soon enough, he netted a baby bull shark and after landing it thrashing in the net, clubbed it unconscious at the bottom of the boat. Now the vessel was drifting bayward. Again they switched positions and Bhim commenced poling underneath the last mangrove overhang at the end of the island. Here, the branches dipped low like fingers wanting to trail in the water.

91
Just before the prow scraped under the leaves, Devika threw off her mask. She was glad to be rid of that, and bending over undid her plait, letting her hair cascade downward, exposing her neck. She disappeared from view and then Bhim felt the boat lurch. He couldn’t see what was happening, but he heard her sharp brief struggle and cry. Using the boat for momentary purchase, the tiger had leapt directly out of cover and cleared twenty astonishing feet with her gripped in its meat-stained incisors to the other side of the tributary island like an orange comet against blue.

92
Bhim yelled, but it was too late. The tiger had crushed her neck and was dragging her into the jungle opposite. He quickly shifted course to follow, and strained his eyes to see beyond the last tip of its tail, but midstream, he realised in his heart it was over. If he got down he would have to leave his baby girl crying and unprotected. The bleating goat had too had smelled the beast. Tigers were good swimmers and could easily reach them from either side. All he could do was paddle and try to mute the chaos in his thoughts.

93
An hour into the bay he stopped and slumped at the stern, stunned. Despite his inner journeys, visiting the tiger temple, witnessing the end of the old shaman nothing had prepared him for the utter desolation of this moment. She, who he had travelled so far with had been snatched from him at the last moment. “Why Ma? Haven’t I done everything you wanted? You said it was time to leave. Go do my work there, you said. Why take her and not me?” He felt tricked and deceived that the contract of the shaman had to be sealed in blood.

94
His baby daughter was still crying inside the shelter. Bhim went to comfort himself as much as her. It hit him then, how little he really knew his own child. Devika had done everything. He had protected and provided but done little of the nurturing. Now she was his only link. Laying down, he held the child close trying to smell Devika’s presence, then noticed her shoulder bag against his neck. He nestled into it like a pillow and breathed. This was all that was left and for a long time he let himself drench the cotton bag with his tears.

95
It was dark when he lifted his head. Priya was whimpering. He had to feed her and forced the goat up, wet his hands with seawater to work the teats. Dipped again and again into the creamy liquid, Priya suckled on his finger. It was clumsy work, but the best he could do until she was satisfied. It would have been so much easier to stay floating in limbo, but he had to paddle now for the child’s sake and face the new double existence awaiting him. Bhim nestled her against the goat’s udder and commenced the final journey for home.

MUNSI

Talent

By Christopher Munroe

I’m a man of many talents.

A fair writer, decent actor and good-ish comedian.

But my greatest talent, if I had to choose, is my talent for self-deception. Which is convenient since, of them all, it’s the talent I find time to use every single day.

I tell myself I’ll be okay.

I tell myself I deserve happiness.

And, like a chump, I believe it.

So, to everyone who ever said my talents would never get me anywhere, I say: Look at me now! I’m king of the world!

Or, at least, I will be. So far as I know…

ZACKMANN

I think my niece has started lying to me. First She told me she read Deception Point by Dan Brown which is crazy because people buy Dan Brown books but nobody reads them.
Then she told me she would be flying to Philly to checkout schools. After I said something about Manila she counters she meant Philly as in Philadelphia.
I told her everyone knows Philly is short for the Philippine Islands. Phillydelphia was just made up for that cartoon show all the guys are watching. Besides you don’t really want to move away from me to that other coast.

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

Janet sat quietly as the quick witted editor tweaked her story. She had completed a comprehensive background search on the topic. Her story was solid, she excelled at writing.

It was clearly self defense. The man had a concealed weapon.

The gang boys liked to play the “pick a loser and scare him to death with a stun gun” game.

The boy’s gun misfired, the man’s did not.

For effect, the editor choose a picture of the victim’s gun and dramatized the boy’s hospital experience.

The facts would still be in the story, but the deceptive innuendo would shine through.

NORVAL JOE

A cow, a sheep, and a deer stood at the lunch counter eating veggie burgers. The deer held up a piece of paper for the other two to see.
“This has been circulating through the department all morning,” Deer said, scratching an antler. “Apparently there is a picture of a duck wearing combat boots within all these squiggly lines.”
Turning his head one way and then the other, Sheep said, “I don’t see it.”
Cow swollowed her cud and said, “According to the humans, the deception is in the optical illusion.”
“Humans are weird,” Sheep said and the others agreed.

DANNY

Mia Farrow recently commented that her son Ronan may have been fathered by Frank Sinatra Sr. Barbara Sinatra, Frank’s fourth and final wife, fired back, screaming deception, stating “It’s just a bunch of junk. There’s always junk writer-lies that aren’t true.” Ronan Farrow responded “Listen, we’re all possibly Frank Sinatra’s son.” Interesting, I don’t care who is deceiving who, tell me more! Woody Allen, 77, told the Hollywood Reporter via his rep: “The article is so fictitious and extravagantly absurd that he is not going to comment.” That comment itself is a deception, alleging that no comment is actually being made.

CLIFF

Maps are meant to be beacons of truth. After all, if your map is wrong, the consequences can be dire. What most people don’t know is that many commercial maps were deliberately inaccurate. In order to detect copying by competitors, map makers would introduce small lies into their maps. Usually, on a state map, there was at least one town that didn’t exist. The most famous in cartography circles is the legend of the disgruntled employee. Several small towns in Texas appeared on the map. The names of the town were quite insulting to the owners of the map company.

JUSTIN

It’s simple really. All I do it put on this paper mask and everyone thinks I’m on their team! Then I just walk around and stick knives in their backs and put disabling devices on their sentry guns when no one is looking!

Naturally, this makes people nervous and they start shouting that there’s a Spy around. Then I have to give every Engineer a wide berth because they are hitting everyone with wrenches to see if they are me.

The Pyros are the worst, spritzing everyone with a flame, also Spy checking.

It’s hard, thankless work being a spy.

PLANET Z

Every Wednesday, the delivery driver dropped off the wolf’s clean clothes.

“Thank you,” said the wolf. And he dragged the sack into his house.

When he opened the sack, the wolf saw frilly and lacy things no self-respecting wolf would wear.

“What the fuck?” he said, and he called the laundry service.

“We’re terribly sorry,” the laundry service said to the wolf. “It appears that we swapped the tags between your laundry and another customer’s.”

Across town, a sheep put on the wolf’s leather jacket and acid-washed jeans.

The phone rang, but she ignored it.

“Because I’m baaaaaaaaaaaaad,” she grinned.

Weekly Challenge #388 – Focus

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 FOCUS.

We’ve got stories by:

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

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.

THOMAS

He couldn’t focus his eyes. Tears filled them. He had lost again. Not one match on any of the lottery tickets he bought from Mr. Kim. The kids would just have to make do for another week. No money for peanut butter and jelly. His wife would have to take the bus, and he would have to drink cheap beer and buy generic smokes from CostCo. Jerry had his priorities, and he counted on the winnings for early retirement. He thought that if he bought a dozen, he’d up his chances of winning to less than 1 in 175 million.

Diane couldn’t focus on her task. She day-dreamed about Harold, the fellow she met at the party. Her boss walked by her cubicle and looked in. She couldn’t get her attention, and noticed that government report lay unopened on Diane’s desk. “Diane! I need that report before the end of the day. Please start on it.” Diane put her head down and finished the report before lunch. She texted Harold three times during lunch, but didn’t get an answer. On the way back to the office, she tried texting again, head down, stepping off the curb into a speeding truck.

“What is that guy doing with that Brownie?” “I think he’s going to focus.” ”Both of us?” One of my favorite, old, racist, jokes. We would tell this joke over and over at the Klan meeting, and we’d laugh so hard, we had to wipe our eyes with our hoods. That afternoon we’d go over to the shop at the motorcycle mechanics school in Daytona and ask if anyone would like to meet us out in the woods for tonight’s meeting. The Kladd would tell the joke, and any of the students that laughed particularly hard, would get special attention.

After I got out of the service, I entered Stanford Research Institute’s program on remote viewing. It was part of a classified, military program. I didn’t concentrate on the strict practice and protocols, so I was washed out of the program. Since I had some other skills that they found useful, I was admitted to the Far Focus Program at SRI. We were charged with scanning aerial photographs, and scanning the coasts of China, Russia, Cuba and Malibu Beach from surface ships and submarines. We reported our observations, wrote reports, and used our skills in ways that you might imagine.

#
When I was a junior and member of the Fellowship of Catholic University Students (FOCUS) at St. Thomas, I was put in charge of making snacks for evening, dorm-friendly Bible studies. My first treat consisted of tubs of full-fat cream cheese, covered with pulverized Mentos, and served with jalapeno chips and chutney. On cold days, the treat was microwaved for ten minutes at 90% power. The snack that brought students to my room for the recipe was Funley’s Delicious Super Crackers, slathered with anchovy paste, stirred together with Nembutal and psychostimulants that my roommate or I could score in town.

JEFFREY

Battlefield
by Jeffrey Fischer

The battered Ford Focus accelerated in the high way on-ramp, its frame rattling with increasing urgency as Lydia tried to match the speed of the traffic and find a spot to slip into. Next to her, in the right lane of the highway, was a recent-vintage Mercedes E300. Lydia slowed to drop in behind the Mercedes. As she did so, the Mercedes slowed as well. Lydia mentally shrugged and pressed hard on the accelerator, hoping the Focus could summon enough speed from the aged powertrain to overtake the other car. As if on cue, the Mercedes again matched Lydia’s speed. What kind of game is this asshole playing? she thought.

What the Mercedes driver didn’t know was that Lydia had just lost her job, the latest blow in a lifetime full of them. Frustrated and not caring any longer about the consequences, she veered left, clipping the bumper of the Mercedes, whose surprised driver swerved right, hitting the guard rail. The car flipped over the guard rail and down the embankment.

The moral of the story: don’t play games with other drivers. You never know who is desperate enough to screw *you* over.

Sight Lines
by Jeffrey Fischer

Jesse parted his bedroom curtains and peered at the pool next door. Right on schedule, 16-year-old Clare emerged from the back door, wearing her green bikini. She spread a towel on a lounge chair, rubbed suntan lotion over her face, arms, and legs, and settled back in the chair. Jesse grabbed his binoculars and adjusted the focus. He could never work up the courage to talk to Clare – especially if that meant coming into contact with her over-protective ex-Marine of a father – but up here he could indulge in any fantasy he chose.

From the corner of his eye, Jesse saw a metallic glint. He swung the binoculars to the left to see Clare’s dad, staring intently at Jesse. The glint was the sun reflecting off the older man’s service revolver. Jesse quickly closed the curtains and busied himself with a safer fantasy.

LIZZIE

Focus was that pesky little magazine, whose editor decided to fill its cover for weeks with actor Peter Thompson’s private life. So, Peter hated everyone there, including the janitor. He didn’t know the man, but that was beside the point.

When Peter marched into the building, determined to end the charade, the janitor, a veteran, saw him.

“Man, look at me,” he said, noticing the gun, “look. Stay focused.”

A catastrophe ensued…

The following week, Focus featured the story.

“Guard, can I have Focus to read? I want to make sure I’m not on the cover again.”

Well… he was.

RICHARD

#1 – Focus of attention

“Just for once, can we try and focus on the matter in hand”, muttered Jeff: “let’s not get bogged down on the whole nanobots and aliens thing again, please?”

He turned his attention back to George; “We’ve got a lot of crackpot theories, but nothing conclusive. I don’t suppose you’ve anything new to tell us?”

George sighed.

“Nothing you probably don’t already know, but I’m guessing you know far more than I do. What are you guys doing here, for a start?”

Jeff laughed.

“We, are the er… Resistance – although heaven knows what we’re resisting – and this, is Fort Hope!”

#2 – Watch the birdie

A night at grandpa’s usually ended with the inevitable slideshow – a chaotic assembly of photographs, most of which were barely in focus. Those that were tended to be on a slant, over-exposed or suffered from the inclusion of a stray finger or camera strap, strategically placed over the lens.

It wasn’t unusual for his subjects to be arbitrarily beheaded, and – when he did manage to get them in frame – you could guarantee to see a tree or post sprouting from their head.

We were kind though… grandpa loved his photography.

I wish he was still around to tell us.

#3 – End Titles

Have you ever wondered about all those peculiar jobs that you never come across anywhere apart from the end titles on movies?

You know the ones… focus puller, gaffer, dolly grip, foley artist, colorist, best boy, greensman, wrangler and all those first and second units, and so on.

To be absolutely honest, we make them all up, and – when we get bored – we throw a few more into the mix, just because we can… keep an eye out for ‘wrench toggler’ next time you go to the cinema – that’s one of my latest creations.

Who reads the end titles, anyway?

TOM

Keep your wheel on the grindstone
and your nose to the shoulder

Is a story a story if it is just a personal reflection. Is it cheating if
you are the protagonist, narrator, and choirs all-in-one. Reason I ask is
since the topic is focus I wanted to talk a bit about my ADD, look over
there the cats are chewing on the keyboard cable, sorry back to topic,
should not that be pronounced to-pic, of course you’d have to have
considerably dirt feet, not like King Charles who had incredible larger
feet, 12 in long, he must have been a serious Sasquatch, image the British
royal blood line hiding in the woods outside of Portland that would
explain so much. Yes?

Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation

Larry needed a flawed industrial ruby. At a penny on the dollar he still
had to come up with a hundred dollars. Being the industrious type he
opened an all-you-can-eat salted peanut stand next to his lemonade stand.
All the neighborhood stopped by, everyone except Timmy, who just tooled by
on his Schwinn and yelled “Geek” Due to a mislabeling Larry actually got
a flawless ruby the size of his fist. He hooked it up and looked around
for a target. “Timmy,” he chortled, through the switch, no more Timmy,
well no more Timmy’s house and most of great Detroit

A Well defined Relationship Part 7856

Before Banister had a change to make for the door or inquire about
compensations for the position of personal protector the Bluefoot in
Wyn’s Pradas went off. “Yes, No, Now.” Wyn moved to the window, looked
down into the street. 1000s of flashes of light blink on and off. “The
Pastaphrites have the profit and their making for the square. Focus time
Mr Coachman 10k+X.” “Deal,” yelled Banister over his shoulder as he made
for the lobby, with Dino Mod in tow. “Are you part of the package?”
“At 10K a week you sure can afford a hired hand.”

MUNSI

Focus

By Christopher Munroe

I was never focused. Never sat at the front of the class, hanging on every word, furiously scribbling notes, lost in concentration.

In fact, concentration in general was tough for me. I suppose today I’d be diagnosed and medicated, but at the time there was no diagnosis to make.

It wasn’t considered a disease yet.

I was just an especially energetic kid, brimming with ideas that flowed too fast to keep track of, too fascinated by the world to slow down for even a moment.

Deep down I’m still that person, though I’m older now.

And it’s served me well…

SPATE

Forehead Play for Guys

They grew a nose on this guy’s forehead in China to replace his damaged one. I read about it on the internet so it must be true. They even had pictures.

Makes you wonder what other appendages they can grow on one’s forehead.

How about a penis? That would give literal meaning to the term “dickhead”.

Can you imagine talking to a female co-worker and all through the conversation she would be trying not to stare at the penis growing out of your forehead… leaving you completely free to focus on her breasts.

Workplace sensitivity training sabotaged by one dickhead.

SERENDIPITY

As I slowly regained consciousness, my senses returned and I became aware of blurred figures and bright lights surrounding me. I tried hard to focus, but the world I saw remained resolutely mushy and soft.

I heard a voice – “Did it work?”

“Yes”, I responded, “it worked perfectly”, then heard cheering and applause.

The first transplant of a human consciousness into a computer had been a complete success.

Except for my vision – it was still rotten – I tried to focus once more, and then it hit me…

“You could have at least thought to give me HD graphics!”, I complained.

ZACKMANN

My wife went on mini vacation with co-worker instead of me since my son did not want to skip school and required a chauffeur. Alex loved her little Ford so much she wanted to start a Focus group Facebook fanpage. Since my wife made me print out directions she thought she didn’t need to bring the Tomtom also she and friend both had smartphones with navigation apps. Smartphones don’t work constantly in mountains. Alex got lost so many times on the return trip that she could not focus. This was no doubt was a trip from which fond memories spring.

PETER (No recording sent)

“You are what you eat.” That is what my mother kept telling me when I was growing up. Now that I think about it, I’m starting to think that she was wrong.

I’ve been vegetarian for three years now, and my diet is mostly greens and more greens. I’m not complaining, as I really enjoy tending to my vegetable garden. It gets me outdoors more now then I had ever been before. Still, I just can’t stop thinking that she was wrong. That pool I am laying in just just so damn red.

Oh, I really should have focused less on my phone and more on what was around me while crossing the street.

SINGH

Bhim’s feet squelched into silt, but he managed to tie up the boat to a mangrove branch, while the shaman focused and leapt deftly to a dryer patch. Soon he was disappearing up the overgrown trail and Bhim quickly cleaned off his feet and followed. His mask kept riding up at the back and he had to pause to tighten the band across his forehead. Meanwhile the shaman was moving fast through terrain he seemed to know well. Eventually, some distance in, the path opened out to a wall of intertwined trees with a low entrance hole in the hedge growth.

The shaman bobbed and disappear within. With some trepidation Bhim followed shuffling on his knees and hands. The shaman’s wiry frame fitted better than Bhim’s broader body, and as he struggled, his mask strap caught on the overhang and was ripped off, dangling behind like a trophy. The space was too tight to reach back for it and Bhim was forced to crawl even lower to the dirt. It was then he smelled the rankness of the place, saw multiple pug marks beneath him. Strangely familiar, he realised the shaman had led him down the crawl hole of a tiger’s den.

The only way out was ahead and eventually his head emerged, unmasked. The shaman had disappeared. Getting up he was astonished to see ruins of a temple on the other side of the clearing. It too, was deeply entwined in tree roots and directly ahead was a stone head wedged in the tangle. The temple had a flat roof supported by thick stone pillars. This was history’s proof of an untouched antiquity still standing, that Bhim had only read about in books. He realised he must be one of the few ever to have seen it. Then, his gut tightened. The tiger emerged on the raised stone.

It stood comfortably like a rajah on the roof of his palace eyeing Bhim as his rightful next meal, and although he could have leapt on him from that distance, he stood his ground as Bhim, quite trapped also did. They considered each other. Bhim felt the same familiarity he had experienced riding the tiger god in his vision and somehow felt the beast also acknowledged this too. Bhim looked at the mottled markings, dark brown on orange. The tiger was like an old world chieftain wearing ceremonial tattoos from head to tail. This warrior bearing was worthy of singular respect.

This was the lair, the last bastion of the beast. Whether demonic or heroic the name Daksin Ray now resonated deeply in the young man’s mind that he heard as the voice of a woman singing. Was it an inner sound, or was it an outer one coming from the temple stones? It didn’t matter. He didn’t need to know more, merely to reverence it. The tiger continued to stand above eying him, he the young Shah Jungli, guardian brother of Bonobibi. Their triumvirate alliance ruled this demense. Now Bhim understood his newly growing role he had been slowly led towards.

He heard a sound behind him. It was the sham an. For a moment he felt warm relief as the old man stood against his shoulder, then slowly made his way to the temple. With tiger above, he threw down his mask before the god face in the root tangle, then turned. For the first time ever Bhim Das felt the shaman’s smiling acceptance. It was a benediction and Bhim folded his hands with grateful acceptance. Then the shaman stepped, knelt and exposed his back and nape. The tiger leapt down, grabbed and returned with the broken-necked offering in his jaws.

It is not good to witness the body of a fellow human dropped like broken doll, ready to be ripped apart from the rump. It was time to leave the tiger palace the shaman had brought him to at the cost of his own life. A gift demands a gift and feeling now the burden of a new responsibility Bhim backed away, turned and entered the crawl space one more. Going seemed easier then coming. Soon, he rescued the ghost mask from the overhang, exited the hedge and followed the narrow path back to the boat. The tiger roared in the distance.

CLIFF

Hello, children. Today, we’re going to talk about focus. Focus is what lets us concentrate on one thing. Sometimes, we get distracted and lose our focus. One way to keep our focus is a reward. For instance, I have a story to write so I promised myself a cookie when the story is done. A cookie is a good reward because I like cookies and I like the little bakery where I’ll buy it and I like the pretty blonde that works there. She flirts with me and I think she likes me and… and… Oh, the story can wait.

We sat in a circle and calmed our spirits. Our visualization guide, an earthy, nature loving man named Sienna, coached us as we did. “Empty your minds and focus all of your energy,” he said. The air around the circle was electric with tension. Our goal was realization, the mystical creation of a material object through sheer force of desire and willpower. We had come close several times, but something always broke our focus and stopped us. Suddenly, there was a blinding light and a container of deodorant appeared in the circle.
“Fine,” Sienna said. “I can take a hint.”

The commercials were blurry, but who really pays attention to them anyway. The previews were blurry, but I figured the idiot up in the projection booth didn’t much care and frankly, neither did I. All of the new movies coming out were either remakes of old TV shows, dumb sequels to dumber movies or had Nicholas Cage in them. I didn’t care about them anyway. But when the feature started and was a blurry mess, I shouted angrily to the nose picker upstairs “Focus, you moron!”
That’s when my wife handed me my glasses and told me to shut up.

DANNY

My friend Jamie recently stated on Facebook, “”I like to randomly ask people if they’ve ever heard the song ‘Hocus Pocus by Focus”…not because I like the song.. Or the band.. 100% only because I get a kick out of saying “Hocus Pocus by Focus!” Which gave me this idea, what if there was a contest that I invented within my sad yet demented mind where we all scream “FOCUS on Hocus Pocus by Focus, Bob Mocus!” as fast as possible 100 times in a row, and the winner gets nothing. Now, focus…who the hell is Bob Mocus, and who cares?

NORVAL JOE

Her hand shook as she thumbed the safety on her rifle.
“I’ve got to focus,” she hissed between gritted teeth.
Her eye to the scope, she turned the bezel bringing her target into clarity. Three-hundred meters away the senator held hands across a picnic table with a young woman, unaware crosshairs marked his temple.
“Well, Senator. Cheating on me with a college intern, I vote no,” his wife said squeezing the trigger. Nothing happened. Sticky white paper glued the trigger in place.
“I veto that vote,” Flypaper Boy said as he wrapped the woman in a large sheet of paper.

JUSTIN

The enemy is coming. I grip my weapon, poised to strike.

Relentlessly the enemy will attack, rising from the ground first here, then there. Their tactics seem random. Hesitate one moment and it is too late.

Years ago my father fought them. He survived to tell the tale and to teach me the ways of a warrior. How to hold the weapon and to strike without hesitation or mercy.

There it is, I hear them coming from below. I see one rise up. Mocking eyes and a tittering giggle. I swing my hammer with alacrity and whack my first mole.

PLANET Z

I’m not going to ride my bike ever again, and I can’t decide if I’m more sick of walking to the bus stop or the awful people on the bus itself.

So, I need a car. But I don’t want anything fancy or expensive, because it’s only 2 miles to get to work, and all the shopping I need to do is along the way and back.

I looked at a Ford Focus, which isn’t much more than a skateboard with a lawnmower engine and seat belts.

As long as it’s got air conditioning and air bags, I’ll take it.