Weekly Challenge – Page 68 – The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Weekly Challenge #374 – Faint

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 FAINT:

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

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

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

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

THOMAS

Fainting spells were the specialty of Dick The Magnificent. He would put one of his spells on a member of the audience, and they would be compelled to cluck like a chicken and mime laying an egg. The first time this was seen in our little country town caused many older women and gentlemen to swoon, as the volunteer from the audience laid a very large, golden brown egg and it rolled over to the edge of the stage, accompanied by her squawks and nervous clucks. A faint noise came from the brown egg, lending more drama to the scene.

The fad hit the high school a week before graduation. Kids were making themselves faint. Danny taught a bunch of kids in his trig class how to faint. To make yourself faint, first get into a frog position, and hold your breath for 15 seconds. After fifteen seconds, stand up, and put your thumb in your mouth. Keep holding your breath, and you should faint. Twelve kids did this simultaneously, out of sight of the teacher. They all went out at the same time, with their thumbs still stuck in their mouth. The teacher called the police and fire departments.

TOM

A Well Defined Relastionship Part III

Timmy readjusted his goggles and powdered up the railgun. Banister hummed an old miner’s song as the Clarks rolled through the clouds. “The sky in not for one who is faint of heart …” the song trained off as a group of floaters made for the stage. The floaters were name after that ancient A C Clark novelist. They could not hold their liquor which unfortunately was where they spent their entire adult life. As they whooped it up Tim caught the faint edge of red coming straight at him. “Oh cry for me as I depart,” finished the coachmen.

JEFFREY

Countdown
by Jeffrey Fischer

Space travel is not for the faint of heart. It starts with rigorous training, moves on to high G forces smashing the body, continues with the continual nausea of weightlessness, and culminates in months of boredom in space before the heart-stopping panic of the landing attempt.

Sarah, I know I’ve told you all this before. Mainly, I’m dictating this letter to calm my nerves as we undertake the final maneuvers to land on Triton. My work is done; others have responsibilities yet, but not me. I’d rather babble on, and think of you, than think of the improbability of a successful landing. As I say, not for the faint of heart.

Here comes the final countdown. I hope you don’t mind if I wish myself luck.

Lingering
by Jeffrey Fischer

Lisa wrinkled her nose. A faint odor of perfume lingered in the bedroom and on the pillow case, a floral aroma far different than her own brand. She felt the anger well up inside her. *Not again*, she thought.

Things had been tense ever since Pete lost his job. Lisa’s travel schedule didn’t help matters. She had tried to forgive Pete’s last transgression and put that incident behind her – behind *them*, for the sake of their marriage – but it was clear now that Pete had better things to do with his time than find work. Although Lisa was saddened at the thought of what would come next, she also found it liberating. Sometimes marriages, like perfume, linger a little too long.

MUNSI

She Loved the Attention

By Christopher Munroe

Whenever she got bored, she pretended narcolepsy.

When unpleasant, awkward lulls arose in conversation, or topics no longer interested her, she’d collapse, just to throw some energy into the party. She hoped this would encourage us to be more interesting.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Within weeks of learning of this bold new habit of hers, we’d developed a stock of intentionally uninteresting stories, by the end of the year we’d made ourselves the dullest social group imaginable.

Oh, we were still interesting when she wasn’t around. But whatever we might have to say, her faux-fainting was funnier…

RICHARD

#1 – A noise in the distance

George’s journey was pretty unsettling: The empty streets spoke of violence and danger, but were silent as to any cause. Every open doorway was a threat, every broken window held dread – he took to walking in the middle of the roadway, nervously glancing from side to side at the buildings he passed.

Suddenly a faint and unexpected sound broke the silence – an engine firing, followed by screeching tyres and a stuttering exhaust. The familiar noise revived George’s hope… he was no expert, but he was pretty sure that neither aliens, nor zombies were likely to be driving round in cars!

#2 – Salvage

There it was again – the faint, metallic tapping, carried distinctly through the hull… It meant survivors! Somewhere in the stricken ship, an air pocket had created a safe haven for those fortunate enough to find it. It would be a hell of a job locating them though.

The divemaster swam up beside me – the sounds rang out again: three short, three long, three short. He looked at me grimly, then shook his head before swimming away.

It would take too long to find the survivors, and time is money – far too much money – when you have a wreck to salvage.

#3 – Artistic Licence

The graceful, gentle faint that the movies like to portray is a myth – nobody in the real world faints gracefully.

In reality, they pass out and collapse, crashing to the floor, eyes rolled back and tongue lolling unattractively. Coming round is traumatic: confusion and mild panic reigns, as the victim gasps and claws the air to catch that first breath.

Yet, even the most true-to-life screenplays would have us believe otherwise – such is the sugar-coated world that artistic licence demands.

Don’t even get me started about being on the receiving end of a punch to the face!

#4 – Passengers

One day, a mild-mannered, perfectly respectable passenger on the train, or bus, or plane, will snap.

They will lunge at a another passenger, hands around their throat, crushing their windpipe, squeezing every last breath from the struggling body of their unfortunate victim. And then, our mild-mannered traveler will return quietly to reading their morning paper, as fellow travelers around them applaud.

One day, a mild-mannered passenger, driven to distraction by the percussive, mindless, intrusion of another passenger’s iPod on full volume, will murder the offender in cold blood.

And I could well be that mild-mannered passenger.

#5 – Almonds

The faint whiff of almonds filled the air, bringing with it images of marzipan and fruitcake – the memories of my dear grandmother.

Her fruitcake was always disgusting to my young mind, but I’d peel away the icing and marzipan enveloping it, gorging myself on the sweet and sickly treat until I felt quite ill.

Oddly, I found myself feeling rather sick, right now – my head was pounding and my lips tasted bitter. Desperately I tried to recall what they’d told us at base… something about almonds.

Ah yes, that was it – strychnine is characterised by the telltale aroma of almonds.

ZACKMANN

“Hear that faint buzzing when it stops that means it has landed. You grab the swatter, hold it up in the air bring it down towards the head of the creature but at the last second hit right behind it,”

“What are you doing with that boy?”

“Dear, I am teaching your son useful ways to use his hunting instinct and hopefully decreasing the pest population.”

“What did father teach you, Precious?”

“If I see a fly standing still, I feint hitting it in the head but hit hard behind so when the fly flies backwards it meets the swatter.”

SERENDIPITY

Through the pain, I could still hear them speaking – faint and distant, but perfectly clear.

The sound of a single tone filled the room, then silence, followed by more faint, but perfectly understandable voices.

“I’m afraid we’ve lost her… Are we all agreed? Yes? Time of death, twelve forty three.”

I felt tape being peeled from my skin and heard the clatter of steel against steel, then the cool rustle as the sheet was drawn across my face.

“No! I’m alive!”, I protested, “I’m not dead yet… not at all!”

It was no good – my voice was just too faint.

TURA

Grey fingers of dawn opened the sky. Dew lifted from grass into drifting mist. The body of a man, three crossbow bolts protruding from his armour.

More bodies, hundreds, scattered over the meadow.

One lay against a tree. He gasped and opened his eyes, grimacing as his hand tightened on his sword. A body lay across his leg, too heavy to shift.

“As long as I shall live…” he began. He drew breath again. “My hand shall defend thee.”

“As long as I shall live, our love shall live.”

“As long…”

Above the silent battlefield, the crows began to arrive.

SINGH

1. Dancing Face
“Jalan Sini. Come,” says the woman on the bridge path.
We divert off the busy mountain road.
Then I see she is selling batik sarongs and her friendliness is a marketing ruse, a feint.
“Where you come from?”
“Australia,” I say.
“Oooh!” She says with exaggerated interest, her eyebrows going up, eyeballs big as marbles. Her expression becomes a dancing mask. She moves from foot to foot, gesturing with her fingers.
But I walk on past the old man, her sales partner.
“Come,” I say to my wife. She shuffles forward onto the bridge and gazes down.
“Look. There,” she points.

2. Bridge
“What are they doing?” She asks with urgency like when something unusual is about to happen in a movie.
“How would I know, Darling.”
We stare down at the swirling confluence where the two rushing rivers meet. A family has gathered on the bank. They are muttering prayers and throwing frangipani flowers into the fast water. The man lifts half a coconut shell with two hands.
The offering of powdery dust flies into the face of the wind.
“Cremation ashes,” I say.
“Oh Lord!”
“Come on. We have a reservation,” I say.
Our restaurant overlooks the river.
“I’m not hungry,” she answers.

3. Holiness
She serves nightly in the hill forest restaurant. The camphor beams, floorboards and bamboo thatch need no walls above the gurgling river.
“It is a holy place,” she says touching her heart, wearing the white blouse, coloured sash and kebaya traditional for Balinese women. “Each night something blows against my neck. I turn. Nothing.”
really.
I look down to the river through mountain ferns.
“It’s a special place,” I say and then add, “But what is more holy is that you have worked here every night, not doing anything else these past twenty years.”
She closes her eyes, smiles and bows.

4. Art
After changing money, I walk back past an art gallery. There are portraits of topless Balinese sarong girls untouchable behind glass.
Back in the car, my wife says, “You were looking at them.”
“Yeah, it’s art,” I say and look to our guide. “When did the women stop going topless here?”
The 1930s. The Dutch missionaries stopped it, he narrates. Antonius Jody is a rare Catholic in this 90 per cent Hindu island.
His Grandmother still refused to wear anything on top. Said it was uncomfortable.
“There you are,” I say. “Completely natural.”
My wife looks at me with dry skepticism.

5. Signs
We are low on fuel, so Jody pulls into a Pertamina Service Station. Buying petrol cut with kerosene can be a problem, he reports.
We notice the owner has put up a reassuring sign tacked to the stem of a banana palm: My Petrol is More Pure than your Love
Later, rejoining the crazy snake of traffic there are more road-signs, courtesy of the Bali Police Traffic Education Unit.
It is Forbidden to Have Accidents Here, one proclaims.
500 metres on: The Hospitals are Full.
Then a final word another 500 metres on seals things: The Hospital is Still Full.

6.
The guide takes us to Tannan Lot Temple. Carved from volcanic rock it stretches into the sea. In the 15th Century the Javanese Raja sent a Hindu priest to walk the black coastlines and share his teachings. Here, he struck the outcrop and fresh water gushed forth. The fishermen carved a temple. Trees grew above the cave that smells of bat shit.
I try to pick out my wife walking with Jody amongst the thousands who’ve come to pray or play. I am glad to sit. A bird kite flies above the temple. Blustery surf still crashes against the black land.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

She flickers. “Nonononononononono.” My words blur like my typing fingers pulling up source code.

“I’m… tired, John.” She puts a hand to her head. “I’m…dizzy.”

Sweat beads on my forehead. “It’ll be okay, honey.”

There’s an edge to her fading voice. “You’re always working on the computer.”

“I have a good reason.” Keep typing. Keep debugging.

“Computer instead of me.” Her voice is half-static. “You… time with me.”

I look. Her eyes are 8-bit and translucent, and closing.

My wife, two years dead, derezzes again.

“I have a good reason.” I start typing through the tears.

“A good reason.”

UNCLE MONSTER CLIFF

I can barely hear her voice. I thought she was far away, but I realize now that there’s just so much material between us, it sounds like she’s distant. Thinking about how the building is…was laid out, I know she’s only yards from me. My body aches in places and is completely numb in others. The quake was big. It’ll be hours before anyone starts digging; hours that we don’t have. Finally, through the pain in my chest, I draw a breath and call back. I let her know I’m here. I let her know that she won’t die alone.

##########

Everyone made fun of Sarah because she fainted all the time. A paper cut draws blood? Bam! A scary movie monster jumps onto the screen? Sarah’s out cold. The doctor said there was nothing wrong with her. She just fainted a lot. So we were all stunned when we heard what happened. A serial rapist broke in as she was fixing dinner. She nearly killed him with a frying pan. The EMT said he’d probably live but he’d be disfigured for life. But when Sarah noticed that she’d torn a nail during the beating, she was out like a light.

LIZZIE

Summer started after a long, cold and rainy winter, so people were eager to enjoy the sun. All geared up with new swimsuits, they didn’t hesitate to march towards the beach. The sign did say “No Swimming”, but no one paid any attention, after all, sharks were extinct. Suddenly, a woman screamed, horrified. The beach-controller, a new model still being tested, pulverized all the swimmers, leaving a faint smell of blood in the air. The summer joy was quickly gone and the engineer responsible for this particular robot was pulverized as well, later and in private, at the company’s headquarters.

LOLA

Lola is baffled by the random events held at the hotel. The ballroom can be transformed into any theme to suit clients’ ever revolving tastes. Last week, there was a bachelor and a sweet sixteen party on the same day. This weekend, Lola will oversee a popular beauty pageant. The lobby is already filled with barbie look alikes of all shades and hair colors. They’re practicing their runway walks in their rooms, hallways and the bathrooms. Wherever there is a mirror, you can find them staring into self-doubt and wishful thinking.
Lola can’t imagine subjecting herself to this charade to win a crown. She would faint during the bathing suit competition and throw up on her gown. What exactly sets her apart from these hopeful contestants, parading in front of strangers for a high score and prize money? Lola doesn’t approve but she can’t play judge when she herself has made some questionable choices for a pay day.

ISHTAR

Ten more feet and I can give in. I can faint. Submit to the dark.

The alarm is blaring so loudly. I want to scream.

8 more feet, I can push that damn button. End it all. Give in.

“We should have listened. We gave up our liberties to stay safe.
Now look at us.”

5 more feet. Guards rushing down the hall.

Push the button, end the madness. Freedom reigns again they said.

3 more feet. Too much blood loss. Have to end this insanity.

Click. The guns cocked against my head. Do I push it.

Live or Die.

RODNEY

Story text: Somebody once told Josh not to stare at the sun. He couldn’t remember who. More important things were on his mind. Like the strange colors coruscating from it and scattering flakes into the pool-blue sky. They weren’t like the colors he’d seen before. He heard his classmates scrabbling over the blacktop, but even the swing’s squeaky taunt couldn’t break his concentration. The colors were changing. There were shapes. His friend…he forgot her name…she had a pet snake. They looked like that. Black snakes slithering off the sun. He blinked. What writhed behind his eyelids pitched him headlong to the pavement.

CALEDONIA

Faint

It’s a veggie-carb day on my menu cycle. It’s self imposed and pretty successful so far.

I want protein. I am craving protein. A hamburger, some barbeque pork, even some refried beans! Thoughts of fried chicken are mocking me.

“Nyah! Nyah! You can’t have me!”

“Bullshit! You just WAIT until tomorrow!”

Giggling triumphantly the chicken thoughts dance away, still teasing.

I refill my trusty water bottle. Take a deep breath. Oh God! Someone’s firing up a barbeque! Wafting scent of mesquite! I run around madly shutting windows.

“Get away from me!”

The room starts to spin around. Fade to black.

The Serial Faintress – a Series of Three 100 Word Stories

(with a small nod to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Peter Jackson)

***

Hearing the noise behind me, I turn quickly and gasp aloud. I am positively shocked at what I see.

Sherlock Holmes is standing smiling at me across my home office. Suddenly a gray mist swirls before my eyes, and when it clears he is bending over me, his flask in his hand.

“My dear lady, I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

“But why are you in Tacoma?”

Then it appears that I faint again for the second time in my life.

My head hits the floor with a dull thud.

***

I open my eyes again with a sharp intake of breath, and blink.

I see a much younger face than the one I saw before. Dark, swirling hair frames the most remarkable pair of intense, changeable hazel eyes I have ever beheld. I look puzzled.

Hello there! They call me “Ben” but my actual name is “Benedict.” Season 3 of my acclaimed Sherlock series is coming, and I am in the next Hobbit movie. It’s going to be excellent. You’re a fan?

The room starts to swirl around in a now familiar way. Everything gets dark, those eyes disappearing last.

***

Returning to consciousness, thinking how unreal this is, I shake my head to clear the haze.

Someone is still here. Good Lord, won’t they leave me alone?

This one has a brooding forehead, furrowed brows, but somehow he is compelling, breathtakingly handsome. His temple braids graze my cheeks.

“I am leading my kinsman to retake our homeland and reclaim the legacy of our fathers. We travel to Erebor. Have you seen Smaug the Terrible?”

I close my eyes, letting the fog roll back over me, and everything blinks out.

There’s just no point in getting up until they go away.

NORVAL JOE

Dergle peered into Widow Finklestien’s canary cage. His wiener dog, Long John Silver sat at his feet, but kept one ear turned toward the back door where the boarder collie whined.
“I’m sorry. Your canary didn’t faint. It’s dead,” Dergle said. “When did this happen?”
“Well. Let me think. Missy was barking in the backyard for her breakfast and my toast popped. That’s when I heard Bitsy hit the bottom of the cage.”
“So, she fainted three hours ago and you think she’s still alive?”
“No,” Widow Finklestien said poking her finger at the unmoving bird. “She fainted yesterday morning.”

JUSTIN

I should have left as soon as I arrived, but missing persons are the most important cases. Of course, ever since I had to flee from the Gilman house, it got personal.

Now I’m holding an alien weapon, under the ocean off the New England coast. I can hear the voices speaking unknowable polyglot incantations. I blast the weapon full power at the ceremonial gong. My ears start bleeding.

But I can think straight to fight the onrushing Deep Ones. And maybe I can even defeat them before I’m eviscerated in their temple, a sacrifice to their dark, ancient god.

Desperation
by L_zbracakes

Desperation permeated the wooden bar, overpowering the years of spilled drinks and cigarette smoke. Can the souls of inhabitants imprint on a building? Years uncounted celebrating their sorrows in pints and empty conversation; a jukebox playing wrinkled memories of firmer days?

She sought a face she hadn’t already seen up close, early morning pale and breath like…

For every new experience was another proof of life and the wolves…

at bay…

There was no mystery left.

She swooned, never dreaming such a word—a romance writer’s favorite—would apply to her, and left for the dark streets, leaving her drink unfinished.

PLANET Z

The perfect glass of ice water, just a hint of lemon.

Fred didn’t taste the lemon at all. He picked up the glass and drank it all down in two seconds.

After refilling the glass from the kitchen sink tap, he gently shook the glass to melt the remaining ice a little, and he drank it empty again.

Susan watched, and she wondered why she bothered slicing lemons and twisting them for Fred.

One day, she’d stop with the lemon.

Instead, she’d slice up limes. Or oranges. Or pears.

Or nothing at all.

Fred downed a third glass of water.

Weekly Challenge #373 – Drink

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 DRINK:

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

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

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

THOMAS

He was sober, but his behavior had not changed. He was dirty and sober, to coin a phrase. Dave continued to cheat widows out of their savings, and take advantage of women with low, self- esteem. He would pretend to listen to them when they answered his questions: “What do you do.” “What do you think of so-and-so.” He’d look into their eyes, touch their wrist lightly, and lean forward to sip his drink. He had mastered the skills of being a cad and a lothario. Dave was shot through the groin by a scorned woman of especially, low self-esteem.

The drink was new. Developed by a bright, young chemist at PepsiCo. Progengen combined several herbs and a generous portion of caffeine. The herbs, indigenous to Brazilian jungles, were used to enhance brain function. They also were close in chemical composition to free testosterone. Those that drank the new cola, were less sleepy and more aggressive. Gangs of Progengen drinkers found themselves clustering together at concerts, bars and soccer games. They would arrive early, leave late, and would be responsible for riots, fist-fights, and setting fires to cars in the parking lot. The FDA eventually pulled the drink from market.

It was a three dog night. So cold in fact, that Jennifer slept with four dogs that night. She allowed herself a couple of shots of brandy before wrapping herself in her wool blankets and pulling the dogs in close to keep her warm. Of course, Mr. B., the oldest dog snored, and this kept her awake for an hour before she drifted off. Jennifer could not move a finger during the night. Enclosed in the bundle of wool and dog flesh, she was immobilized. The heat generated by a couple of hundred pounds of dog was more than necessary.

Lenore was an odd duck. When she had company over for a fine dinner and drinks, she would exhibit a skeleton on a shelf in the middle of the dining room. The purpose of the skeleton was to remind her guests of the brevity of human life as she offered the first toast, “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.” Every one of her dinner parties were subject to the display, but the food was good and the food and drink were plentiful. Her guests adopted Lenore’s décor. More than half the dinner parties in Brentwood featured skeletons.

She was a tall drink of water. Samantha is blond, slender, blue-eyed, and young. Her makeup is done in such a way that her eyes are emphasized, but the make-up is so soft and subtle, it is not detectable by everyone. When I talked to her, her father was always nearby. He is a friend, and dreads the day Samantha starts dating. He fears what he might do if anyone causes harm to his first born. He is a big man, works in construction, loads trucks, and capable of removing a teenage boy’s head without the use of hand tools.

CHRIS

Daily life of an assassin

I have a decent on off job. I have time to drink all sorts of whisky, ale, beer, and cider. Or that’s how it used to be. I was sitting at the bar checking out the fine ladies when a man sat down next to me.

“You’re a wanted man. “He said simply, “I’m here to hire you”

“what’s the pay and who do you want dead?”I asked. He looked up putting on a fake smile, gave me a hug whispering in my ear, got up and walked away.

“Well I had better get going.”I grabbed my gear and left.

JEFF

A Life Of Toil

They say school time is the best part of our life. Well, I disagree. Waking up in the mornings was always like pulling teeth for me, especially if I had been burning the midnight oil trying to finish my homework.
I remember once I woke up late and had no time for my morning shower. So I drank a big glass of milk in one fell swoop, and it was as cold as the weather outside.
In a hurry I jumped on my bicycle, and within five minutes I felt that my shoulders were peculiarly light.
“Darn, I forgot it!”, I howled.

JEFFREY

To Drink the Ocean
by Jeffrey Fischer

The aviatrix crawled toward the meager shade the wrecked plane provided against the mid-day sun. If only I had some water! she thought, then smiled wryly. Water. She was surrounded by it, but none would slake her thirst.

In the two weeks since the engine failure and crash landing on the Pacific atoll, she and her companion had tried to conserve the potable water as long as possible. Now the water was gone, as was he, and the aviatrix no longer believed rescue would come in time.

Drink! her body commanded, and in time she could hold out no longer.

Alice in Wonderland
by Jeffrey Fischer

“Drink me!” read the sign. Alice considered, then obeyed. She shut her eyes as the amber liquid spread through her body. It burned.

She saw colors – oh, what indescribable colors! – swirling, blending together before separating again. She felt as though she was floating in air, weightless. She heard voices, first faintly, then louder and increasingly strident.

Alice opened her eyes. She lay on the floor, her barstool towering over her. A crowd had gathered, wondering what to do.

The bartender peered at Alice, a stern expression on his face. “Miss, I think you’ve had enough.”

RICHARD

#1 – Stiff drink

Once, he’d recovered sufficiently from his encounter with the lamp post, George took stock of his surroundings.

He was in a typical suburban street and had come to grief outside the doorway of a second-rate bar. Untypically, the door itself was lying in the street and shards of glass littered the pavement from the broken bar room windows.

He toyed with the idea of nipping inside – he could have murdered a stiff drink – but, commonsense prevailed and, painfully he dragged himself to his feet and nervously, walked – somewhat more carefully than before – briskly away from the scene of destruction.

#2 – Lost

Because of the drink I lost my home, and along with it, my family, friends, job and everything that I owned. Now, it’s the drink that keeps me going – my days lurch from pub, to bar, to off-licence, and my nights are spent huddled in cold shop doorways and on park benches.

So, in many ways drink is also my salvation of a kind, even though I know that it’s the drink I have to blame for losing everything.

At least, that’s what I assume… it could well be me that’s lost, and my home is somewhere around here!

#3 – Alice

‘Drink me’ said the label on the bottle.

Alice considered the oddly coloured liquid critically – it had been a very curious day: all these potions and cakes, with their intriguing labels; things just kept getting curiouser and curiouser. Still, that wasn’t going to stop her.

She grabbed the bottle, removed the stopper and drank the lot, before falling to the ground, clutching her stomach in agony.

The bottle’s label dropped to the floor where, as her last breath escaped her body, she read the words on the fluttering card: ‘Drink me’; and – too late – printed on the reverse: ‘And die!’

#4 – Going native

The drink had a peculiar, yet not unpleasant taste, and a potency of epic proportions. Swirling it around my mouth, savouring the flavour of the thick liquid, I swallowed, gasping from it’s fiery burn.

“It’s good”, I choked, smiling broadly at the toothless old woman, and held out my bowl for more.

“What’s it made from?”, I asked our guide, who simply nodded towards the woman who was preparing my second draught.

To my horror, she hawked up a huge wad of saliva into the concoction, and stirred it well, before passing me the bowl with a wide, gummy smile.

SERENDIPITY

Why do they make medicine taste so awful?

This stuff I’ve been prescribed is vile, and for all the good it’s doing me, I’d be better off with a couple of aspirin. If anything, I feel worse since being on the medication!

But it’s the taste that makes me feel sick after every dose. I’ve even tried mixing it with orange juice or honey, but it’s still foul.

In the end, I went back to see my doctor – I told him I couldn’t stomach the stuff anymore… he laughed at me.

“You’re supposed to rub it in, not drink it!”

MUNSI

Sunday Pub

By Christopher Munroe

…if you want a pleasant atmosphere in which to enjoy a drink or two (or eleven), you could do worse than a pub on a Sunday.

It’s industry night, you see, and as such it’s pretty much all waiters and bartenders celebrating the end of their weekend of work. A relaxed, understanding atmosphere in which to enjoy your evening.

The people working, I’m told, make incredible money themselves. Which makes sense, I suppose, nobody tips like other waiters.

Still, I could never work the industry night shift, however good the money might be.

I gotta get my own drink on…

LIZZIE

“What’s this?” asked the stranger from an obscure planet.

“A tap, it gives water, see?” replied the innkeeper.

“Or something else, when we are lucky,” added a customer.

“Something else? Like what?”

“When democracy was abolished, a group of subversives hacked the water system and added a powder that shuts down the brain temporarily. They still do it today.”

“That’s terrible…”

“It depends. With workdays that are 18 hours long, being knocked-out for a day or two means rest time.”

“We have robots to do our work,” said the stranger appalled.

“We did too. Oddly enough, they became the subversives.”

SINGH

The Boy with the Wild Boar’s Face Part 2

12
The collection theft turned out to be the saving grace of the Muzim Trust. With the insurance money they were able to renovate and modernise. Media attention aroused public sympathy and new audiences and patrons flocked to the well-funded productions which gained generous newspaper review space because a stream of celebrity actors could be employed here between their film shoots. Thus, the Muzim Theatre regained its prestige as a premier leader of the arts in the city. Ketut was happy. He helped out with front of house before each show, swept up afterwards glad Tuan’s life work would continue on.

13
Under the practical but tasteless Puan, Management tried to curate a new collection, restocking the displays in the vestibule to justify the name and image of the Muzim Theatre. The exhibits were no substitute for those rare exhibits that each had an authentic history behind them. Nevertheless, they installed the inferior collection with fanfare under the glare of media cameras. While all went off to a party, Ketut remained indignant. How could they dishonour the name and memory of Tuan, a national treasure, with all this junk he didn’t collect, all the while keeping his gilded portrait on the vestibule wall?

14
Installing the new collection was also timed with the opening of new production, the last work written by Tuan based on the story of Jayawarman the Ninth. It was part dance-drama and song cycle with background shadow puppetry telling the story of ritual suicide of a Javanese King, Queen and 1500 family members and retainers before colonial Dutch guns. Instead of fighting and sacrificing thousands, the noble king staged a dance drama full of tragic spectacle as his ultimate protest in the face of military invasion. After the first night sensation, the play was a sell out. Everyone was ecstatic.

15
But the following week of success and media attention Puan received another shock. Tuan’s priceless collection mysteriously re-appeared overnight replacing the new one. 
“Tut,” she called. He came running. “Have you seen this?” 
He shrugged.  She really didn’t know what to make of all this, but was suddenly fearful that last night’s new media attention the theatre might be exposed for fraud. Clearly Azlim was not to blame after all. She called her staff. 
“Look, we have to hide this all? But where?”

They thought hard for a moment. 
“There’s that hidden storeroom under the stage,” said her office manager.

16
As they tugged and manhandled the garments, hats and masks from the cabinets Ketut became agitated. “You are hurting Tuan’s things. You will damage them.” 
Worried about a scandal, Puan got angry. “Oh! We have to hide it all Tut. It will bring a bad name to my husband’s memory.

Backstage, they found the hidden door, but it was locked.  “Who has the key? Tut? Please open up.” 
Reluctantly he turned the lock and switched on the light. There was the new collection boxed neatly against one wall, his worn grass sleeping mat against the other and Tuan’s picture looking down.

17
It dawned on Puan what had happened through the innocent Ketut. What drama! She couldn’t be angry with him. He had saved their precious institution, after all. For now, they would have to reinstall the inferior collection. In time they could bribe the local police to uncover the ‘stolen’ one, fabricating a story of a raid on some art thief ring’s warehouse and even get media attention for it. So she deftly diverted Ketut muting him through admission into the actor’s ranks. His talent shined. Public popularity led him to the top very fast fulfilling his destiny as Tuan’s artistic successor.

18
Ketut developed into a great mask mime and led the Muzim Troupe to overseas festivals. Even Puan was moved to glimpse her own husband occasionally embodied in the new Tuan.
Back home, Ketut carried on as before. Never marrying he lived in the theatre sweeping up after hours. He also fixed the old trapdoor in the stage floor and would trigger it each night, plunging gleefully down onto foam. Then, he would put on his old boar mask, dust the precious exhibits while conversing with Tuan’s portrait on the wall.  “Ok, Tuan?” he would ask. “Did you like the show tonight?”

ZACKMANN

“My kid has been going on about how I shouldn’t drink so much bottled water. That it is bad for the environment. How tap water is quality checked more often than bottled water. He tells me about all the things he has seen on youtube and the conspiracy theories about soda pop companies convincing people that bottled was better so they would not lose costumes when they became diabetic and stopped drinking soda pop.

Sure I could claim I have fears of chlorine and fluoride but the truth is I like to drink bottled water because I hate washing dishes.”

CLIFF

When a policeman pulls you over, be polite. Have your license and registration handy, but not in your hand. After all, you weren’t doing anything wrong. When he asks if you know how fast you were going, act slightly embarrassed and simply say “No, sir.” When he says that you were doing one hundred forty, don’t pump your fist and yell “YES!” It’s bad form. Act contrite, apologetic, and sincere, even if you have to fake it. And, whatever you do, when he asks if you’ve been drinking, don’t pull out the bottle of scotch and offer him a drink.

HELEN

To Drink or Not to Drink is the Question
by helen r starr 06/15/2013

To Drink or Not to Drink is the Question

Life is in the balance how do you go?

Up or down, I don’t know

People say to you, “Do it this way”

My gut says, “No, let’s do it this way”

Who’s right or wrong, I cannot say?

Can I have a drink?

You play,

You sway, and say, “Oops, the next day”

Wait,

Did drinks just cloud the way?

Minds under pressure

Tears flow, where do I go

Sadness overcomes gladness

Boxed to drink

Depression

Despair

Who do I trust?

To all I say,

“Don’t drink, and walk away”

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part II

Banister removed his hip flask and passed it to the boy. Mother didn’t approve of The Drink and under normal circumstances he would let the green liquid pass him by, but here on Stormedge that just wasn’t the most intelligent option. Tim didn’t particularly like the way The Drink made his head feel. Some said The Drink heightened one reflexes. Timmy threw back a swig and coughed. Banister smiled and raised two fingers. The first of the fermentation clouds appeared on the left. The Drink was the only thing which would keep you sober as you flew through Nimbus Alcoholus

REDGODDESS

Drink by RedGoddess

Lola remembers a saying “a drink is a drink, is a drink, is a drink.”
Maybe its from one of her recovering alcoholic hotel guests. She can’t remember, but in some cases, it doesn’t make sense.
Every morning, her choice of drink is a home brewed cup of dark roasted coffee, with a dash of brown sugar. After work, coffee won’t cut it, even with Baileys.
So honestly, a drink is not a drink, it is not a drink because Lola needs to numb her frustrations, before she explodes like dynamite.
Two days ago, she witnessed her lover having a drink with another woman. He didn’t see her, but she can’t get this image out of her head. Him. Her. And a bottle of wine between them. Him smiling and laughing without her.

DEANYA

Drink –

She’d not seen the advertisement until she’d finished dinner, flipping absentmindedly through the magazine while she cooked and ate, pages of health tips and “Can this marriage be saved?”

He’d chided her for having wine with dinner; Baptists should only take alcohol if Jesus Himself had turned it from water. Then he’d take the prescription drugs that kept him calm, he’d said, during his emotionally charged acting lessons.

But there it was: his smile; bottle of Merlot in one hand, glass in the other; his acting lessons really paying off; the word in bold sans serif above his head: “Drink?”

JUSTIN

Those basement rats nibbed my toe! I’ll drink a health potion! Those scratches are gone, right away!

Yipes! Flesh wound from that kobold! I’ll drink a health potion!

Dang orc gashed my arm! Nothing a health potion won’t clear right up.

Bugbear broke my nose! Health potion tastes like blood, but works just the same.

Troll hit me over the head with a tree! Health potion and an advil.

Dragon just burnt me to a crisp! Two health potions.

Consume responsibly. Contains high levels of mana. Not suitable for pregnant adventurers or adventurers sensitive to mana. Consult cleric if nursing.

DANNY

Cookie and Bubbles met Sparkle as she got off from work from the “Ride ‘em Cowboy” strip club. It was only 2:30 am, the bars in NYC don’t close until 4, so the girls decided to head to the nearest bar to get a few drinks. Sparkle knew the bartender, Julio, so they all received free drinks. By 3 a.m., Cookie and Bubbles were completely wasted. Sparkle got into a fight with her so called bartending friend, giving him a swift roundhouse kick to the jaw, dislodging his false teeth, which fell to pieces on the floor. Bubbles threw up on the bar.

NORVAL JOE

“You’re mad,” the second mate shouted as he struggled in his bonds. A shipmate slugged him and blocked his mouth with a dirty rag.
“Harr, Mr. Turner. Ye’ve been found guilty of mutiny, and even amongst us pirates that be punishable by death,” the captain growled. “Take him, boys, and throw the scurvy dog into the drink.”
“Excuse me, Captain,” the first mate put in. “We’re space pirates and there is no drink out there, only the soul sucking void of space.”
“I’ll tell you,” the captain said. “You people are no fun. Then, just put him out the airlock.”

Dergle stood outside the bar, wanting to go in, sit down at their table and order a drink. He pulled his wiener dog hoodie over his balding head and pressed the wiener dog nose-mask onto his face.
He stepped through the door. The party at the center table went silent, but for only a moment. They all suddenly laughed at what must have been the funniest joke in the world. They laughed at him and he knew it.
They’d made it clear that the Justice Friends were “Just Us Friends”.
Like so often, they were in and he was out.

TURA

Robert Heinlein said that a fiction writer is competing for the reader’s beer money. I’ll drink to that! But why compete? Every microbrewery bottle carries a blurb about how it was “Brewed on the banks of the mighty St. Vrain” or whatever. You could print a proper story there instead, perhaps a hundred words long. Use easy-peel labels and offer collectible albums. Challenge people to collect a saga in instalments. On a bottle of Bailey’s, you would want only the very best stories, stories you can read and reread for as long as the bottle lasts.

The possibilities are endless!

PLANET Z

You’re supposed to drink eight glasses of water per day, but I have no idea how big the glasses are supposed to be.

“Glass-sized,” said my doctor. “Why do you have to be such an asshole?”

So, I made a glass with a counter on it, and after every glass of water, I add one to the counter.

When I get to eight, I can stop drinking.

My friend thought it was a cool idea, so I lent it to him.

Three days later, he ended up in the hospital, suffering from severe dehydration.

The dumbass never reset the counter.

Weekly Challenge #372 – Stage

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 STAGE:

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

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

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

THOMAS

The microscope’s stage held a sample of the material gathered from the bottom of the wine cask. The technician twisted the turret around to the highest magnification lens, adjusted the fine focus, and saw the squirming worm-like, life forms. The wine, a 2003 Shinn Estate Merlot was medium-bodied red, composed of eighty-eight percent Merlot, five percent Cabernet Sauvignon, three percent Cabernet Franc, two percent Malbec, one percent Petit Verdot and one percent mystery worm. The nose was enchanting, with faint plum aromas and vanilla, while the palate offered plum and berry flavors with smooth tannins and well-integrated oak providing structure.
#

She was on the stage at three years old. Her father and brother were also part of the act. They would go on to the stage dressed as a happy, nonchalant, little family. Her father and brother wore sport coats, and she wore a handsome, pink dress. They would dance a little, then they would turn around, drop their pants, and moon the audience. The man that booked the act was shocked and upset. Spittle formed in the corners of his mouth as he grabbed the collar of the father, screaming, “What do you call that outrageous act?” “The Aristocrats.”

He staged the demo in order to convince the woman that the vacuum cleaner was powerful enough to lift heavy steel nuts and bolts off the rug. He dumped a bucket of fasteners on her fancy, Turkish rug, plugged in the machine and started his demonstration. The first bolt was whisked into the hose. Klank! The bolt jammed itself into the works and destroyed the motor and the only sale he might have had since joining Chinese Vacuum, Limited. He should have known. The majority of the major components were made from beer cans exported to China from the U.S.

At this stage, young Grissom was determined. He carried his rifle and pistol, and several grenades on his web belt. Grissom told his wife that if anything happened to him, his love would be powerful enough that he would be able to materialize at any time, and he would leave a message with her. Stepping on a mine, Grissom was blown to a ragged mess, and all that remained were some shredded bones in his limbs. His guts lay in a pile next to him. He looked down at himself, deciding he would rather go than stay. He let go.

Still riding the stage coach between towns, Tom Mixx was the brave shotgun guard that accompanied the chests of valuables that were transported between Western Washington towns. Slower and more vulnerable than the armored cars operated by Brinks, required the coach to use back roads and be disguised as a church hayride. Bales of fresh straw covered the stage, and Mixx had a bulletproof niche in the corner of the coach. Three dummies, dressed as parishioners were seated inside. The coach was the brainchild of an eccentric owner, who loved the wild west and all the adventure inherent in it.

During the third stage of the journey, Tania neglected to switch on the waste liquid recycling module, so the crew did not have clean water. After three days of desperation, the crew began capturing liquid from other sources on the craft. They began with the hydroponic gardens, finding the water used as a nutrient solution was not recoverable due to the addition of all the chemicals. They began extracting from the plants, using a modified juicer and jerry-rigged press. The liquid extracted from the cucumbers, carrots, cactus, succulents, was sufficient, and lasted until the recycling apparatus was back on line.

JEFFREY

Intervention
by Jeffrey Fischer

The empty bottles stacked up in the recycling bin that Barry never seemed to remember to take to the curb. Bottles with liquor still in them lined the shelves of the pantry, with others conveniently located about the house for ease of access.

Outside the house, Barry was always the life of the party – for the first half-dozen drinks, that is. After that number, insults, lewd behavior, and broken glassware became more likely. Invitations became scarce, though Barry’s ability to accept also declined after he lost his driver’s license.

Even so, when his friends and relatives came to his door one morning to stage an intervention when Barry was still in a hung-over fog, he was surprised.

Career Opportunities
by Jeffrey Fischer

Theresa strode across the stage in her graduation robes, her cap cocked back at a jaunty angle and held in place with a dozen bobby pins. She accepted her diploma from the Dean with a handshake and a broad grin. She snuck a glance at her parents who were, if anything, smiling even more than Theresa, no doubt delighted to get their youngest child off the payroll and out of the house at last.

As she walked off the platform and started contemplating her future, Theresa began to wonder whether going $75,000 in debt for a major in Gender Studies was a wise decision.

RICHARD

#1 – Rule 2

Rule two: Always look where you’re going.

The lamp-post with which George collided suffered far less damage than he. Once the world stopped spinning, he eased himself into a sitting position. His shoulder, which had taken the brunt of the impact, would bruise beautifully – not a propitious start to his outdoor activities.

Ruefully, he realised that if he was ever going to survive, he needed to slow down, think things through and not run blindly into danger.

“Stage one, George”, he muttered, “get a grip on the basics, or you’ll never get to stage two… whatever that might be!”

#2 – As You Like It

If all the world’s a stage and we are merely players then, Mr Shakespeare, I have a few questions…

Just who is directing this show and how did we get our parts? I for one, wasn’t asked to audition… And, forgive me, but I’ve not been shown a script.

What about rehearsals – do we at least get time to practice our role, become familiar with our props, adjust our costumes to fit, and maybe make some changes to the plot?

Oh, and Mr Shakespeare, if every one of us are the players, then please explain, who precisely is our audience?

#3 – Deception… doubled

“All we need to do is stage your death – I’ll claim the life insurance, then when the fuss has died down, we’ll head off into the sunset. No-one will be any the wiser. Trust me, everything will work out perfectly.”

This was the reason I’d gone into the insurance business and finally, my plan was coming together. I’d pull all the right strings to ensure that Susan’s ‘death’ was dealt with speedily, and then I’d simply disappear with the cash.

As for Susan, I wasn’t worried that she’d find me – according to official records, I’d been dead for years!

MUNSI

Stage Acting for Dummies

By Christopher Munroe

In the theatre, the most important skill you must master is the ability to speak while well lit.

Also: Do what you’re told.

There’s more to it then that, obviously, a certain skill set is required and there are a lot of tips and tricks, but it boils down to, in essence, those two basic things.

Take direction, and take it well. And then, when the time comes, walk onto the stage, find your mark, where the light hits you properly, stand there, and speak.

Not a romantic notion of acting, I know, but it gets you through the show….

LIZZIE

It was long and deep, as any tragedy should be. After a drawn out silly-season, the media gathered for the opening, eager to witness the much awaited comeback of Pemberton’s work.

After two hours, of which one was an exasperating monologue, the journalist of a smallish publication stood up.

“Kill him already!”

Silence invaded the theater.

In a fit of rage, Pemberton hurried across the stage, coming from behind the curtain, and threw one of the props, a rather heavy one, at the journalist.

Unfortunately, having his masterpiece ruined was not the lowest moment of Pemberton’s day… or following years.

SERENDIPITY

The final stage is perhaps the most bizarre, as a shocking transformation takes place.

Facial features become distorted: eyes and nose become pronounced and may discolour; a rictus parodying a smile or grimace forms and hair becomes wild, or may become altogether absent.

The feet may swell massively and movement becomes uncoordinated and erratic. Falls are common, as is gratuitous violence.

These somewhat frightening – though occasionally amusing – creatures tend to gather in groups of their own kind, and are drawn towards children, bright lights, gaudy colours and large crowds.

Love them, or hate them, the circus must have its clowns.

CLIFF

There are five stages of writing
Denial. “They can’t be serious. A hundred word story? That has to be a typo.”
Anger. “They can’t limit me like that! I’m an artist! I must express myself fully and without restriction.”
Bargaining. “How about a thousand words and I’ll split it up into ten smaller stories?”
Depression. “It’s all meaningless. No one will ever read this. I might as well go write a haiku.”
Acceptance. “Alright. I’ll just focus on the most important aspect and write a one hundred word story on that. Now, how much do I get paid for this?”

TOM

The widow Parsons was waiting for the stage. Timothy hung close to mother the transvelt wind swirled dust over his spit shine shoes. They were bound for Evanstown to meet Doc Proctor who’d placed an inquiry for housekeeper/bookkeeper in the Stratmore Hearld. The coach pulled into the station Giff Banister tossed down body armor to young Timothy and released the air look to the stage. “Aim true and hold your breath as you shoot,” the widow reminded the son. “I will,” dutily said Tim as he triple pumped the railgun. Banister pulled the rains. The batlofts pressed into the wind.

ZACKMANN

Nice to see you back Nunzio, how was your wild west vacation?”

“Great, I robbed some stagecoaches.”

“Do you mean you reenacted stagecoach robberies as part of the vacation activities?”

“No Guido, I mean I was able to send two stagecoaches and a utility wagon through a dimensional gate before anyone noticed they were missing.”

“Did you send unattended animals through a dimensional gate?”

“No, they would have noticed missing horses right away and not every world that doesn’t use cars uses horses as their draft animal.”

“Nunzio where you going for your next vacation?”

“Somewhere with my cousin Guido”

STEVEN

Your lover twists silk around your wrists, pulls it taut. The soft,
unyielding resistance is numbing your hands.

“It’s a little-” you say before your lover presses a sweat-salted
finger against your lip.

“Stage one,” your lover says.

Your heart races, pumping love and trust and fear.

Then your ankles – not soft silk, but the cold clank of steel
handcuffs, metal edges biting your skin.

“I-” you say. Your lover’s silencing hand is a stinging slap.

“Stage two,” your lover says.

Your heart races, pumping love and fear.

“Stage three,” your lover whispers, drawing the knife.

Your heart races.

JUSTIN

All the world is stages,

And all the players merely gamers;

They have their powerups and their combo moves,

And one man in his time has extra lives,

His acts being seven ages. At first level,

With low hit points and few powers.

Then the apprentice, with his new abilities

And shining with temporary invulnerability, blinking momentarily

Unwillingly to long cutscenes. And then the equipment reset,

powerups removed, with a woeful ballad

shouted at the TV screen. Then a Game Shark,

Full of strange codes and skipping past bosses,

Jealous of high scores, sudden and quick in quarrel

during multiplayer.

DANNY

The past disappeared into the ether as the stagecoach raged forward across the barren Mojave desert landscape. “How soon before we reach San Francisco?” I anxiously inquired. “Well, at this stage of the game, I’d say we should at least get there with 2 to 3 days to spare,” the stagecoach driver replied. “We must hurry, my Stage debut at the Filmore is scheduled for June 18th!” I implored. “Well, wouldn’t it have been more efficient to rent a car instead of a horse draw stagecoach during this day and age if you were that concerned with time?” the stagecoach driver sneered.

CALEDONIA

She tripped over the lip of it and fell flat on its aged wooden surface with a painful thwack!

“What’s this? Who put this here?”

An ethereal voice came out of nowhere, “Welcome to a rarefied world where art and life collide. Welcome to the great forum of thought and emotion.” The voice raised in pitch, and intensity, “Welcome to the deep reality of emotions reflected with …”

She interrupted impatiently, “Yes, yes, get on with it. Where’s the ladies loo?”

“Backstage left, and down the stairs to your right. Push the handle twice, please, or it won’t flush properly.”

***

The veteran and the neophyte stand in the wings watching, and waiting.

“Do you ever get nervous?” the young one asks.

“Every time,” is the curt reply.

“Really?” the young one croaks, hand shaking as he raises his water bottle and slurps, hoping to not botch his very first line out on the boards. He twitches. “But all those people, all those eyes watching you!”

The veteran turns a slow, patience gaze on the young one. He very softly, very deliberately whispers, “If you hit your marks and stand in your light, you will not see them. Do not look.”

***

Bette reached for the shiny statuette. It was a local award, but it sparkled like a Tony. As she sputtered out her humble gratitude, the past entered her mind.

It was a sunny, hot bee-buzzing July afternoon. She hid high amidst the fanning branches of the old backyard swing tree. Mamma and Auntie on the back porch sipping huge, foggy tumblers of supposed lemonade.

“I wish I knew why Bette needs so much more attention than the other children. She’s always performing!” her Mamma cried.

Her Aunt’s patient reply, “Don’t worry, dear. It’s just the stage. She’ll get over it.”

RED

After years of failed campaigns, Emily, a conservative home grown teacher was ready for a 3rd chance in the political ring. Teaching is her calling but she’s compelled to work from inside the system. She’s been a good citizen, reaching out to local politicians and engaging her neighbors. She even started a petition at her school with the support of the PTA. Her frustrations led her to challenge the incumbent. She deters all decision about her image the campaign consultant who plans to stage a get out the vote rally in front of City Hall. The more she focuses on her political appeal, the clearer it becomes she has entered a popularity contest. Win or lose, the kids will pay the price.

NORVAL JOE

The secure channel to Command Base only crackled with static. They’d declared stage four retreat; a complete bug out, every man for himself.
Doorn Van Kirk ran the lunar scan algorithm again hoping to find at least one ship rising from the fourth moon of Spanspek. The flight back to the prime colony ship would be long and lonely by himself.
He initiated the hybrid plasma charge and waited for the moon to go pink. Any remaining colonists would die, but so would the damn Crabs. Human technology could not be left in the hands, or claws, of the Crabs.

TURA

There are so many self-help books now, you can’t compete just by writing a new load of nonsense. So I invented a way of generating unlimited amounts. First, choose a title of the form “N stages of X”. “Five Stages of Wealth.” “Eight Steps to Quitting Your Job.” “Ten Stages of Life.” (People are suckers for bulleted lists.) Google the number and throw together whatever comes up. Pentagram, Eightfold Way, Ten Sephirot, that sort of thing. Chop your subject into however many pieces, and hammer them into the mould. Then, profit!

I call the method “One Hundred Words of Huckstering.”

SINGH

The Boy with the Wild Boar’s Face (Part 1)
1.
When the famous Muzim Theatre closed nightly, Ketut swept the wooden stage and aisles, working his way to the vestibule collection. He unlocked each case and gently brushed the exhibits with a duster made from a cockerel’s tail feathers, remembering when the Master, his old Tuan had procured each on world journeys. There were historical costumes, hats, swords and stage ornaments and props from Asia to Europe and back. Touching the mask collection Ketut recalled his village in Bali. Years ago the Tuan had spotted him in the street wearing one with pig tusks miming a wild boar with compelling realism.

2
Ten year old Ketut was an orphan from a lineage of royal mask makers who had been taken in by his maternal uncle, a barber. The boy proved a financial burden for the pragmatic family, always off chasing street puppets and dance troupes.
Tuan’s two sons had shown no interest in theatre, but Tuan saw a glimmer of himself in the boy.
“If you take him with you, I will give you his father’s collection,” the uncle bargained pulling out a heavy chest. Tuan’s eyebrows raised. This was getting more interesting. “Alright show me these masks and then I will decide.”

3
Tuan gasped at gold foreheads and teeth, a red-lipped Barong with tusks, Garuda, Rangda, a moon goddess wearing snake hair, a beauty mask with a royal Batik headdress, the good Boma demon, another with a gecko crouching between the wooden eye sockets. There was a smiling Buddha with rotten teeth, a white faced topeng monkey mask made from hibiscus wood and more. These were some of the lost heirlooms of the last Jaywarman king who had long ago committed ritual suicide. The royal seal was imprinted inside each.
“Yes,” Tuan said, “I’ll take the boy.” And also gave money.

4
Thus, Ketut commenced traditional discipleship as Tuan’s attendant while doing chores like sweeping the old theatre, while Tuan began the training.

“Look!” he would say going to the wet market to buy durians and mangosteins. “See the man hopping about on the hot road like a crow? Remember that, Tut.” Or when the monsoon pounded the pandan leaves Tuan would say, “Listen to the roaring downpour followed by the last ping-ping of raindrops. You can use that at the end of a dance sequence.” Then Tuan demonstrated a jerky hand movement coming to a standstill. Ketut was aroused and captivated.

5
Tuan also told Ketut to look after the collection which was the pride of the Muzim Theatre. “Be diligent. Many of these costumes and jewelled ornaments were endowed to me by famous people like the Sultan of Brunei and the Count of Barcelona after I performed in their courts. Then there were great makers and artisans from France and Italy with whom I exchanged our kris blades, kebayas and turbans in return for their costumes, hats and weapons you see here. Look especially after the masks from your father. They are the most precious. They will be your best life teachers.”
6
Such favourite attention aroused jealousy among the actors and even the Master’s watchful wife. She still hoped one of her sons would return from the north to manage the family theatre. Puan was from a plain business family. Overseeing management matters suited her, replacing the tedium of art making. Frankly, she didn’t agree with, or understand her husband’s lofty ideas, but she did enjoy the status of being the wife of a great artist. When he formally adopted the Balinese boy, (who still wandered around with a boar mask playfully scaring the children) she did not accept him in her heart.

7
Ketut maintained the Muzim Collection and happily did all the menial chores. Then after two years during the southwest monsoon season, the Master died suddenly from dengue fever. It was a blow for the whole company and Ketut. After the mourning period Puan carried on, yet without Tuan the company began to dwindle. Ketut’s theatre education stopped, too, although he had formed the habit of mimicking everything and everyone around him, and although pure minded proud actors like Azlim, a rather messy rice eater felt offended seeing Tut sit down with younger children mimicking each person in the company including himself.

8
Obligated, Puan kept Tut on, but without Tuan to champion him, he was soon sidelined. Puan read the motives of her actors and rationalised she had to keep things on a tactful footing. The easiest course was to leave Tut on as a janitor boy without any stage prospects, despite the career path Tuan had in mind. Nevertheless, Ketut continued without complaint doing all the menial chores: sweeping the stage and aisles and dusting the collection at night when the doors were locked and all went to their homes. He imagined Tuan still speaking his lessons through each garment and artefact.

9
Put on those pantaloons from France, Tut and the Ming dynasty dragon coat. Take the sword from Toledo and leap onto the stage. Yes, that’s right dance now. The sky is falling. Let your blade flash and slice off your enemy’s head.

Ketut’s role-played his signature boar character being chased by a hunter all the way back up the other aisle. Then he put on a Commedia dell’Arte mask, hat and Harlequin suit skipping and tumbling clownishly across the stage.

Like this he paid homage to Tuan, and afterwards locked up everything up, going off to sleep under the stage.

10
One morning Muzim Trust headed by Puan was having a meeting. Sweeping outside the office, Ketut overheard a familiar angry voice.  “We should sell off the collection. Funds are low, I tell you.” It was Azlim, the lead actor. Secretly, he wanted the company to go bankrupt because a developer had promised him a generous commission if he secured the contract for real estate development of the land. Things were changing in the city. With the money Azlim was going to migrate to Australia.

What would Master say? Thought Ketut. 
“No! We must maintain Tuan’s legacy at all costs,” said Puan.

11
The next day Puan found the theatre unlocked and the Collection gone. She called the police. 
“Who has access, Madam? The officer asked.

Speaking in her high society voice said, “Azlim and Tut, our janitor boy.” 
Ketut was brought. Puan seeing enemies everywhere these days suspected Azlim. 
“He has been scheming with the other actors and demanding more pay since Tuan passed.” 
Later, they matched fingerprints on the door with Azlim’s, but lacking more direct evidence the case was shelved. Nevertheless, Azlim was forced to resign. In reprisal, he lured away several key actors and actresses to start their own collective.

PLANET Z

When Ted was in high school, he took an aptitude test to see what career he was best suited for.

The results came back “Hostage.”

Which was perfect for Ted, because he had very rich parents, and he was always being taken hostage and held for ransom.

In fact, the school guidance counselor took Ted hostage and threatened to say that Ted would be perfect for medical testing or janitorial work.

A SWAT team surrounded the school and tried to rescue Ted, but he was killed by a stray bullet.

The guidance counselor updated the test results to “Dead Hostage.”

Weekly Challenge #371 – Act

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 ACT:

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

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

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

THOMAS

If nothing else, she knew how to act. At 5’2”, she was a bundle of energy and talent. Little Dina, “Miss Dina” to her friends, could sing, dance and act. Her roles consisted of little girl and old lady parts. She retired after teaching at an exclusive girls school in the San Francisco Bay Area, and devoted time to her husband, and her beautiful garden. She still practiced the black arts…that is, she and her trio of black, Siamese mixes. Both she and the cats stalked and ate field mice and the hapless song bird that landed in the garden.

Tommy cheated on the ACT. He paid an older and smarter boy to take the test. His score jumped from eleven to thirty-five after hiring his doppelganger. The high score would assure his entrance into the college of choice. Tommy was going into the law. Although cheating on an important exam was a bad start for a lawyer, his desire to go into criminal law was an apt fit. Also, Tommy had no conscience, whatsoever. Never did. Never will. Perfect for corporate law, too. He went on to graduate and work with Monsanto, Dow and the El Chapo Guzman family.

Foss didn’t act appropriately at church, school, or when riding on public transportation. All other times, he was a perfect gentleman. No one could figure out the connection, but a clever man from Austin, Texas put two and two together and discovered that the seating at church, school, and on the bus had similar properties. Poor Foss had a serious allergy to Naugahyde. Naugahyde was made from the skins of the Nauga…an odd creature, native to Sumatra. Exposure to the off-gasing of the material affected Foss in such a way, that he would babble and recite Bible verses, trembling uncontrollably.

The large, block, letters painted on the big, back window act to warn the birds in the garden from flying into the glass. After witnessing a bird, taking its last breath, a speck of blood coming from its mouth, he was sick. He went to the garage, found and old can of white paint and a brush, and immediately painted the words “NO BIRDS” on his window. The warning has been there for two years, and no poor little birds have been hurt since. It is ugly, and the electric meter reader looked puzzled the first time she saw it.

Acts, chapter twenty, verse thirty reads: “Also of your own selves shall men arise, speaking perverse things, to draw away disciples after them.” This was on the poster for the fourth Friday poetry reading at the local coffee shop. It was a hook to recruit students for TJ’s writing workshop. It was subtle, but those that read the poster were curious enough to ask what the author of the poster meant, and he shrugged and said he thought it was catchy, and quoting Bible verse might entice some to join or pull in some of the atheists, wiccans, and agnostics.

JEFFREY

Act of God
by Jeffrey Fischer

The insurance company said the flood was an “act of God.” They pointed to tiny print in my contract and wouldn’t pay a dime. Act of God? More like poor maintenance by the water company, letting a water main break. What’s insurance for, anyway?

Well, we’ll see what those suits think of an “act of God” when they arrive at their burned-out shell of an office tomorrow. God starts fires, right?

If they still don’t pay, God and I know where each of those suits lives.

The Heist
by Jeffrey Fischer

“Act naturally,” Jose told me. We lounged against the brick wall of the Main Street Savings and Loan, trying to look like two guys having a conversation, rather than two guys on the lookout for any cops who might wander into the bank at the wrong time.

Everything was cool until the alarm sounded. Buzz and Rodrigo ran out, masks still on, a bag of cash in each hand. Two security guards followed, guns drawn.

Even then we might have escaped, melting into the crowd. Then Buzz slapped a bag into my hand and said, “Nice work, Slim! Here’s your share” before jumping into a waiting car.

Acting naturally doesn’t help when your accomplice is an idiot.

RICHARD

#1 – Dilemma

How should I act?

Always that same question… Should I be bold and brash, or cool and confident; should I project assertiveness or show off my sensitive side? Inevitably, I knew I’d get it wrong and, as always, it would end in complete disappointment.

Whether it was an interview, a first date or that all-important business meeting, you could always guarantee I’d blow it.

People would try and be helpful, but always the advice was the same: ‘Just be yourself’.

The thing is, it’s never quite as simple as ‘just being yourself’, when you suffer from having multiple personalities.

#2 – Acts of heroism

I’ve no time for Superman and his heroic services to justice – he’s not my idea of a hero.

I’d like to see him take on the forces of evil without his superpowers – because when you have the strength to move mountains, laser vision, lightning speed and can fly it’s no big deal; I’d probably be doing the same in his position.

What I’d like to see is Clark Kent have a go, without the cape and bulletproof skin – let’s see him protect the citizens of Metropolis, with only his glasses and briefcase to protect him.

Now that, would be heroic!

#3 – Act 2

My agent glared at me.

I’d promised him a completed draft and now, with only five minutes before meeting the producers, all he had was the first act, which was a shame, because most of the action and my cunning twist in the plot all happened in the second act.

I’d spent weeks working on that second act, poured all my creative skills into writing it, but all I had now was a pedestrian first act that lacked any real merit.

It was there when I caught the bus this morning, but somewhere on the journey….

I’d lost the plot.

#4 – Acting on instinct

Although the situation was completely novel to him, George’s instincts kicked in – almost without thinking he knew exactly how to act:

‘Rule 1’, he thought: ‘Find cover and get to know your environment.’

It was a good start, but it had been a while since he’d needed to rely quite so heavily on instinct, so for now, Rule 2 would just have to wait.

Running in a semi-crouch he’d picked up from the movies, he skirted a wall and, keeping a careful watch rearwards as he ran, failed to see the trouble straight ahead he was about to run into!

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

“C’mon,” the bear says,

gestures with a paw, a grin

“let’s catch some fish.”

The tiger follows the bumbling oaf

– her bumbling oaf –

her deliberate pawsteps behind

the crash and crunch of him

plowing through the bush.

She pretends to learn to fish.

In their cave feasting,

warm fish flesh sliding

gills tickling tastebuds,

the bear idly says he knew the spot

– he learned it –

from a friend,

a she-bear he knows.

His words crash and crunch.

As he lay asleep snoring bear snores, paw across her fur

she plots and plans how best to kill a bear.

MUNSI

Dinner Theater’s More Dangerous than You’d Think

By Christopher Munroe

During act two she had a heart attack.

She collapsed, friends rushing to the lobby to summon an ambulance, paramedics, the whole process.

And nobody told the actors. With stage lights to blind them, none of them had any inkling what was going on amongst the crowd.

So they continued the show.

Though they did realize, at some point, that they’d lost them. The laughter, so freely flowing during act one, had stopped, and they were baffled as to why.

They thought it was somehow their fault.

And I had to explain that it wasn’t them who’d died up there….

TOM

Brush Up your Shakespeare

Ren fairs are more invasive then yeast cultures. But the grand daddy of them all is the Northern California Fair. A few summers ago I volunteered to play in a DIY Shakespeare show. It was a cross between Six Characters in Search of an Author and Dueling Brandos. Random lines deliver from one of the bard’s work would get totally disjunctive replies from another work. My line was: Inconstant Moon, but that’s not what I yelled out. O, swear not by the moon, the incontinent moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable

LIZZIE

He hated publicity. Oh, no. No one was going to control him. He only did what he liked and not what they wanted. The problem started when he fell in love. He was not the master of his own life anymore; everything depended on her. He would go to the cafeteria just to see her and he waited for her at the supermarket to help with the heavy shopping bags. This lasted months until he saw an outdoor publicity that said “Act!” And that’s what he did; he simply kissed her! “I didn’t succumb to publicity after all,” he thought.

SERENDIPITY

He doubted that many loathed children quite so fervently – he hated everything about them, from their shrill screams and puerile giggling, to their sticky fingers and snotty noses.

Grimly he wondered how anyone could like the little buggers, yet he knew from experience that parents doted on them and could see no wrong in their ‘delightful’ progeny.

As he trudged through the wet grass, the clamour of young voices reached his ears, and he shuddered.

Grimacing, he straightened his bow-tie, pulled aside the canvas doorway and fell into the ring.

The children cheered, as the clown began his act.

SINGH

“Don’t over act, Meiling. Just go with the moment,” he cajoled.
The shoot was in a luxurious condominium pool next to the jungle.
Floating naked on the blow-up bed she was trying to cover up with a banana leaf. Johnny the male lead eyed her lustfully.
“Aiyoh, Director, first you say you use my dummy for this part. Now you change.
“Sorry. No budget, sweetheart.”
“This is very difficult.”
“Look, you want the job?”
“Yes, but,”
“Take it or leave it.
“But what if…”
“Relax. Believe me, this will kickstart your career.”
“Oh no…”
“Ok, open the crocodile cage, now!”

CLIFF

Acting is in the blood or so the saying goes. There are snobs who say that only Shakespearean theatre is true acting. Others say that you must do the Greek tragedies. On the other hand, those who do beer commercials are technically actors. Most people accept that, if you stand in front of a camera or on a stage and you say words that someone else wrote, then you are an actor. Some of us have more stringent standards. Acting is in the blood but actors are an acquired taste. A wise vampire is selective about the actors he chooses.

ISHTAR

I wanted to write a hundred word story about acting out.

Act out and be who you really are. Express yourself with all your potential.

But I wasn’t sure how it would work. Don’t we all do that every day.

Sure acting out can be fun, interesting or challenging. I want to act out more daily to keep sane while looking for work.

But today I decided, why not have fun doing it. Dress up like a super hero. Dress up in steam punk. Heck even run with scissors.

Act up I say. Act like a dinosaur running with scissors.

REDGODDESS

A warm soapy shower can wash away Lola’s daily aches. This morning though, she has too much on her mind to linger under the water. She stepped out and glanced at the foggy mirror. She can see her curves, the silhouette of her habits. Thirty more pounds before she becomes the mere image of her estranged mother. The stress has stretched to her belly and hips. Even though she grew up a world away from her, when cornered, she acts just like her mother. Her worse fear is now a reality, becoming the woman who abandoned her. Her body too, is steering toward a bigger betrayal, forcing her to face her past.

NORVAL JOE

A girl in a bright yellow, sundress held her soldier’s arm and smiled up at him, tears in her eyes.
Senator Porkpocket wrapped an arm around the soldier, eyed the television camera’s with a broad smile, and made a thumbs up with his other hand.
“Our state stands behind our young men serving abroad, and we stand behind those who return to us so bravely.”
The Soldier, the boy, shifted his crutch to maintain his balance on his new prosthetic leg. He stood tall, brave and stoic, his eyes fierce.
In their own way, each knew it was an act.

JUSTIN

My father went to work one day, but he never returned. Soon mother had sold everything, and debts were due, so the collector man came and took my brothers and sisters away to pay for the debts.

He didn’t take me because I was too small.

I’ll show him, I’ll show everyone! I’m going to rescue my brothers and sisters.

Weather they be on land, sea or air, I will find them, and I will bring them home to mother.

And, maybe, I will find father while I am out there.

Then we can all be a family again. Together.

DANNY

The level of violence is off the scale. “What do you think?” NANCY GRACE asked. “What, right now?” I responded. “No, tomorrow night!” the bitch replied. “What a relief! I hate thinking under pressure, which leads me to realize we are actually doing our children a favor sending them to a cold concrete box called school, pretending they can learn in such a cold cinderblock environment. We are not teaching them how to think nor act, how to stand on their own two feet, we are just teaching them how to behave within an unreasonably structured society.” Then the FBI stormed in.

TURA

When a new emperor is installed, he proclaims his First Act, which is customarily to execute the previous emperor’s advisors for disloyalty. Some also execute the senior secretaries and generals.

When Kang-sheng ascended the Peacock Throne, he proclaimed his First Act against the country itself, for having changed its allegiance to every new emperor down the centuries.

General Wei declared, “Let us truly grasp the significance of this Emperor’s superlative First Act!” That night, the Emperor’s guards imprisoned him, while a new Emperor was installed, whose First Act was only to execute Kang-sheng. Thereafter, the First Act fell into disuse.

ZACKMANN

“Isn’t your friend Paul in the theater?”

“What’s that sonny?”

“Is Paul in Acts?”

“Of Course Paul is in the book of Acts.”

“I wish you would stop acting like you are hard of hearing.”

“Well, I wish you would stop actsing me stupid questions, why does someone your age want to spend time in an old people’s home anyway? Why are you hanging out with your juvenile delinquent friends?”

“Because I didn’t want to serve my community service with anyone who smells like Ax body spray.”

“Too bad, you could have severed it as stagehand for my friend Paul.”

PLANET Z

“The time for debate is over,” said the president. “It is time to act.”

He then left the podium, went back to his dressing room, and put on his costume.

In the meantime, the press secretary handed out programs.

After a few minutes, he flicked the lights to let the press corps know it was time to take their seats.

Three hours later, the curtain came down.

Some applauded.
Some didn’t.

There was much debate about the performance among the press.

Until one reporter stood up and said:

“The time for debate is over…”

They ran to their dressing rooms.

Weekly Challenge #370 – Play

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 PLAY:

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

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

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

THOMAS

He didn’t learn how to play until he was forty – not an instrument, but the recreational activity usually engaged in by young children that is meant to entertain. His father was a chemist and his mother was a physicist, so little Moritz had no guidance or demonstration as how to play. Moritz’ time was spent reading and experimenting with various apparatus his parents gave him. He recorded all his experiments. He burned the house and parents to the ground, and wrote down everything he heard and saw in his log. Today, he plays table tennis in the psyche institution.

Arum played the Sousaphone; loud. She did hours of lip slurs every day to strengthen her embouchure. Arun did some other things, too, but you will have to use your imagination. The result was the invitation to play first position in the local Tanjidor group. After rehearsal last night, Arum thought her instrument needed its water emptied. She lifted it up, so the bell faced the sky and pressed the valves repeatedly, failing to pull out the valve slide and empty it. The water rushed into the mouthpiece, the spit valve jammed shut, and she succumbed to a hideous drowning.

The one act play was a little piece that was meant to make a political statement, as the school was in San Francisco and it was 1961. I recall it had one actor, and it took place in the men’s room of a gas station. The character entered the station’s bathroom, did his business behind a closed lavatory door, washed his hands, then went to the paper towel dispenser. A big sign over the towels read: “Rip up and Tear Down”. The actor tore savagely at the towel dispenser, destroying it, tearing it off the tiled wall. The lights dimmed.

[Credit to Prairie Home Companion, of March, 2000.]

Jimmy loved word play. He was half-heartedly applying for a job with a conservative, financial firm, writing: Dear Sir or Sodom or Whom It May Constrict: I understand you are hiring anal lists, and hereby present my amplification for annoyment by your firm. I have listed my accomplishments in ascending order, along with a sample of addition and long division. As you see, I have long expedience in grammar and was medicated in the best schools and my dream is to grow fat with your company. Enclosed, my most recent consomme. Please feel free, as I remain your humble serpent.

RICHARD

#1 – Win at all costs

“It’s just a game to you!”, she hissed…

“You play with my emotions, lead me on, lie to me, cheat and mess with my head. I’m sick of it and I’m telling you, buster, I’m not going to be your doormat – so go ahead and do your worst, because I’m in this thing to the very end.”

I’d seen her like this before and I knew there was simply no reasoning with her; still, I had to try:

“Look honey, you know the rules… we’ve gotta stick to them”

I guess we do take Monopoly pretty seriously in this household.

#2 – Shakespeare

I’m not a huge fan of Shakespeare’s plots, or the historical context of his writing – not that there’s anything wrong with them, but rather, I appreciate the way he uses words far more than I do the twists and turns of fate that he manages to contrive, and the fortunes of his characters.

I’m intrigued and fascinated by his use of language, by the tongue in cheek manner he manipulates words to mock and entertain.

When I go to see Shakespeare, I don’t go to watch actors performing on a stage, no – I go to see a play… on words.

#3 -The Pianist

“When you play, he said, you must become one with your instrument. The strings should vibrate in tune with your soul and the keys must respond, not only to your fingers, but to your very emotions. Understand that the piano is not the instrument – it is you from which the music flows.

Then and only then, can you truly play.”

Enraptured by his music, I could only gaze in helpless, horrified fascination as there before me he sacrificed his very being at that ivory and ebony altar, until finally, with one fatal, final chord, he breathed his last and died.

#4 – The light of day

Blinking in the sunlight, George breathed deeply, savouring the freshness of the open air.

He was unsure what he should do – having made the decision to strike out, he now realised how woefully ill-equipped he was for the task ahead. He felt the embarrassment of being completely out of his depth and unsure, something he’d not experienced since a child. In his minds eye, he saw himself as a young boy: invited to play with the big boys, but ignorant of the rules or his role in the game.

OK – he’d just have to make up his own rules.

JEFFREY

The Ride
by Jeffrey Fischer

“Oh, just play outside by yourself, Bobby. Mommy has a headache.” Six-year-old Bobby knew that meant the “my grains” had come on and any noise would make his mother cross, so he stood in the front yard practicing with his yo-yo. He didn’t hear the car roll up to the curb.

“Hey, you’re Bobby, right?” called a man from the car. Bobby nodded. “Neat yo-yo, Bobby. I’ve got the neatest yo-yo you’ve ever seen. Hop in and I’ll show you.”

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“But I’m not a stranger – I even knew your name, so it must be okay.”

Bobby cast an apprehensive look back at his front door, where his mother slept the last good sleep of her life, and opened the passenger door.

This is Your Life
by Jeffrey Fischer

The invitation was hand-written and slipped under the apartment door. “Come to the premiere of a new play, ‘This is Your Life.’ This card is your VIP ticket.” A date, time, and place were below.

Louise threw away the card, but, intrigued, pulled it from the trash can. No doubt this would be amateur hour, but she had nothing to do that evening and decided to attend.

As she entered the theater, her eyes adjusted to the dark. She was alone. Frightened, she turned to leave, but heard the doors lock behind her. The stage lights came on, the curtains opened, and a shrouded figure said, “Louise, this is your life. Tonight is the last scene of the last act.”

Wrong Note
by Jeffrey Fischer

The sax man played a note-perfect solo before the rest of the band rejoined him in the chorus. Kevin enjoyed the musicianship for a moment before turning to the problem at hand: getting the girl next to him at the bar to go home with him.

He met her earlier in the evening, and they hit it off. Two drinks later, he thought he could close the deal. “The band is great,” he told her, “but we could make some music of our own back at my place.”

She rolled her eyes. “I had rather hoped you weren’t just a player, but were looking for something a little more meaningful. Well, live and learn.” She stood to leave.

Play’s the Thing
by Jeffrey Fischer

The last play of the game. Five seconds on the clock, down by six, forty yards to go. Coach had called Marvin’s number, a deep route to the end zone with the ball ending up in the wide receiver’s arms. That would be Marvin’s arms.

He lined up on the outside and got a good jump as the ball was snapped. He faked left but stepped right, then was a flash of lightning down the field. The ball spiraled into Marvin’s outstretched fingertips…

“Marvin, stop daydreaming and get off that couch. The garbage isn’t going to take itself out.”

MARDRA

Daddy’s Game

“Can’t you keep that kid quiet?” he yelled through the apartment’s paper-thin wall. “All she wants to do is play, play, play!”

“Why can’t daddy play with me?”

“Oh Sarah, daddy’s busy.”

“Why?” The three syllable wail cut through his concentration, making him crazy.

“Please…I’m trying to concentrate.”

“He just needs to get through the library, then he’ll feel better,” she explained. “Come with mommy, we’ll go outside and wait for daddy.”

“Just because mommy got through the library first does not make her the Halo queen!” he yelled, feeling her lingering smug smirk as she closed the front door.

CLIFF

I stood in the wings and went over my line again.
“Who?”
That was it. Just one word. The main character runs up and asks if Nicholas Nicklemeyer lives near here and I simply say “Who?” while looking confused. It shouldn’t be hard. I’d volunteered to help build the set, not act. When Jeff got sick, I was handed the bit part. I only had time to read this one scene.

That’s how I ended up standing there, waiting for my cue. Before I knew it, it was time. I stepped onstage, listened to the question, and loudly asked “What?”

TURA

Play
——–
Peter Jackson is squeezing six hours of film out of The Hobbit, but for me, nothing can beat the 45 minute stage play of Lord of the Rings (Without the Boring Bits). Who could forget John Cleese’s arresting preformance as Gandalf? (“Don’t mention the ring! I did once, but I think I got away with it.”) And Terry Scott was born to play Frodo! Ant and Dec were Pippin and Merry, and Sam Gamgee was none other than Martin Freeman, Sancho Panza to Terry Scott’s Quixote, and currently starring in Jackson’s attempt to wring a flood from a damp cloth.

MUNSI

Play

(among others)

By Christopher Munroe

I’m white, male, and from the ‘90s.

As such, in high school I owned one album each by Moby, Weezer and The Offspring.

You know the ones.

They were ubiquitous pieces of music at the time. Everyone owned and loved them, they were inescapable.

For women my age it was the first Jewel album and Alanis Morrisette. Every girl I dated in university had them both.

I’m at best lukewarm on the artists nowadays, but I’ll admit, I still smile when I hear those particular records.

They’re the soundtrack of my youth.

And I need that reminder now and again…

LIZZIE

If he played his cards right, he’d be granted a fortune. That’s what hopeless bachelor Ben thought, after his grandmother fell ill. That last Sunday at the hospital, she raised herself slightly from the pillow and told Ben “Grateful to Nurse Mary. Money goes to her.” She winked and died. Ben was appalled. He visited his grandmother faithfully every day for years, twice a day at the hospital! But, being a pragmatic man, he invited Nurse Mary for dinner. They got married and were very happy. It was only many years later that Ben understood the meaning of that wink!

TOM

The Gap

I played the tape over and over. I couldn’t believe what the old man had said. I was only 19 and it was clear to me this was not a good thing to have lying around. The worst part was it kept popping up over a 19 min chuck of tape. No way to edit it out. So I copied it to a second reel to reel and cut the volume for 16.5 minutes. Later I learned Rosemary had fallen on her sword over the gap no doubt at the prompting of Colson. A simple relabeling buried the evidence in plan sight

SERENDIPITY

Does God play dice?

He most certainly does – anything to get away from those tedious choirs of angels.

He used to play World of Warcraft but fantasy isn’t really God’s forte, he’s more a reality sort of guy, so he switched to Second Life, before leaving in a huff when he found that ordinary avatars weren’t allowed god powers.

He gave poker a try, but ‘having the boys round for a game of cards’ meant inviting Old Nick too, and things tended to get a bit heated!

So, dice it is…

Anything to get away from those awful celestial choirs!

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The lights dim, the crowd silences.

He strides out from the wings – his shadow overlarge, distorted in the few paces before the blue spear of the spotlight catches him. Surely it is just a trick, an illusion.

“You have come for a show!” His mouth smiles, wet and wide, not reaching his eyes. He gestures toward the curtain.

The red cloth pulls back as the shapes behind it lurch and gibber and thrust their way forward through the crowd’s screaming flesh.

“So have they,” he says through his too-wide smile. “Because all the world’s a stage.”

“And all-you-can-eat buffet.”

ZACKMANN

I thought I heard about an app that could save me money on live theater productions but I can’t remember the new name for Android Market. My kid is upstairs practicing drums and guitar. What a racket. I wonder if he is using both instruments at the same time. His mom just pressed that button with the sideways triangle on the DVD player. His brother is on the picnic table in the park near the place where the slides and swings are. He is likely in the middle of a game of Munchkin. Just what is Android Market’s current name?

SEVI AND BONCHANCE

Oklahoma

Mollie had her ritual. At lunch, she sat on her front porch,
sipping steaming, milky and just slightly sweet tea.
She watched the energetic children play in the school yard yonder.

Mollie’s own were all grown, living several states away raising their families.

She was away when it hit, it seemed so surreal.

She saw the aftermath on the news. She barely recognized her beloved home and playground.

No point returning there if all was demolished.

Her memories would serve her well, of sunny days,
on her porch sipping tea, hearing the musical sounds and laughter of children at play.

The Play

Sitting in a darkly lit room. I am entranced in the play.

Blending into the background, fading to black, no longer glancing at newcomers, waiting for the name call.

Then they arrive.

One vibrant and stealthy strong, pushes a wheelchair of another, just the opposite.

The vibrant man checks in, does the talking and endorses paperwork.

Looking at the others, at first watch then turn their heads.
I watched him maneuver so they could sit side by side.

I once read of the Sacred Band of Thebes. Where lovers showed bravery in the face of death.

This was bravery facing life.

REDGODDESS

All work and no play has taken a toll on Lola’s life. Her eyes are tired and sad. There was a time she assumed fun was overrated, but now…she’s throwing caution to the wind. She invited her lover to her new place for a surprise indoor picnic, filled with mystery games, and tantalizing exotic foods. First, she blindfolds him the moment he walks through the door. They hug for what seems like hours before she leads him on the bed for a sensual massage. She has no plans to take it beyond touch, good food and conversation tonight. His smell fulfills her in ways beyond any sexual satisfaction. By the third glass of wine, they were half naked and sharing secrets. Suddenly he became serious, “truth or dare?” he asks. Truth, she whispers playfully. Why are you afraid to be mine?

NORVAL JOE

“Are you ready to play?” Kirk asked and threw his heavy sack onto the sand.
“Is that what this is to you? A game?” Conner asked, bouncing his own leather sack in his hand as if comparing its weight to Kirk’s.
“Ok. Call it war, then,” Kirk said, drawing a line in the sand with his heel. “Are you going to fight or just talk about it?”
Anger rose on Conner’s freckled cheeks and he narrowed his eyes at his opponant.
“Fine. School rules, no cat eyes, and playing for keeps,” Conner said and tipped his marbles on the sand.

DANNY

Every rational definition dictates I am supposed to be nothing more than a stereotype, but I am not. I’m way to busy living, creating, writing. My life, if nothing more than a mad dash, throwing every thought on paper, creating every digital design I can create, photographing every profound thing I see in nature. I’m trapped within this urgency that I must complete all of this before I die, because even if there are literally still decades yet before me, there really isn’t that much time left. I must hurry, there is simply not enough time for me to play.

JUSTIN

One problem with making massively multiplayer games is you can have all your best people try and make everything work correctly, but someone just might forget one little thing and create an exploitable bug. Then the masses play the game, and a few will discover the exploit, and some will report it, but others will take advantage.

That’s why we couldn’t play Neverwinter last weekend. Some people exploited a bug so badly we not only lost a few days to try and play, they had to roll back the servers a week, deleting progress.

Thanks exploiters. Die in a fire.

PLANET Z

Years ago, I had every Doors album, and a few bootleg tapes.

Everyone would gather at this one guy’s house to drunk and stoned, and we’d play that music all night long.

I couldn’t sing for shit, but I didn’t care.

Put in a tape, any tape, and hit play.

When I got to college, I bought “The Best Of The Doors” on CD.

I’d given up trying to out-sing Jim, but I sure as hell tried to out-drink and out-smoke him.

Now, my iPhone is Doors-free.

No smoking. And no way I drink that much anymore.

Amen, Reverend Jim.

Weekly Challenge #369 – Smell

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 SMELL:

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

A story by Miata Stardust was rejected because it included me as a character.

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

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

JEFF

Strange Bedfellows

Her words were fraught with love and lust as she caressed him.
« I caught a whiff of my wife’s presence, she will be crazier than a shithouse rat if she sees you here, please vanish »
« What ! you said she wouldn’t come home tonight?»
« I know; I must be cursed »
She glared at him with a frown, thought of spilling the beans, then said « Listen to me carefully shapeshifter, do this to me again and I will make sure to suck your blood until the last drop and bury your companion alive»
Then she warped; blood in the eyes.

TOM

Since I gave up dairy and meat the lack of their proximity has led to a dimming in my memory. There is nothing like a stroll through CostCo’s meat kingdom to tap into the visual aspects of meatness to trigger the joy of grilling bacon. At either end of the gantlet was three count them three sampling kiosk pumping out burning animal. Then someone opened a door to the glassed refrigeration wall I swear I could smell the ham right through the wrapper. I do not doubt atomized meat gas is being pumped in the air ducts

God Bless them.

TURA

There was once a monk, who never washed, and so he became odious to his fellows. But he was perplexed by this, for he could not smell himself.

He spoke to the head monk, saying, “The other monks tell me that I stink, but I do not perceive this, although I can smell them.”

The head monk replied, “Can you see the hair on the back of your head? And do you not allow the work of the barber?

“With your nose, you can smell your brothers. With their noses, you can smell yourself.”

Thereafter, the monk washed every day.

JEFFREY

Roses
by Jeffrey Fischer

When I heard that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, I wondered if the opposite was true, that any other Rose would smell as sweet.

I tried Abie’s Wild Irish Rose, but she smelled of booze.

I then tried Rosey Grier, but he smelled of sweat. Pretty rank.

Next I tried Rose Kennedy, but she smelled dead.

Finally, I sniffed a tea rose from the botanical gardens. It smelled like old lady perfume.

Now, Doctor, can you please get these damn thorns out of my nose?

An Unsuccessful Revival
by Jeffrey Fischer

In the 1960s, Smell-O-Vision made a brief but unsuccessful debut in theaters. In the 2020s, the technology made a comeback. Movie studies tried to generate revenue from older releases by adding smells.

At first, things went well. In “Chocolat”, Juliette Binoche never smelled so good. “Days of Wine and Roses” was another hit: the smell of the roses, the fruity aroma of wine, and even a hit of lemon every time Jack Lemmon appeared on screen.

The trouble started when audiences gagged at the smell of blood in “There Will Be Blood”. The last straw came with the re-release of “The Trouble with Harry”. Every time Harry was in a scene, audiences received a strong odor of decomposition.

The audience provided the accompanying smell of vomit.

THOMAS

The worst thing I ever smelled was the morning the dentist pulled two, abscessed front teeth…from directly under my nose. The putrid smell leaped directly up my nose, and on to the olfactory receptors and my brain. The smell was amplified by my pain and fear. I’ve never had any episodes of phantom smells–smelling something that’s not there, because phantom smells can be triggered by temporal lobe seizures, epilepsy, or head trauma. If you start to smell rotten eggs, bad perfume, garbage, a gas leak, a wet dog, body odor or spoiled fish, or poop, get to the doctor.

My job for a realty chain in Washington is to help the crew “stage” the home for an open house. Staging involves furnishings, flowers, and scents. I’ve engulfed homes in the smell of freshly-baked cookies, and the yard with the smell of roses and lilacs after I’ve fogged the area with an industrial machine I carry with me. Some of my recent research shows that a home scented with a simple orange essence is more effective than the cookie and flower aromas. I use real, fresh orange zest prepared with my own blender, and earn high fees for my expertise.

I assembled a box of manly smells for my pal’s sixtieth birthday party. It wasn’t the usual aromas associated with the “manly man” like: leather, gun powder, after shave, a campfire, shoe polish, or a hardware store. It was a unique assortment of smells that he would associate with his years of work on the docks in Seattle. I arranged the collection in a wooden box, starting with a small bottle of bourbon, a couple of cheap cigars, a bit of stale beer in an atomizer, some antiseptic wipes, a glop of bag balm, hand salve; and a new condom.

“Once you can get by the smell, you have it licked.” This sign was posted on the blue-veined cheeses in Uncle Kenny’s delicatessen. Other signs adorned some of the exotic cheeses and meats in the shop. “Check out our rump”, “Squeeze this pork butt”, and so on. Kenny thought he was a comedian, but he made his customers uncomfortable. He vowed to lighten things up a bit, and quit using the coarser texts. He made some signs and posted them above the cheese: “What happened after an explosion at a French cheese factory? All that was left was de brie.”

TARALYN

I love memories of those times that make you smile inside. Most of them are associated with a smell. I love the smell of a new can of tennis balls. It reminds me of my youth when I played tennis all summer long. But the smell I love the most, is the smell of my husband when I’m lying in his arms, in the silence of the night. His eyes are shut as he sleeps, and I secretly snuggle up to him. Breathing him in slowly to remember that moment. The smell of love, I can’t explain but why try.

MUNSI

Cologne

By Christopher Munroe

I’ve released a cologne!

No idea why. A company offered to create one for me and it seemed the thing to do.

Many public figures market a signature scent, for people who inexplicably want to smell like Lady GaGa or Justin Bieber in spite of never having been near enough them to know what they smell like.

I was surprised at the offer, honestly, what with the fact that I’m not famous and all.

Still, I will admit, I’m thrilled to help bring my new cologne to market.

…should any of you buy it, let me know how it smells.

ZACKMANN

Uncle Boy tweaked Charlie’s face saying “I go your nose, I got your nose.

Charlie decided to get his uncle back for this so feed his toddler cousin chili and gave some dried fish to his uncle’s dog.

Uncle Boy explained that the nose thing was only a joke meant in fun then Charlie told him that he was very sorry which Boy knew was true because the dog had come in from the rain and started licking Charlie’s face smelling of wet dog and fish sauce while Boy changed baby’s diaper. Charlie then wished uncle had taken his nose.

RICHARD

#1 – The smell of fear

They do say that fear has its own distinctive smell – I’ve never really believed that to be true. I’ve been in situations where I’ve been mortally afraid many times, and I can honestly say that, whilst fear pervaded every other sense, I’ve never caught the slightest whiff of that elusive scent.

Certainly there have been other smells that I associate with fear – many of them quite unsavoury and generally related to the body’s automatic reaction to being frightened: naturally, I always make sure to tightly hold my nose.

Coming to think of it, maybe that’s why I’ve never smelled fear!

#2 – On the market

The house filled with the wonderful smell of newly-baked bread and fresh coffee – I’d pulled out all the stops this time – completely de-cluttered, used minimalist, neutral colours for the decor, rehearsed my sales patter, and even shipped the kids off to their friends for the day.

Surely I’d get a buyer today?

Sadly not – as the last couple left mumbling that the property ‘just isn’t to our taste’

It looks like I’m doomed to stay in this property forever!

I simply can’t think of anything else I can do… although, I suppose I could try painting over the bloodstains?

#3 – Distant Lands

Every destination has it’s own distinctive smell.

Whether it’s the drifting fragrance of incense and frangipani, the aroma of beef ribs cooking over smoky wood barbecues, the scent of wet leaves and hot, fertile, soil, or even the stink of open sewers and decaying roadside rubbish. Every place has its own unique smell that tells you more about the culture, lifestyle and attitudes than any glossy photograph or travel agent’s polished prose will ever dare to reveal.

The smell of a place always tells the true story.

If I had my way, every travel brochure would be ‘scratch and sniff’!

#4 – Old Jack

“I’m looking for Old Jack”, I announced to the men stood at the bar, “does anyone know where I might find him?”

“And why would you be doing that, matey?”, asked a grizzled old seadog.

“It’s fishing I’m after, and I’ve heard he’s the best – they tell me he’s practically a fish himself!”

“Aye, that’ll be Jack! He’s down at the harbour – go out the door, turn left, down the hill, turn second right, then left, then just follow your nose.”

“You mean, go straight ahead?”

“No, I mean, follow your nose – you’ll smell him, afore you see him!”

#5 – Into the Open

His shock in the mortuary convinced George he should leave the hospital. The putrid smell of decaying bodies lingered in his senses, causing him to feel profoundly nauseous. It struck him that a hospital would likely contain numerous shocks of a similar nature, and he was determined to leave in all haste before encountering further unpleasantries.

Finally, he found himself at a doorway signposted ‘Exit to Street’.

With thumping heart, he eased the door open a crack, this time sniffing cautiously for any noxious warning smells. Then, pushing the door wide, he stepped with some trepidation, into the open air…

SERENDIPITY

The hunter cautioned me to stay silent and keep low: our quarry was no more than a few yards away – a family group, in a small clearing.

Carefully the hunter tested the wind: it was blowing towards us.

“We have to stay downwind”, he whispered, “if they should smell us, they’ll panic and flee, and we’ll not eat tonight.”

We’d masked our scent with earth and plant juices, and tonight the wind would be our ally.

Stealthily, we crept forward, closer still, paused, then sprang at the group!

The humans didn’t stand a chance… and we feasted well that night!

LIZZIE

The ability to trace toxic particles was carefully developed. A whole generation of genetically modified humans with a heightened sense of smell prevented the end of civilization for a century. As their lives expired, one by one, society trusted toxic levels to be so low that there were no replacements. At the turn of the century, when the flow of time shifted unexplainably, humans became lost in a world of mutating units, as they were called, the ones who went outside. They had a vague recollection that there was a solution for the problem but they just couldn’t remember it.

CLIFF

It wasn’t enough for Dave that he’d gotten my promotion. He’d robbed me of it. He hacked my computer, stole my research, and then turned it in as his own. I’d protested and had simply been marked as a jealous spoilsport. But even that wasn’t enough. With his bonus, Dave bought a fancy Italian sports car. He offered to let me sit in it, saying that the interior smelled like money. Instead, I tossed my coffee cup into it. The gas in the cup smelled like money too. When I struck the match, I decided it smelled more like justice.

*****

I love my country. I love the values and ideals that this country was founded upon. I truly believe that America has generated some of the most amazing people and ideas in history. And yet, I am ashamed of some of my countrymen. The final straw was a few years ago in Egypt. We’d toured the pyramids and were approaching the Sphinx when I heard a couple of distinctly American voices behind me.
“Hey, that statue has no nose!”
“Really? How does it smell?”
“Smell? It sphinx!”
I love my country, but when I travel abroad, I say I’m Canadian.

REDGODDESS

It’s been a few weeks since Lola has spent time with her lover. They had been inseparable since the New Year, but now they are slowly seeing less of each other. It’s like they’re playing hide and seek with their hearts.
After months getting to know him, she doesn’t want to play games. Somehow, she has avoided giving him an answer about his proposal. She still remembers his words.
In spite of her resistance, she misses him more than she’s willing to admit. He smells so delicious, she says to herself. while undressing before bedtime, Lola concocted a secret plan to show him how much he means to her. On their next date, he finally will taste a new side of Lola, and he’ll get his answer on the spot.

NORVAL JOE

Ulnar Styloid, warrior and clan chief of the Olecranon Process scanned an empty sector of space represented on the three dimentional holographic display.
He had skirted the costal margins past the illiac crest and warped through a vascular dilation bringing himself into sub-talor neutral alignment.
Thuogh his vestibular class assault frigate purred like a Coratoid from the jungle planet of Vastus Lateralus, something told Ulnar, all was not right.
A smell eminated from the warp capacitor cabinet which made him think of overripe bananas, aftershave and death.
He was allergic to bananas and aftershave. The two, together, would kill him.

JUSTIN

The onslaught of Zerg across the planet is marked by the transformation of the landscape. Comforting vistas of stone, soil, and seed morphed into a nightmare of purple ooze, ghastly spires of bone and sinew, and maws birthing horrors of teeth and spine. This ooze, Creep, smells of fluids alien to our senses. The unfamiliarity causes disorientation and disgust. But as with anything, over time the field of battle on the foreign substance becomes known and familiar, along with the smell of blood and bile of the dead. Even after the Creep is burned away, the scent remains, a reminder.

SINGH

from ‘The Lady Punter’s Nose’

1.
Jocelyn inhaled her asthma spray. The $100 bet also made everything sharper. Inexplicably she smelled tinned tomatoes. The crowds were pushing her up against the rail, not just their colognes but all the acrid pheromones beneath reached out to stroke tentacles against her skin. For no reason she thought of chocolate; looking at the green turf of the track she tasted peppermint drops, and somewhere in the distance the horses were snorting salty and truculent as centaurs entering the barrier restless to run. As the last horse went in the gate something internally signalled tomato-red, she turned her head.

2.
And there he was – flannel suited with dark glasses, head above the crowd. Her eyes lit up, but Davidson, who’d entered as the late starter in the contrived courtship of Jocelyn Enzensberger stood there, crowd-locked so he could remain un-crumpled and aloof. The louder haler coughed its metallic cry like a lasso over the crowd gathering eyes raceward. A gust of wind picked up and riffled thousands of yellow trackside roses wafting spicy musk. It masked the alcohol buoyant crowd. The race about to start, they locked their glance for a moment.

Then, the caller said: “And they’re racing!”

3.
In this gambling fantasia, desire combined with asthma funny gas on an empty stomach was effecting her olfactory sense. A lady’s cream hat smelled vanilla. The security official’s orange vest promised fruit punch. It was her synesthesia playing up. When the horses careered into the home straight the jockeys’ silks were edible pink, green apple, jelly-red and blueberry candy floss. Then, her 20/1 outsider Filly Mignon glided over the finishing line and she could taste the rainbow. She turned to share her secret elation, but Davidson had gone. Everything turned suddenly rancid and she vomited on the rose bushes.

4.
The smell of winning was so strongly with her, heightened by the sense of loss. Why had he gone? Mick Dalby the fellow syndicate member she had erased temporarily from her side took her arm and offered a handkerchief.   “Are you ok? That’s a pretty strange way to celebrate a win,” he said. Between them they had just clocked $4,000.

“I guess,” she answered dabbing her mouth with the handkerchief. She couldn’t quite explain the phenomenon either. Jocelyn had a rare form of neurological synesthesia, but nothing as acute as this had happened before. Some new switch had flicked on.

5.
As Filly Mignon returned from up track to the judges’s enclosure for weighing and presentation of cheque and winner’s cup, she got a strong whiff of horse lather and from now she would always associate this with the sensation of victory, just as the presentiment for selecting winning horses through her inner nose would always smell of tinned tomatoes. $2,000 richer, she was ravenous for Pasta Neapolitan, but couldn’t resist the temptation of sniffing out another jackpot win for the next race first. Strangely, Davidson’s presence was a part of it. To win, did she need to be in love?

PLANET Z

Sister Francis warned the boys not to sniff their own brains, but the boys never listened.

“Who ever heard of a boy sniffing his own brain?” they would say.

You do not laugh at Sister Francis, so they did it on the playground.

“What are you laughing about?” Sister Francis would say to the boys.

“Nothing,” said the boys.

So, she rolled up her sleeve, and punched each boy in the nose, driving bone fragments into their brains.

Any martial arts connoisseur knows that this results in instant death.

And no time for the boys to snuff their own brains.

Weekly Challenge #368 – Old

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 OLD:

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

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

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

MIKE

OLD
by mbnels

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Do you have any singles?”

“Why?”

“That girl. I think she wants me to put a dollar in her g-string.”

“We’re at a high-school basketball game!”

“I know, but for God’s sake she’s wearing mesh pantyhose! She has tattoos, a butterfly on her ankle, a tramp stamp on her back and she has flowers that go up her tummy and over her-”

“Dude! That’s Amanda Tomlinson.”

“Wait. Mandy Tomlinson? Andrew Tomlinson’s DAUGHTER?”

“Shhhh, yes. Andy is right behind us.”

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Do you have any forks in there?”

“Just a spork…why?”

“I wanna gouge out my eyes.”

THOMAS

Henry was an old man. In the last ten, maybe twenty years, he realized that he had grown invisible. When shopping, picking a loaf of bread off the shelf, or choosing a couple of oranges at the produce counter, young people would pass by, almost brushing into him, but not making eye contact or offering a greeting. At the front entrance of the post office, an attractive young lady appeared, face to face at the large, double doors. She stared straight ahead, not changing her expression. She looked through the old man as if he was glass in the door.

The geezer was old

but still felt bold

older than dirt

but still the flirt

ogling the legs

with his ham and eggs

checking behinds

through venetian blinds.

Any chance he had

with the scantily clad

at the park

daytime or dark.

He’d wait for the runner

an exceptional stunner

to jog on by

and to catch his eye.

Bright yellow shorts

which barely supports

her magnificent tush.

Her fanny, a bubble

screaming for trouble

to the nasty old goat

tightening his throat

and raising his nubble.

Old, but not dead.

He could still pray

for that magical day.

NORVAL JOE

Before Katie could drag Borle from the hut screems issued from the tropical forest. Through the screen walls of the structure men could be seen leaping from the foliage and rushing to crowd around the small man’s house. Each warrior held a drawn bow aimed within.
“I knew you were O’Malley spies,” the small man whined. As one the women threw their spears to the ground, their bare breasts heaving as they sighed in resignation.
“O’Leary. Send out those thieves and make sure they’ve got the Tahloohlah gourd with them,” someone shouted from outside.
“This is getting old,” Borle grumbled.

“Mr. Dunderspawn. If you won’t sign the paper, there’s not a lot I can do for you. You’re being held on suspicion of being an international terrorist. You have no rights as a US citizen.”
A guard walked up, unlocked the cell door and said, “Come with me. You have a visitor.”
Across the plexiglass divider, Widow Finklestien scowled; an old cardboard box sat on the table before her.
“I’ve been feeding your wiener dogs while you’ve been away, but this one won’t eat.”
The grey muzzle of Long John Silver poked from under the folded lid of the box.

JEFFREY

Parker
by Jeffrey Fischer

The pen was old, a black 1947 vacuum-filling Parker 51 with a blue diamond on the arrow clip. Scratches along the soft metal cap gave the pen character. The rubber in the filling mechanism had become brittle with age, but with some careful work I replaced the diaphragm. After soaking the pen in water to dissolve years of dried ink, the 51 was ready to write.

I sat at my father’s desk, like the pen another antique I inherited, with the 51 in my hand, poised to make a note in my new leather-bound journal. My father thought of his pen as an extension of himself. Does the pen still have that power, or, in an age of electronic diaries and hand-held computers, is it hopelessly anachronistic, mere evidence of a bygone age?

Goin’ Mobile
by Jeffrey Fischer

My first car was a 1982 Mercury Lynx. It was old at the time I bought it, held together more by duct tape than welds, moved from zero to sixty in a brisk ten to twelve seconds or so, and had an annoying tendency to refuse to start when the engine was halfway warm.

Still, a car meant freedom. I loved that. Of course, to a young person, a car also meant car payments, and an old car meant lots of repairs. Did I say “freedom”? I meant to say “prison.”

RICHARD

#1 – The Dig

The team gathered excitedly around the find. The artefact was old – ancient in fact – but that wasn’t its most striking attribute, for there in the trench, surrounded by pottery and tile fragments, covered in mud and scoured by the ravages of time, lay unmistakeably, a Roman timepiece.

This was an historical moment – one that would change forever our understanding of ancient technology… nobody had realised the Romans were so technologically advanced.

Johnson walked up to the crowd, wondering what the excitement was about.

“Hey Guys, has anyone seen my watch? I dropped it around here a couple of days ago.”

#2 – Grow Up!

‘Grow up!’ It’s an admonishment I seem to get almost every day…

Like the time I put itching powder down Miss Turner’s back or the hilarious occasion I slipped those little blue tablets into Sydney’s orange juice. “Grow up!”, they said, in exasperation.

I don’t want to grow up – there’s time enough for that when I’m older.

Today, Louise caught me tobogganing down the stairs on a tea-tray. It was the last straw for her, resulting in a proper telling-off:

“For goodness sake grandpa, will you please grow up – you’re just too old for this kind of behaviour!”

#3 – Hasty Retreat

George’s exit from the mortuary was a great deal more rapid than his entrance – whatever disaster had befallen humanity outside, he’d much rather take his chances with the living dead, than hang around with the dead and decaying.

He cleared the corridor in five seconds flat and tore back up the several flights of stairs he’d only recently made his way down.

Finally, he could run no further and collapsed in a heap on the floor, fighting for breath and wishing he’d spent more time keeping in shape.

Miserably he thought, “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing”.

SERENDIPITY

My coffee table is an heirloom from my grandmother – I remember her teaching me to count the rings in the grain to see how old the tree was. No matter how many times I counted, I always came up with a different number!

We’d sit at the table and she’d show how each ring represented a particular year – “This one was made at the time of the industrial revolution, and that one is around the date of the American civil war”

“What about that dark one, right in the middle?”, I prompted.

“Your grandfather’s coffee cup made that!”, she grumbled.

MUNSI

Dubstep

By Christopher Munroe

I have to admit, I don’t enjoy Dubstep.

Which is weird, I’ve enjoyed electronic music in the past. I liked Chemical Brothers and Prodigy during the ‘90s, I still love Daft Punk. Aphex Twin’s Richard D. James albums is one of my favorites, and there’s a clear line between that and Dubstep, and yet…

I can’t get into it. I suspect the fault isn’t Dubstep’s, but my own.

Because I’m growing older.

I’m always growing older, every minute of every day. It’s the one constant of my life.

And one day I’ll die.

But, more importantly, I don’t enjoy Dubstep.

LIZZIE

To understand

“Preferably,” mumbled the foreigner, leaning against the SUV covered in dust.

Shariq didn’t speak English, but his job was not to understand; his job was to take the man to different locations, like this abandoned old house in a deserted area.

The foreigner checked his watch and shook his head.

Another SUV appeared from behind the house. A man stepped down. They talked for a few seconds.

The foreigner came back, muttering, “The devil’s waiting.”

As they drove away, there was a huge explosion and pieces of the other SUV flew in all directions. Shariq thought “The devil’s at work.”

SINGH

Dante and the Tumult Cards Part 2

9.
Dante looked down at the broken body in the pit. A flicker registered in the face.
“You thought I could forget, Wolfgang? How you snatched my company, my wife and children? Remember our deal done by kerosene lamp? Poetic justice, isn’t it? You tripped into your own bear trap. The one you dug ten years ago.”
“Take it all, Dante. Let me live.”
“Aha? You think I care. I’m way too old. But I will play a last card for you.”
Dante shuffled. The Surrogate Card turned face up.
“Sorry. You lose.”
Dante lifted the trapdoor and let in the wolves.

10.
The alpha dog tore at his throat, the she-wolf his genitals. The others attacked at each limb, ripping him like a rag doll. His neck was spurting red, but Dante was supra-conscious beneath the excoriations of pain.
It should not have happened like this. Had he become his enemies’ understudy? Yes, the Surrogate Card had decided and this wasn’t a rehearsal.
What circle of hell was he in? The leopard, the lion and the wolf were still at his heels. From the shit pit of bodies writhing in human ammonia, a black hand emerged holding aloft the Clone Card.

11.
“Ladies, you can change your spots through the Lady Leopard Sexercise Programme.”
“Francine?” He spun around. ”I never thought I’d see…” and broke off…the once chubby face of his childhood sweetheart had been cloned by wall to wall video screens, She was the Wellness Goddess.
Nothing made sense. Had he been saved from Hell, only to land up at this cheesy mall promotion with a Lady Leopard Lookalike Pageant just beginning?
The future couldn’t be so random. The idea of progress had to exist.
He tossed the Tumult Deck into the air.
Each falling future was a Time-out Card.

12.
Time is a lion pacing the cage, losing grip. The past might have been the tawny savannah of Africa, but the future was a putrid stall of thrown bones.
Shocking, Dante thought. How nobility could be so reduced to an object of pedestrian pleasure pointing and licking its French-fry fingers.
Caged in his consciousness he was no different to the big cat. Sitting on the bench under a tree, he felt truly compassionate and remorseful for the first time. Heavens and Hells, Africas and zoo-purgatory. Were these destinations or stopovers? Wind shook down the leaves and the Power Card.

13.
Dante met his she-wolf on Tuesdays. The circle drummed them into the underworld. Howling and mating as Power Animals, they then returned.
Lycanthia Wolf had founded the Therian Support Group after coming out two years back. Meeting her alpha she was happy.
He was circumspect about Therianthropy. All these drooping tails pinned to backsides.
“Psychiatrists call this ‘species dysmorphia’,” he challenged.
“It’s animal past lives,” she answered.
A newcomer jumped in. “We meet in a virtual world and are in a loving raccoon-hyena relationship now.”
Dante fiddled with the deck in his pocket and pulled out the Buddha Card.

14.
To escape leopard, lion and wolf Dante had backpacked here seeking sanctuary.
Thirty monks sat before the rare monkey wood image.
“Chop off Buddha’s head,” the abbot ordered.
“It is sacrosanct. Unthinkable!” one factional monk complained.
“Just do it!” said the cranky abbot.
Was Dante being ensnared in a power struggle? Who to align with, who would win?
“Why are you waiting, you fool?”
So, Dante swung. A chip flew out. Another card! It was Surrender.
“Now chop and burn it! My toes are icicles!”
Dante understand none of this. Lust, greed and power were still growling beasts in his belly.

15.
She was one hundred with a face leathery as a shrunken doll. But her eyes were pellucid as the mountain river.
Dante had to purify himself in water before Tingri the sky god would revoke the three evils.
Old Grandmother donned her she-wolf mask and danced into trance.
Soon she was howling in an animal tongue. Dante couldn’t understand.
Suddenly, she punched him left and right and left with such force it loosened a tooth.
Later in the yurt after a meal of horse offal, he dreamed of falling stones. On waking the Clemency Card was stuck to his palm.

16.
“Leniency, Sir?” Dante asked. “At Ypres, the beast in man was born from mud,”
Thirty miles behind the Front, General Sir Ossian Quayles luncheoned on.
“Some Christmas clemency please. Trench morale has been gnawed raw.”
Quayles held his tarte d’oignon mid-fork. “In battle Colonel, the lion must be unleashed, then goaded forward.”
Dante clenched knuckles remembering thousands sentenced to machine gun oblivion.
“The three deserters?”
Quayles considered the political implications. Let him carry the shit can in case anything leaks to the press. “Hush it up then, Colonel.”
Dante returned to his rat quarters, cut the Deck, turning up Death.

17.
Inside the coffin he was awake. Scripture re-surfaced: “The wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them.”
Was this death? Dante blinked. The kidnapping came back, being knocked unconscious. Who was wolf, who was the lamb? Even here images of leopard and lion would not leave him alone. Fear’s movie was going on inside him.
Then, a phone vibrated rudely on his chest. A reprieve or ransom demand? No. Just a picture-send. It was the Birth Card.

18.
The wolf woman lived over the pass in Tumult Valley, an isolated place known for storms. She trained animals for Hollywood. Randy the leopard and Tamerlane the lion were caged out back with others, while Half Moon, a she-wolf had slept by her bed since a puppy. Few visited and she liked it that way. A stuntman got her pregnant during her last shoot. She was glad and never told him.
Around sunset the first contractions began. She walked up and down, rocked in her chair, but couldn’t settle. Even the wolf began to fret. Why was the midwife late?

19.
As the storm broke so did her water. She and Moon were on their own. Throwing down quilts she nested beside the brass bed, spread herself breathing and pushing until finally the baby crowned and was in the world. She slumped back and brought it close. She had done it. Alone, Moon licked the baby’s face. The tumult was over. She reached for the Deck on the bed table. As a ritual of significant beginnings she knocked it flying to see what fate would turn up for a newborn girl. It was the clean slate, the heart-shaped mirrorcard – the Blank.

TOM

Timmy smiled at dad. Raised his hand shook two fingers proudly proclaiming “I’M TWO!” The remains of the cake and candles were smeared across the top of the wooden highchair and Timmy’s face. Of the mountain of toys from Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, Parents Timmy seemed most fascinated by a nerf ball. The Godfather Tom sheepishly apologized for inadvertently up-staging the family. “It’s ok Tom. It’s actually on the list of toys Timmy can take with him.” Mother carefully put the knit hat on Timmy’s shinning head. As they drove to the clinic Tom thought three years old was highly unlikely

To mark my 500th story at Laurence’s 100 World Story Archive I want
to thank you all for the shout outs for my birthday. As one advances
in years the milestones call to celebrate become more distinctly
spaced out. To this end only birthday ending in zero get properly
acknowledged. This is why I brought this to the attention of our band
of brothers/sisters gender correct thank you very much. Turning 60 is
sort of unfamiliar landscape sort of Gallup on acid and I highly
recommend not doing acid in Gallup, for one I feel no wiser or mature
then when I turned 14 but at the same time I am the last living
member of my childhood rat pack.. In the last year my best writing
has been in the form of eulogies. Gail keeps saying I’m just middle
aged, I don’t know many folk 120. I’ve always thought it odd that at
19 you’re a young man at 29 you’re standing at the border of middle
age. Now I’ve double 30 my goal is to care half as much about what
other think of me and have six times as much fun as when I was 10.

TURA

“Say, how old *are* you?”

I usually leave before people start asking, but it’s getting harder to disappear. Time was, I’d get on a ship and go missing, turn up somewhere as a stranger and start over. It’s not so easy under the eye of Google Earth, the Internet, and CCTVs everywhere.

I recently gave a DNA sample to a research survey. I’d like to know what they find, that’s kept this body going three thousand years, but it looks like I can’t stick around to find out.

Time to leave, time for a new life. That never gets old.

CLIFF

The book store was a collectors dream. Leather bound volumes lined the shelves. The older books were in display cabinets under lock and key. I loved it. I chatted with the owner for a bit and bought a first edition of 1984. He was obviously a huge bibliophile and grew quite animated when talking about his collection.
“I have a first edition bible. Would you like to see it?”
Of course, I said yes. I’d never seen a Gutenberg up close.
“Oh, it’s not a Gutenberg,” he said as he unlocked a door. Inside were stacks of stone tablets.

MIATA

I was young. I saw an old woman at the park. At first, I was afraid of her, that is, until I saw her eyes. They were like the Mediterranean Sea, and they were sparkling at me! Her voice cracked as she spoke, but after listening I caught the lilt, the music from her soul. Had she been to all the places she sang about? She was my grandmother, and the love I came to have for her had no bounds.

I am old. I met my grandchildren at the park. At first, they were scared of me….

ZACKMANN

“Hey Pops, Did you hear that new dubstep song on the radio?”

“No young man, and I hope I don’t. Back in my day music didn’t have to sound awful for kids to dance to it.”

“Pops, You know hating new music exclusively because it’s crap is a sign of old age.”

Pop winks and says “I’ve always hated bad music and I told you to call me Uncle when we go places without your mother.”

“Yeah, thats like so mature”
“Your mother assures me that I might have become responsible, maybe even old but I will never be mature.”

STEVEN

You don’t want to, you really don’t. But the scab – dried platelets and blood – can’t be ignored.

Try to concentrate on the smooth skin – not the red raised inflammation around the scab – focus, dammit, focus.

Your fingers, your clothes, the air brushes against the scab.

The invisible elephant makes it impossible to move, to breathe, to think.

Dig with fingernails chewed and peeled and bitten with worry. The sharp flashes of pain are relief, any sensation besides the crusted deadened dread.

You are surprised by the blood, by the wound.

It will stain your clothes.

It will leave a scar.

REDGODDESS

Lola can count the number of awkward moments at the hotel in both hands. Most guests are cordial unless they are in one their bad moods. You know, “the my problems are bigger than yours” look. They walk around like zombies with blank stares with the scent of rage. Lola feels like an invisible sculpture in the lobby. On other days, they seek her out like a lost friend, spilling their repressed secrets to her like a designated Therapist. The next day, some zoom by without saying a word. In spite of their indifference, Lola will remain the most reliable stranger in their lives.

Lola has come to accept the reality that old age is like death, both are inevitable. After turning 30, she stops counting. It’s a waste of time considering she feels older than she looks. Sadly, the media won’t let her forget either. Everywhere she turns, there are ads for wrinkle and cellulite cream. Her friends shower her with complements but she’s skeptical.
Henri, a French hotel guest with a permanent tan, greets with air kisses and spins her around like a ballerina. . “You look younger by the minute!” he squeals for everyone in ear shot to turn and stare. Lola blushes but feels oddly convinced by this drunk man’s flattery.

JUSTIN

Delbright traipsed across the Capital Wasteland, enjoying no longer living in the Vault. Sure it was a big giant mess, but not boring. Bright sunlight glinted off something in the sand. Delbright picked it up. It was old, but still new and shiny. Looked like something from the vault museum. It was amazing something this old still looked good out here. He fiddled with it trying to decide how it worked. It fell from his hands when the back of his skull cracked. Delbert fell and saw his killer. The sneaking bandit took it back, as well as Delbright’s things.

Carson goaded his brahmin along the path between Megaton and Bigtown. The wagon they pulled was his life, goods to trade. Travelers needed items of all sorts, and he needed caps to put food on his plate. Something that looked valuable laid in the sand ahead, reflecting the harsh sunlight. Carson picked it up. It was old, and it was in mint condition. Far too mint to not have been placed here recently. He took cover against his wagon. When a bandit came around the corner, spiked bat in hand, he shot, and added the bandits things to his own.

DANNY

An Old Man tried to commit suicide by carbon monoxide gas. The old man carefully hooked a long tube from the exhaust pipe of his car into the rear window of his four door sedan parked in his garage, then thoroughly sealed the back window with duct tape. Unfortunately, the car the old man used was a hydrogen fuel cell car from Honda. The Honda was so well built, and the duct tape job around the exhaust was so brilliant, and the cabin of the car was so well built, it rapidly filled with water. The old man drowned instead.

PLANET Z

Whenever I find an old ornate bottle that looks like it might contain a genie, I pick it up and wish that I never found the genie’s bottle in the first place.

This guarantees that my life will either stay the same, because the bottle isn’t magical at all, or that it will get better.

How will it get better?

Because with all this crazy shit going on, there’s no way I’d wish for the life I have now, so it stands to reason that the genie made my wishes backfire on me.

No bottle, no crazy shit.

(Fuckin’ genie.)

Weekly Challenge #367 – Blank

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 BLANK:

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

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

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

THOMAS

Stanley’s mind was a blank. After two weeks of meditation, taking no food, and only sipping water, his mind was clear and thus so vacant that the natural operation of his brain that controlled breathing and movement had stalled to the point where all autonomic functions that sustained life had put him in jeopardy. His friend intervened, putting earphones on his head, and blasting Pink Floyd into his ears, while force-feeding him chili, shots of cinnamon whiskey and tickling him with a feather duster until Stanley’s mind exploded with stimuli and his breathing changed from life threatening to normal breathing.
#

Nick had no offspring. Nick shot blanks. A stuntman for a B film maker, he was responsible for weapons, explosions, and flames used in productions. When the set opened for a father and son day, Nick asked his brother, Don, if he could “borrow” his son to tour the studio, meet the actors, and help him do the set ups for a car chase and gun battle that was being filmed. Don’s son was quiet, but unknown to anyone, was the spawn of the devil, and intent on causing harm when the opportunity presented itself. You know what happened, right?
#
All the pages of TJ’s new book were left intentionally blank. Everything he had wanted to say, was already said in his other books and papers. The book, sold by Amazon, was intended as a novelty, but it soon jumped to number ten spot on the 2013, best seller list. People bought it and used it as a journal, or a notebook. Others put it in their bookcase or displayed it on their coffee table. The cover was made in China, of recycled automobile tires, and titled with gold embossing. Black, thick and malodorous, the books cried out to bibliophiles.
#
TJ’s next book contained blank verse. The first piece, dedicated to his lady friend, was his favorite:
By this morning sun, among red tulips
He stooped to pull weeds, and his knees cried out
Not up to the task, nor willing to submit
To more discomfort , for a glorious yard.

The book of mediocre verse sold one copy to his great Aunt in Waterbury. She had three of her Canasta Club members write fantastic reviews, and asked the congregation at Saint Luke’s if they would also write reviews that she would dictate to them. The author sold three more.
#

He was shot, point blank. Many have heard the phrase, but do not know that point blank is the distance between the gun and the target, such that the bullet in flight is expected to strike the target without adjusting the elevation of the firearm. If the assassin has to raise his pistol as little as one degree in order to strike the victim, it is no longer a point blank shot. Therefore, to avoid being shot point blank, it is recommended that you leap into the air as fast and as high as you can, as the hammer falls.
#
Joe’s assignment was to write a 100 word story using “blank” as the queue word. He wanted to please and impress his writing teacher and coach. He thought of a piece of metal used as a blank to form a car part, analytical blanks as it relates to chemistry, and the expression on a woman’s face when he complemented her on her shoes. He settled on writing more about his uneasiness when trying to engage a beautiful woman. His work as a Gynecologist in a woman’s prison had more to do with his lack of social prowess than anything else.

JEFFREY

Caroline
by Jeffrey Fischer

The first thing people tended to notice about Caroline, before the unkempt hair and jaundiced skin, was her blank stare. She gazed into infinity, not bothered by a visitor’s presence, not even acknowledging it.

Yet behind the unblinking eyes Caroline lived entire lives, free from the institution. She loved, married, bore children and raised them to adulthood, mourned the loss of loved ones. She grew old and died and was reborn, all this in an instant as she gazed impassively at the beige wall. She looked at nothing – and everything.

Shooting Blanks
by Jeffrey Fischer

The doctor looked at me kindly as he told me I was shooting blanks, that my wife and I could never have children, at least not the old-fashioned way.

When my wife could no longer hide her pregnancy, I was confused, then angry. I may be slow, but if I couldn’t knock her up, someone else must’ve done it for me.

When my son was born, the doctors did another test and said he was really mine. Those earlier tests were wrong, they said, or my stuff got better. That made me very happy. I apologized to my old lady for thinking she whored around on me. But I couldn’t stay long – just a few minutes at her grave then the guards took me back to prison.

LIZZIE

Blank Humans

“This is a nightmare,” the man sighed. “We all died. Some of us came back. So what?”
The woman sat in silence.
“Who’s your government source?” she asked, scratching the paint off the table.
“Frank.”
“A fool.”
“I’m afraid we are past that.”
“Just type it, then. Some of us will die again. No one will come back. There aren’t many of us left.”
“They’re…”
“Producing them, I know.”
He started typing – Project for Sector X75: Production of Artificial Humans – Top Secret.
“Were we ever really humans once?”
“Life’s not fair,” she said, the word “Alive” on the rusted table.

TOM

A vague recollection of a breakfast conversation with my beloved Anne connecting the name I saw with a chain of familial reference that lead to the realization that through law I was related to Mr. Poe, the author. In Ernest I repeated, was there need to summon a doctor? He took my hand. The fabric of his coat was thread bare and seemed ill fitting for a man of his station. “Give this to Lee,” he said, a gray shroud fell across his eyes. I tore a blank page from this very journal, hastily penned a note to Dr. Snodgrass.

TURA

I don’t actually know how to say my last name. After choosing it, I googled it. It’s Romanian. There’s a main street in Bucharest named for one Ion BREZoYAnu (or should that be breZOYnu?). He is famous for having a street named after him.

At first I read it as “BREzoYAnu”, but the other week, I thought of saying “breZOIanu”, which I quite like. Or maybe Romanians would squeeze it down to “brezWAnu”? Or “BREZwanu”?

I’ve googled up some Romanian tutorials, so I know what sounds the letters stand for, but as for the stress patterns, I’ve drawn a blank.

YORDIE

The Samurai’s Poem
by Yordie Sands

I approached the samurai seated in my teahouse. I bowed with respect, saying, “konnichiwa honorable sir.”

He looked at me with inquisitive eyes, unlike the blank stares of those warriors who engage in battle to feel alive.

He bowed and said, “Honorable lady, please sit by me. I’ll read the poem I wrote for you.”

If of love I die
then above my grave mound, dear
Yordie come and cry

I smiled and bowed to him.

I’d read many haiku and recognized the one he read to me. It was by the courtesan Oshu, except she didn’t use my name.

MUNSI

He was blank, of average height and average looks, favoring neutral hues in his clothes and uninteresting hairstyles.

He was friendly, personable, but never took a stand on any issue, never offered an opinion that was in the least bit out of the mainstream. He kept to small talk and platitudes, and listened more than he spoke.

Once he left a room everyone immediately forgot he’d ever been there.

He was invisible.

And it was only later that they realized their jewelry was missing, never making the connection to the fellow who’d been with their crowd but not of them…

THOMAS N

She sent me an apology tape. Our relationship began that way, with a mix tape. I declared my love through others’ poetry set to music, encased in plastic. Hundreds of tapes, each song carefully selected to send a message from my heart to hers, or vice-versa were the artifacts of our history. How to respond to this latest betrayal, and the apology? I should be depressed, relieved, angry, something. But I was just tired. I unwrapped the cassette, labeled it, and contemplated the eventual contents. I closed the box, addressed the envelope, and dropped the tape in the mail, blank.

SERENDIPITY

Turn on laptop and stare intently at the blank screen in front of you.

Chew fingernail reflectively.

Let attention wander; distractedly tidy desk. Stare intently through window.

Type for a moment – tippy-tap, tippy-tap.

Pause.

Backspace, backspace, backspace, delete.

Critically examine chewed fingernail. Chew into more pleasing shape.

Sigh.

Make coffee. Drink coffee.

Strengthen resolve… fingers poised over keys… brow furrowed with concentration.

Nothing happens.

Run hands through hair in frustration.

Stare, and stare, and stare at the blank screen, willing words to come.

But the words stay stubbornly silent.

There’s nothing today – my mind is a complete blank.

SAM

The sheriff stood facing the outlaw, hand poised over his pistol, ready to draw.

“When both y’all are ready, I’ll start counting,” said the impartial judge. Both men inclined their heads, in the barest suggestion of a nod.

“Ten, nine,” he counted, while sweat trickled down the sheriff’s brow.

“Two. One. Draw!”

Both men drew and fired but the outlaw was just a smidgen faster. Yet the sheriff stood, and the outlaw fell.

“What happened?” The judge exclaimed in amazement.

“He must have been shooting bl…. shooting blan….what’s the word?” Asked the sheriff.

“I don’t know. I’m drawing a blank.”

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

This isn’t a story.

You want purpose? You want some kind of reassurance that there is meaning?

There is no evidence that there is meaning. None.

Faith, maybe, but no evidence.

As far as we know, there’s just a huge, empty, terrifying blank. A vast nothing, throwing your brainstem into survival instinct protective recoil. It’s terrifying, no matter how many times you look at it.

You want to just give up. To give in to the nothing.

And then you get up. You go on. You do something awesome anyway.

Then it gains meaning.

Only then does it becomes story.

CLIFF

I’m not saying it was my idea. It wasn’t. I just asked a question, that’s all. It would just be nice to be in the footnotes somewhere, you know? You see, I was working with the boss on the big project. No one knew what the project really was. The boss didn’t like to explain himself, even back then. Problem was, you couldn’t even see the thing. It was just a big blank his studio. So, I said “Why is it so dark?”. That inspired the boss. He sat a moment and then said the words.
“LET THERE BE LIGHT!”

MIATA

This week, I’ve drawn a blank. So, here are some quotes…..enjoy.
“Writing is like surfing – it’s a challenge to stand on the board, but when you do, it’s a glorious ride.” – Sark
“A human being is nothing but a story with skin around it.” – Fred Allen
“Judge each day not by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds you have planted.”
– Robert Louis Stevenson
“If music be the food of love, Play on, play on, play on.” – Shakespeare
“Fire not only consumes; it purifies.” – Unknown
“Write a saying and your name will live forever.” – Anonymous

CALEDONIA

“It is a huge expanse of white, gaping emptiness. It could be so many things. It could not be so many things. How will I know? Fingers drum on the clean, white formica worktable. What is it? Hand sorts through the long clutch of wooden handles in the ancient Taco Bell mega-cup. What size? Digits dance over the bottles crammed into the oversized Christmas cookie tin whose lid is long gone. What color? Just make a choice! It doesn’t matter what. The only failure is the failure to engage. The brush poises over the surface. Contact: embracing the many possibilities.”

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

Ode to…

His name was Mr Cinnamon.
He loved to sing.

Lost among the crowd, yet within the throng,
lifted his head and began his song.

Without thought, the flock would open and part
the burdened would feel an uplifted heart.
His songs, each one, were simple and pure
and none could escape the magical allure

of the one who sang
the one who went
by an aromatic name.

He never rumbled.
Always humble.
Females preened and posed.
Offering needed repose.
His first name was always a blank,
He only wanted to do one thing.

His name was Mr Cinnamon
He loved to sing.

JUSTIN

A piece of paper, a blank slate. This is a character sheet for a role-playing game.

Formless, then with dice and a creative mind: life, an avatar into imaginative, fantastic worlds.

The person’s existence is like a character in a play, and only exists when the stage is set and the lights are on. But what will they be like?

The toss of the dice determine if they are strong or smart, and the imagination of the player determines how they will live. What choices they make.

Use wisdom, especially if they’re a mage. Use strength if they’re a fighter.

DANNY

Whenever I’m in public, I always wonder if I reek of alcohol. Whether others perceive my inebriation. My mind draws a blank. I walk down an empty hallway, then start cursing because the hallway never ends. “This isn’t a hallway,” I proclaim, “it’s a god damn treadmill! I grow tired of walking it!” I go to an open bar, stand with drink in hand, in a loud, crowded room. I’m the lonliest man on Earth. Yet I can go online, letting everyone literally walk through my brain. Then I’m at one with the world, yet that world is a delusion.

SINGH

The Tumult Cards

1.
Dante was always drawing Safe Passage and blank Time-Outs, until the first Tumult Card turned up. It brought real storms. Fresh tribulation. Ongoing trouble.

Last time, a car crash, then two cracked ribs. Before that, an obscure company posting – a banishment overseas. But this time, Dante was determined to crash and burn, or crash through and end this cycle of bad karma, or what ever psychological self-sabotage was going one. Three tumults in a row! Could he break the bad cycle?

Francine dealt. Dante turned his card over with trepidation and then, relief. It wasn’t ‘Tumult’. He’d drawn ‘Shadow’.

2.
The lights blew out.

“Francine,” Dante called. “Joe, Krystiana.” No answer. “Hey guys, this isn’t funny.”

But all he could hear was panting and growling in the shadows.

“Alright, I’m done. You win!”

There was the scratch of a match. Dante still couldn’t see much until the flame became a lit candelabra. He was shocked. A leopard, a lion and wolf were sitting around the table.

Their eyes narrowed about to pounce and rip.

Where was the door? No. He’d never make it.

There was only one thing left that he could do. He reached for the deck and drew ‘Paradise’.

3.
Paradise Beach is a heavenly place for a deckchair and a piña colada beside it on a bamboo table.

Composing a homily to sun and surf in his head, life seemed to have turned a corner since the last Tumult Card.

Not for long. The Three sprang from the palms transformed in swimwear. Leopard Girl dropped a porno DVD on his lap, Lion Man thrust a hand mirror before his face and Wolf Girl fanned the deck before him like credit cards. Choose, their glaring looks said. Why leave Paradise after just arriving? They glared. Reluctantly he flipped the Heart Card.

4.
Dante landed on a dance floor. The neon sign throbbed, ‘The Heart Club.’ The topless girl in leopard skin miniskirt danced up to him, eyeball to eyeball. He felt a chill, but couldn’t help grinding hips with her.

“Why am you here?” he asked.

“To be eaten by desire, Dante.”

Then he realised what the throbbing was. It was his heart. She dug in her red fingernails. Dante felt the moment of puncture, but couldn’t stanch the bleeding.

“Help!” He cried, coughing up arterial blood.

There was a Card tucked in her cleavage. He grabbed at it, desperate. It was ‘Giant’.

5.
Dante heard music coming from The Brobdingnagian Brothers Carnival. Wobbling on giant stilts he stepped over the entrance. The crowds were ants. He would much rather be down there eating hot dogs and candy floss.

While thinking this, the massive crowds began to unbalance him. Then another stilt figure stepped over the ferris wheel. It was a giant lion-head.

“Why are they pushing?” Dante yelled.

“Because they think you are vain and lofty,” the lion said.

By now Dante was toppling over.

“Help me!”

The lion flicked a Card. Dante caught it in mid flight. It was the Credit Card.

6.
“Good luck, sucker,” growled the blonde-headed Lion teller.

Gradually he had emptied Dante’s $20,000 credit card in casino chips. Up $57,000 at first, it was gone. Dante was down to his last.

He returned to the Black Jack table. Leopard Girl attached herself to his shoulder, ready to leap on any gazelle competitor grazing nearby.

Turning up two picture cards, Dante hungering for windfall split them for a double Black Jack.

Wolf Girl, the dealer slid over two. He turned them up. Cruelty and Pain.

“Don’t be greedy,” snarled the she-wolf in her tux. “Choose just one.”

7.
She wore pants, jackboots, SS cap. The suspenders over a malnourished chest made her boyishly desirable. She sang and moved, leopard-sleek and didn’t flinch when his riding crop struck her. So far, prostitution and cabaret art had kept her from the gas showers.

Obersturmfuhrer Dante Engel was not a bad officer, but to love a Jewess had to be negotiated through a masquerade of cruelty in front of other guards, just as her blank face hid her own affection. She bowed theatrically and offered him something tucked in the braid around her visor cap. It was the Pain Card again.

8.
Joy and suffering cohabit. Dante didn’t want to move from their bedroom into the spare room, but she left him no choice., Too accepting, forgiving he’d brought pain upon himself. To leave would be to lose — game, set, house.

It was a matter of pride now. He cared what others would think, so endured their rough trade through the plasterboard. She tortured Dante with her lover’s leonine moves. He felt sick in the gut sitting at the mesa of the table cutting the deck of cards. He didn’t want to play, but fate spoke up. ‘Murder’ tumbled out as he shuffled.

NORVAL JOE

Borle panicked, sweat running freely down his face. Flerdy only shook his head.
Fifteen amazon warriors stood behind the two spacemen, their spears aimed at the two men’s backs.
Before them sat a small man in a wicker chair, his bald pate a mosaic of freckles.
“You see? My daughters very persuasive,” he said and giggled.
“We’ve done nothing wrong. You’re holding us illeagally,” Borle protested.
The small man’s face went blank.
“Don’t lie to me. I know who you are. You’re spies for O’Malley,” he said, calling one of the maidens forward. “Katie. Take the sweaty one for questioning.”

“Mr. Dunderspawn. I’ve been assigned by the state as your lawyer,” a man said from outside his cell.
Dergle swolled as he tried to decide if the man’s wrinkled shirt was originally white or was supposed to be yellow.
“Ok. What do we do now?” Dergle said walking to the bars.
Close up the man’s skin had the same yellow cast as his shirt and his few strands of greesy hair failed to cover the pale baldness of his head.
“You just need to sign this,” he said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
“But this is blank,” Dergle said.

ZACKMANN

“Your sign says Will Draw Stars Living or Not. Draw me a blank.”
“Like polar bears in a snowstorm?” the street artist asked
“Well you see Doc, I want you to draw me the Blanc. The Blanc, I say.”
“Oh, Sy”
“Si”
“As, Sy?”
“Si. Sorry hard to stop that. Not as Sy but that age. Mel Blanc was the voice or rather voices of my childhood. I remember him better form Man of 10000 Voices interviews but really like the work he did with Benny. Maybe he will be easier to draw since he was in black and white”

PLANET Z

Leo Blankfein was the best accountant, but his sense of direction was total shit.

Hire him for a job in Queens, and he’d call you from Hoboken asking for directions.
Hire him for a job in Yonkers, and he’d call you from Harlem asking for directions.
Hire him for a job in the Bronx, and he’d call you from Staten Island asking for directions.

I tried to test this by hiring him for a job in his own apartment.
And he called me from Riker’s Island.

Okay, so the son of a bitch murdered his wife with a claw hammer.

Weekly Challenge #366 – Journal

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 JOURNAL:

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

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

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

THOMAS

I have a large, thick, journal. I didn’t write in it. I used it to prop up the end of a table I bought for the family room. It was just the right thickness, and more attractive than a brick or block of scrap wood. The journal sat there, propping up the end of the table top, until I removed it one day to clean and rearrange the room. I opened it and read a few words: “This journal is the property of Edgar Poe. Please return if found. A modest fee will be your reward for its return.” E.A.P.

#
The ship’s massive, main journal screamed. The bearings had turned to dust, and the sound of the heavy engine indicated it was far too late to repair. The engineer shut the old diesel down, and our ship was left to drift until we could get a tow. Sparky radioed for help, and the captain calculated our drift, based on the wind and currents. We drifted for a full day until a sea tug was sighted, hopefully to tow us to the nearest port. Thirty Somolians were on deck, and they signaled that they were coming on board for our cargo.
#
I read my daughter’s journal, to my regret. She wrote, recently, that she would like to give me “a swift backhander right across my red, steaming face”, and she thought I was “a Hitler worshipping, gypsy scum!” Little Angela had a dark side, and little did I know a web cam was aimed at her dresser drawer where she kept her journal. My indiscretion was uploaded to her web site and stored as a series of still images that she would access the next day. I was busted, and the photos were posted on Twitter, Facebook, and on her BLOG.

My belief for journal writing follows the belief of my literary hero. Walter Benjamin wrote: ulla dies sine linea [No day without a line]. I vowed that I would write the minimum of one page a day in my journal. My muse would be roiled if I ignored my daily pledge. I didn’t always have something to say, and I was too self- critical of my entries – just as I often was with my lovely and insatiable wife. I wrote about that, too. I wrote about how I felt when I didn’t have anything clever or profound to say.

JEFFREY

Birthday
by Jeffrey Fischer

When I was a child, my father was always aloof around me, carrying out his paternal duties with competence but not apparent affection. After he died, I took a week off to clean out his house. In the attic, I found a set of journals in his handwriting, dating from his teens to his early 30s. I spent every evening before bed perusing his old thoughts, trying to come to terms with our complicated relationship.

Like many such journals, Dad’s started off with frequent, detailed entries about all manner of trivial things, and tapered off to the occasional entry of greater importance. His last entry was dated the day I was born. It read, “Should be a happy day for me but instead all I see is a lifetime of obligation.”

Therapy
by Jeffrey Fischer

My shrink told me I should keep a journal. Write down your thoughts, he said, and reflect on them. Every year, look over the previous year’s entries to understand your mental space at the time. Anyway, pen and paper are a lot cheaper than an hour with me, he chuckled in that annoying way.

So I did. I dutifully made notes every day about what I was doing, what I was thinking, what I was feeling.

Truth be told, though, I’m having trouble staying motivated, especially about that year-end review. Well, especially after the computer in this spaceship told me the oxygen recycler was broken, and I have about twelve hours to live. But hey, it’s therapy.

RICHARD

#1 – Good Dog
He’s getting on a bit now, somewhat greyer and slower, but I wouldn’t be without him.

People ask why he’s called Journal – odd name for a dog – but it makes sense to me.

I’m not one of these new-fangled bloggers, putting every trial and tribulation of my life into print, but Journal’s been with me every step of my life: He’s chewed up my achievements and gnawed my trophies. When I feed him my trash, he sometimes sicks it up; other times, he devours it with relish; and, every so often, I’ll throw him a juicy morsel.

Good dog.

# 2 – Unicorns and Rainbows

I remember sneaking into my older sister’s bedroom as a teenager, intent on prying into her personal life. So, when I discovered her secret journal under the bed, I was convinced I’d hit pay dirt.

Seems I was mistaken – after thumbing through pages of girlish drivel, I was convinced that not only was my sister intensely boring, but for a girl her age, it was about time she grew up.

It was only after her arrest I realised that her girly ‘fairy dust’ and ‘barbie doll’ entries were actually detailed accounts of her extensive drug dealerships and lucrative prostitution rings!

#3 – For the Record
Once George had recovered from his cat encounter, he couldn’t help but wonder what other, less savoury encounters he might have, once he ventured outside the hospital walls.

It occurred to him that he should chronicle his struggles, in the hope that his experiences might someday have a greater purpose – he would write a journal! An inspirational account of survival against all the odds – his legacy and gift to the children of the future!

Sadly, for the children of the future, George could find neither notebook or pen, so – for now at least – the journal would just have to wait.

MUNSI

Entry: May 1st.

By Christopher Munroe

We found a battered journal among the wreckage. It’s our first lead to date as to what may’ve happened to the seek/rescue-team sent out mid-February in the aftermath of the initial incident.

No survivors have been found to date, nor trace of the seek/rescue-team.

I’m pouring over the journal for potentially pertinent details while the rest of the response crew combs through the wreckage of the research lab in the hopes that some clue might be uncovered.

Personally, my hopes aren’t high. Still, I’ll give the journal a read…

“Entry: February 14th. We found a battered journal among the wreckage.”

TURA

My dear Dr. Brezoianu:

I regret that the Journal of Neurosemantic Research must decline to publish your paper, “Obstruction of Remote Memetic Excitation by Aluminized Mylar Composites”. It has been closely read by three referees, all experts in the field, who unanimously recommend rejection on the respective grounds that its results are absurd, well-known, or trivially obvious. Furthermore, I don’t care for the over-familiar manner in which you approached my wife at the Oslo conference last year.

With best wishes for your publication, but not in any journal I have anything to do with,

Prof. Dr. Dr. Jarogniew Grzeszkiewicz (Editor)

ZACKMANN

Sue started writing a diary of her new work experiences and some of the unusually things that happen.

Dear Diary: Today I was training as a nurses aide. The senior aide training me took me to answer a call.

Oley, who had pulled the call sting said “Hand me the yournal.”

My trainer said “I sometimes have trouble with Mr Erickson’s accent. He subscribes the Fergus Fall Journal. Oley, would you like to read the Fergus Journal?”

Oley said “No,” pointing to a plastic container near the end of the bed “I need the yournal. Quickly, I have to pee.”

LIZZIE

Wrapped in a magic spell

Alexandra wrote her most private thoughts in her red and green leather journal. To make sure no one read it, she wrapped a magic spell around it. Most of her spells were quite benign so her roommate decided to take a peek. The next day in class, in walks a red skinned young woman with glowing green hair. Everyone laughed. Alexandra didn’t. She stood up and said “Begin”. Her roommate turned into a journal instantly, flapped her pages and clumsily flew away, only to find, down by the forest, a collection of similar journals being pecked at by ill-tempered birds.

TOM

From The Journal of Josef W. Walker

October 7 1849
I met a most peculiar man this evening exited Patterson’s Glove shop on Lombard. He was propped up against a gas post inches away from the gutter. His voice, barely a whisper, seemed to be working through a delirium fancy, punctuated with clearly audible cries to his personal muse. “Cassandra” he said at once a declaration yet at the same time a questioning lament. I asked him if he was in need of a doctor? “Call me Mercutio.” Said he handing me a folio upon which the in most delicate hand the signature read E. A. POE

SERENDIPITY

Who in their right mind would want to read a psychopath’s journal?

Actually, it gained a huge following, and I suddenly found myself acclaimed, ‘bestselling author’!

It seems my readers had a huge thirst for intricate plots, liberally interspersed with graphic descriptions of murder and mutilation, all executed with a callous disregard for humanity, leaving only sorrow, pain and bumbling, ineffective detectives… always one step behind the killer they sought.

The plaudits, and hard cash, came rolling in – nevertheless, I was unhappy with the book’s reception.

It annoyed the hell out of me that they insisted on calling it fiction!

CLIFF

Day 1: Got my assignment. This one should be easy.
Day 2: What was that assignment? Oh yeah. I got this one.
Day 3:
Day 4:
Day 5: Wife reminded me; I have an assignment. Need an idea. What was the word?
Day 6: Going to have to write my story tonight. Can’t get distracted.
Day 7: Get up early and sit down to type. No ideas. Search Wikipedia for inspiration. Latch on to an obscure idea and throw words onto the screen. Record my story and send the email. Send second email because I forgot to attach the recording.

MIATA

I sat at my table, looking out my window. It is a beautiful view, the pinks of the azaleas, the white dogwoods, green grass, and the blue stream. There is no better place to write than this….well, maybe at the beach.

As I look out over the serenity of it all, I’m reminded that my life is so opposite. I love a man. I know he thinks I am a stalker. Love unrequited, but he consumes my thoughts daily. I am getting better, no contact, but only thoughts. It is hard, and my fault. I will love, and live, again.

SINGH

The Mailman Journal

1 Journal
I am recording this, Mailman. Since The Shutdown other channels have closed. I only have this chair, a pedestal keyboard and screen in the wall. It blinks on randomly with a new daily word like a carrot. I am your donkey. Are you pulling me by the golden chain of language, Mailman? To where? I write to keep the will to live flickering like a firefly’s shadow on the screen of my own parochial consciousness. Why am I here? Isn’t that the only question worth asking? I think, I tap. After 100 words, the screen blinks off. Not one more.

2 Burn
I remember Mailman, how the Zen master took a wooden image, chopped it up, and made a fire, warming himself. Seeing this, one of the other monks asked, “What are you doing, setting fire to the Buddha?”
The master replied, “Where is Buddha?”
Before the Shutdown we said — religion? It’s poison. We also wanted to burn the Buddha. That monk was wooden and stuck, just as we were anti-form. So someone shut us down, obliterated us, but that didn’t end attachment. See beyond existence and nonexistence, Mailman, and make a Buddha of gold out of garbage scraps, appearing and…

Whistle
Dear Mailman, do you think I need the future? What use is it when I can reach into memory and pluck out the wind whistling against my old garage. It still rattles the roller-door, it still speaks to me with a taunting sense of its endlessness beating against my puny shelter like a house of straw. Are you telling me to whistle Dixie with folded gum leaf or some other cute tune as if it were a new creed to place trust in? I do not need to believe because the old wind still blows right through my bones.

Pizza
Fortunately, there is tinned food. A small mountain in the corner. That’s my pizza. I have water from underground. It seeps and I lick it up. Rocks glow in the cavern’s ceiling. How long before I am plunged into the full dark? I am adjusting, finding my way, practising on all fours with eyes bound. I must. I do not trust the light. These rocks are emitting a little less, a little less. As for this screen and your daily mail, I can only place trust my own process, not what prompts you try to steer me with, foolish Mailman.

Escape
Are you provoking me? Squinting my eyes, yes I see an empty canoe waiting on the shore, a motorbike ready with a key in the ignition. The word of ‘escape’ is meant to throw up a goldfish leaping out of its bowl. Mailman, you think I am your mouse in the treadmill, the passenger in your a car about to plummet, the hand over my mouth stopping me from uttering the name of the one who caused The Shutdown. Do you think your daily morsel of words can handcuff me? Mailman are you taunting me when such escape is irrelevant?

6. Mailman
Let’s get to the point, agent provocateur. You deliver, I respond, you set agendas, I reject. The Shutdown was my good fortune. Time is a coat on the hook. Whether you are male or female is my fiction. 0h bird-like flutter in my biological heart, I understand everything. Your prompts make me believe in neither the wooden Buddha chopped and burning, nor the golden Buddha sixteen feet high. You’re not, but in. I am your mailman. You only exist to receive these hundred intentions. Knowing this, today, I add one to the golden chain. It’s my gift, the extra factor.

NORVAL JOE

Flerdy tapped his voice recorder and said, “New page. Journal entry number 1685. Professor Flerdy Phlegmbburn in command. Day four on the planet O’Gillyham.
“My pilot and traveling companion, Borle Torquespindle, while availing himself of an opportunity to vegetate, found himself surrounded suddenly by countless Amazon warriors. The women’s lithe frames and bare buxom breasts belied their deadly prowess.
“Sweat trickled down his temples as the women crept slowly toward him.”
Borle cleared his throat. “Ahem. Flerdy?”
“Don’t interrupt me. I’m recording.”
“Right,” Borle said.
“Borle held his breath as the razor edge of a spear hovered above his throat.”

Sitting in a jail cell, Dergle sighed and thought, “Some super hero I turned out to be. Wiener Dog Man? More like, Big Stupid Loser Man.”
Someone in a cell down the hall yelled. He sounded Latino. “Guard. My journal no is working.”
“Keep it down,” the guard shouted back.
“How is that fair?” Dergle mumbled looking around the empty cell. “They didn’t let me keep anything, and he has a journal to write in.”
The man shouted again, “I’m telling jue. I need to juse the journal. If jue no fix it, I going to piss on the floor.”

JUSTIN

Artyom gazed at the sky. Condensation from his heavy breath obscured the gasmask’s lenses, but he stills saw the demon flit across the sky, it’s wings beating against the poisoned air. Artyom sprinted across the roof, leaped over a tripwire and landed hard on the unstable floorboards, leg nearly pushing through. The demon crashes above and peered into the room. Artyom rolled through a doorway and pointed his pistol, firing on the wired explosives. In a blast of splinters and stone, the demon tumbled into the air, where it flew away on tattered wings, dripping black blood onto the snow.

DANNY

Charles Manson started writing a journal after being incarcerated for his crimes. Way to delusional to admit to his guilt, he kept writing, convinced his journal was a novel. Because he has no right to privacy in prison, his journal is read to the parole board everytime he is up for parole in the California prison system. At every parole hearing, Charles screams how fixed the system is, then the parole board simply reads back his own journal entries, and properly denies parole. Charly, baby face, why don’t you know when to drink a cup of shut the fuck up?

PLANET Z

For a hundred years, Middleton was a two-paper town.

The Middleton Journal and The Middleton Chronicle competed for stories, subscribers, and advertisers. The quality of both papers was exceptional.

One day, the owners of The Journal and The Chronicle met to negotiate a merger.

They tossed a coin, it came up tails, and the staff of The Middleton Journal emptied their desks into cardboard boxes as The Middleton Chronicle-Journal began its run.

The journalism got lazier and sloppier, many subscribers of both papers cancelled, and advertising rates skyrocketed.

Sure, I read it. When I steal it off my neighbor’s porch.

REDGODDESS

Lola reads all kinds of tabloid magazines while at work. The hotel subscribes to the top five fashion magazines and newspapers. The guests steal them like the little shampoo bottles in the bathrooms. She’s repulsed by the tasteless covers yet intrigued by articles that show 769 ways to please a man. She wonders, if these magazines hold the answers to women’s satisfaction, why the majority of their readers are still hopeless lost. Are there magazines that offer men better advice for a better sex life? Recently, Lola learned that the Good Housekeeping Journal is the most reliable source of information for all women, regardless of marital status or income. It occurs to her that women spend as much time worrying about keeping a clean house as they do about pleasing a man. With that kind of obsession, these magazines hold the mirror to women’s angst for generations.

Weekly Challenge #365 – Pick a number

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 PICK A NUMBER:

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

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

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

THOMAS

I enjoy working with numbers in my head. It keeps my brain fresh and young. I listen to the Canadian FM stations, living just 26 miles from Victoria, just on the South side of the Strait. All the morning’s weather is announced in Centigrade, so I have to convert to Fahrenheit to get the temperature. It’s easy. For example, if they say “plus four”, I multiply by eight to get 80 percent of four. I add that to four (3.2+4=7.2) , then add 32, to get an approximate temperature in Fahrenheit (39.2). The actual conversion is 39.4, but it’s close.
#
His personal utensil got number and number. He had done an experiment with the pills found in his uncle’s medicine cabinet, mixing them with morning coffee and Bailey’s Irish Cream. He was assured it would wear off, but it was no guarantee he would find himself recovering fully. He thought that the pills would provide four or five hours of full inflation so his afternoon with Veronica would be more adventuresome and delightful. Silly is as silly does. The condition didn’t go away for two weeks, and he was too embarrassed to seek medical help or go out into public.
#
Numbers. Check out numbers in the Bible. See where numbers are mentioned, or look up “Bible numerology” on Google. If you believe that numbers can reveal the future, or uncover mystical intelligence, you are delving into the dangerous realm of divination and the occult. Your family and friends might not like this, and folks at the coffee house might find this discommodious. Waving crystals over your croissant, carving profane characters into the table top, and only eating bagels if the decoding of the sesame seeds on the pastry add up to a prime number, might be troubling to those nearby.
#
She had my numbers. All of them. I couldn’t get a thing by her. She knew when I was watering down the liquor in the cherry wood cabinet in the dining room, and she could smell cigarettes on my breath from fifty feet away. My dear, old mother was a wise, fair and diligent detective, unflaggingly protecting me from death, disease and early detention. Mom was a nurse, and worked with nurses and doctors in the operating room. She heard outlandish jokes from the docs, and brought stories home to share with Dad and her number one son, over supper.

EXPLORER

Numbers

I’m just another number in the world, the first set of numbers are given to you
the day you’re born. The second set of numbers that you receive in life is your
Social Security number. A nine-digit number you share, because you’re part of
the calculated, algorithm, system, shared electronically everywhere.

“Click, sending”

Coming in at number one is awesome, but if you’re second or third, you’re
mediocre. However, women and men that score a ten in looks are equivalent to
a number one, really.

Therefore, no matter what your numbers are in life you are always a number
one…

JEFFREY

The Singer
by Jeffrey Fischer

Steve nodded his head in time to the music as the intro kicked in. The last number of his set was a catchy, upbeat tune, designed to send the customers away happy, humming the melody as they filled the aisles.

After fifteen years in the business, though, Steve no longer left the stage happy. Night after night, in one small room after another in cheap Vegas hotels, Steve sang numbers made famous by the Rat Pack and dreamed of performing his own songs to appreciative crowds. Year by year, his optimism waned as his dream faded.

He gripped the microphone stand and hit the first notes, an upbeat tune but a sad song.

Sixteen Numbers
by Jeffrey Fischer

Barbara handed the cashier her Discover card. She looked down at the meager collection of groceries and household items, knowing they had to last until payday, and that that would be a stretch. Even then she wasn’t sure how she would make the minimum payment on the card, but that was a worry for another day. The items weren’t quite hers yet, though, were they? One more hurdle remained, often the trickiest one: sending those sixteen precious digits through the wires, praying for the word “Accepted” to appear on the cashier’s screen. Barbara closed her eyes and crossed her fingers…

RICHARD

#1 – 3.142
Never trust a mathematician.

Oh, they seem so self-assured and smug, with their proofs and constants – numbers never lie, they say, it must be you who are wrong.

Well, I’m telling you – they’re a bunch of charlatans and deceivers, every last one of them!

Pi – they will tell you – is a wonderful number: it holds the secrets of the circle and is perfect in every way.

Nonsense!

I’ve studied Greek and I’ll tell you something for nothing… Pi is not a number – it’s a letter, a letter I tell you, and that is a simple truth and incontrovertible fact!

#2 – I called…

I found your number in an old address book. In that moment I was transported back through the years, to those happy times we shared together.

I remembered the laughter in your voice and the way your eyes sparkled when you smiled. I remembered how we made our plans for the future and dreamed of possibilities untold. I remembered the promises we made.

But that was long ago.

And I dared to hope that time might heal all things.

With trembling hands and pounding heart I took the plunge, picked up the ‘phone and dialled.

But, just like our lives…

Disconnected.

#3 – Disturbance

George awoke.

Something had disturbed him.

Eyes straining in the grey light of dawn, he withdrew into the shadows, listening intently.

There it was again – a clatter from the recesses of the kitchen.

Steeling himself, he felt the reassuring weight of a cleaver in his hand, and crept towards the source of the disturbance.

“Who’s there?”, he shouted in a cracked, high-pitched voice, to be rewarded with an angry yowl and a streak of tawny fur, dashing between his feet.

He sank to the ground – “A damn cat, George!”, he giggled nervously, “and you thought your number was up!”

TURA

“Gimme a dollar,” mumbled the shabby old man.

“Why?” I asked.

“I will give you the entire universe, now and forever!” he replied.

“Ri-i-ight…” I said. “If it’s yours to give, why are you selling it for a dollar?”

“Good point!” he grunted, “but is it good enough? Do the numbers! How often are you ever wrong? Multiply that by the payoff– if that comes to more than a dollar, make the bet!”

And that’s how I became owner of the universe. But I’ll sell it to you for two dollars. The numbers say I have to make a profit.

MUNSI

Numbers

By Christopher Munroe

One is the loneliest number, but it shouldn’t be. After appearing in a popular song, it could make some friends.

Hotels have no floor number thirteen, but they do have thirteenth floors. The one above the twelfth is the thirteenth no matter what you call it.

That’s how counting works.

When asked to choose a number between one and ten, I choose Pi.

Because I’m a smartass.

These are things I know about numbers, and they’re all true.

But, right now, the only important number is 100.

That’s the number I need.

The number I strive for.

There we go.

TOM

Imaginary Number Aren’t

Don’t ask me why, but I got hooked on the television show Numbers. Watched 18 in a row. In the DVD/Netflexs age it isn’t uncommon for someone to do a Lost weekend or watch the Sopranos till their eyes bled. Since I’m a bit slow on the up-take I failed to note the underlying formulaic nature of the show. Yup, it took me five Tom Swift novels to realize it was always the same novel. Same thing happened after the ninth James Patterson. In spite of the plot rehashing Numbers did an amazing job of highlighting rather lofty mathematical concepts.

SERENDIPITY

They called him the lottery killer – random victims in seemingly random locations, and at every crime scene, lying next to the corpse, a lottery ticket for the following week’s draw.

Police were baffled until the forensic team almost accidentally stumbled across what seemed a remarkable coincidence – the numbers on the mysterious lottery tickets appeared to correspond to the map co-ordinates identifying the location of each successive victim.

The police acted swiftly and organised a stakeout – sure enough, the lottery killer was apprehended at precisely the point where the last ticket said he would be.

The police had hit the jackpot!

MIATA

Numbers
I have always been fascinated with numbers. In numerology, 7 is the number of perfection, 8 is for new beginnings, and 3 is the number of the trinity. Then, there is the humor in numbers. 4 is the airhead, 9 is the brainiac, 6 looks pregnant, and 8 loves snow, or is very sexy, you decide. 1 isn’t the loneliest number, sometimes 2 is just as lonely and that is heartbreaking. 5 is the getting ready to roll number, and finally 0, is all contained and never ending. Numbers, so much to know, so little to see.

CLIFF

The seven warriors stood still as statues, blades drawn and waiting. The seven demons writhed and hissed, smelling of death and decay. The demons guarded the seven gates to the world beyond the living. In the countless years they had maintained their watch, no living person had gotten past them.
The emperor had demanded that the greatest warriors in the land should go into the realm of the dead to retrieve his beloved. Hundreds were summoned. Seven responded. Seven men, brave and true, loyal to their emperor no matter how great the task set before them. They lasted seven seconds.

###

When you’re a kid, fifty seems ancient. When you’re a teenager, fifty is a grandparent. In college, fifty is that stodgy old accounting professor that always seems to have a stain on his shirt. By the time you have kids of your own, fifty is your parents giving advice and laughing about how grandchildren are their reward for what you put them through. Fifty is always someone else. It’s always been a milestone that says “Here is where old begins”. When fifty starts knocking on your door, though, it doesn’t seem all that old. Seventy? Now that’s old. For now.

LIZZIE

There were four seats at the table, three people sat down.
“Where’s D’Angelo?” asked boss #1.
“We can’t start without him,” added boss #2.
“I thought the meeting was to solve our problems and end this ridiculous turf war,” said boss #3.
“It’s a lack of respect to keep us bosses waiting,” they all agreed, checking for their weapons discreetly.
Silence.
All of a sudden, loud sirens.
“The cops… That rat…” the three growled while they were arrested.
In the meantime, D’Angelo was enjoying the tropical sun of the Witness Protection Program.
“I never liked being number 4,” he thought.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

Fifteen threads. Fifteen bright timelines stretching into the when.

Fourteen. One disappears: a woman slips on the sidewalk. He hears the crack of bone, her sharp intake of breath before the scream, and ignores it.

Thirteen to seven in a heartbeat. He misses the causes; they could be a butterfly’s wing flapping.

His original timeline is brightening. Probabilities collapse; he shoves through the crowd. Five. Four.

He won’t be scared this time.

Two threads.

“John?” She is there, confused. He’d just left.

He doesn’t know what will happen when the timelines switch.

“I love you,” he says, and kisses her.

ZACKMANN

Father keeps on urging me to take an accounting class. I tell him I don’t want to take over the family business and I can have someone else do my taxes. He tells me after enduring the fights his parents had annually from February through April, he doesn’t want to do his own taxes either. So I ask if that doesn’t maybe make him maybe a little hypocritical. He informs me the CPA who does his taxes is advising him to take a basic accounting class so when he makes a mistake on Quickbooks he can understand his explanation why.

DAPHNE

“Hi, how are you?”

“Four”

“Did you say four?”

“Four”

“Four? Four what?”

“Three”

“What are you doing?

“Four”

“Now we’re back to four? Seriously, what is going on?”

“Ten”

“Wait a second I think I know what is happening here.”

“Eleven”

“You’re counting words. That’s fascinating and annoying.”

“Seven”

“How good are you? If I talk for a whole minute would you be able to tell me if I hit 100 words?”

“Twenty-Three”

“Can we do this on a weekly basis? I have this story writing thing I do and word count matters.”

“Twenty”

“See you next week.”

“Four”

NORVAL JOE

In a clearing in the rain forest, Borle relaxed on a cot while Flerdy counted specimens from the Holo-docs taken at the river.
“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine. Species 13B has twenty-nine specimens per cubic meter of water compared to specimen 13A which only has seventeen,” Flerdy said into his voice recorder.
“Why not let the computer count and compare them for you?” Borle asked.
“Where would be the fun…” Flerdy began but stopped when he looked up.
They were surrounded by red-haired, freckled, native warriors wearing only loin cloths. All were woman and each aimed a wickedly sharp spear at them.

Dergle stared at the officer without moving, hardly breathing.
Officer Varkfleis flipped pages in his notebook while Dergle vacillated. He closed the notebook and said, “Mr. Dunderspawn. You implied you wanted a lawyer. Are you going to call one?”
Dergle made a face like he’d eaten something sour, but said nothing.
“If you don’t have a lawyer, I can give you numbers. They’re all dependable.”
“Will they feed my dogs?” Dergle mumbled, turning his eyes to the floor.
“Lawyers advise you. They don’t feed dogs,” Varkfleis said.
Dergle shook his head. “If you arrest me, someone needs to feed them.”

DANNY

The weakest gun control bill in the history of the world failed in the Senate this week. They just didn’t have the numbers, despite the majority of Amercians who actually want background checks for all gun purchasers. “Oh, that would be an infringement of freedoms our founding fathers never intented,” the Senators said. Then they laughed, saying “What difference does it make, our supporters have all the money, we can say “Screw America” all we want. Then the next election cycle came up. All the Senators who voted against the bill lost their seats. Hey, it’s all in the numbers.

JUSTIN

Ones and zeroes, clusters of information, all moving across The Grid. Inside the Grid, I have a disc to fight with, and a light cycle to ride on. There is an enemy, a contagion, a virus, digitized hacker. The Datawraiths. They must be defeated, and in the fight to do so, their code and warez mingle with my systems, corroding them, corrupting my programs and files. Slowing me down.

It’s hard to remember to clean the system, run the anti-virus programs, when the fighting is fierce, and I nearly was derezzed from pure forgetfulness. You’d think anti-virus would run automatically.

SINGH

Dear Palindrome 101

Emergency rings 101
in Argentina, Belarus, Israel, India.
Hello! Hello! (Why can’t I get through?)

Longest highway, Route 101, you’re calling too,
but this is a metaphor
and I’m not an American.

Alright, alright, I’ll offer 101
sugarball bribes to Krishna
(I’m a hotline queue-jumper.)

Please don’t send us back
to the torture room in 1984.
I know that story, because

more 101 Ways are in print
than 100 Whatevers typed with
101 keyboards, the IBM standard.

Meanwhile, I’ll love you from both sides
punching strobogrammatic primes
on my calculator

happily enrolled in Life 101.
Class starts
at sun up.

REDGODDESS

There are days when the hotel is populated with more staff than guests. On Sunday mornings, everyone sleeps late until brunch is served. Lola takes those rare moments to soak in the environment and remember old favorite guests. Before she could finish her thoughts, she heard chuckling coming from the front door. Their door man and the valet guy are chatting loudly.
The doorman has been in the hospital for weeks, since he was shot, feet away from the hotel. The first words out of his mouth, “Does the devil still live here?.” Which one? Lola asks jokingly. He’s a hard-working man with loads of worries but he’s always in good spirit. His number was almost up, but finds the courage to open doors for strangers, like nothing ever happened.

PLANET Z

Everybody says that Neo is The One.

Except Neo. He denies it completely.

Even to me, his bartender.

“Dude,” I tell him. “You can stop bullets in mid-air, change The Matrix like an Agent through sheer will, and you can fly. Only one guy can do that: The One.”

He just stares at me.

Then he shakes his head. “I’m not The One.”

We keep this up all night, until it’s Last Call.

I throw a glass at him.

And he stops it mid-air.

“Okay, you got me,” says Neo. “I’m The One.”

“Good,” I say, smiling. “Here’s his tab.”