Weekly Challenge – Page 71 – The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Weekly Challenge #350 – Think

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 Think.

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

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

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:

HELEN

As a child, I was told to “Think” before I spoke and children speak first and think
later. Time elapsed, I am an adult, and I do “Think” before I speak. Let me share a
phrase about thinking before you speak
Before you utter words T H I N K.
T – is truths
H – is honesty
I – is important
N – is necessary
K – is knowing
Do you speak Truths, with an Honest heart, and is it Important, and is it Necessary,
and do you Know what your speaking about.
How many times have you spoken, and did not think.

CHRIS

The Hell Gate

I have spent an eternity searching for The Doomsday Sword, I had found Excalibur but it was only the shattered remains. In the arctic I have come across Northern Frost Giants, Ice Trolls, and Abominable Snowmen.
Thanks to my quick thinking and great survival training, I have survived. I only wish there weren’t monsters to begin with. But then again we would not fear and become our own monsters.
But that is beside the point! I am still searching for the sword and hopefully I’ll be in time to shut the gates of hell before the demon Diablo has escaped.

JEFFREY

Marital Relations
by Jeffrey Fischer

Larry had been married a long time, or at least long enough that he thought he understood how the marital game was played. He knew the traps, the pitfalls in a relationship. “Do these pants make my butt look big?” elicited a rapid “You look lovely, as always” in response.

Despite his expertise, or what he perceived to be his expertise, Larry was caught off guard when his wife said, “What do you think? Do these pants make my butt look bigger than usual?” Think, man, think! he thought, scrambling for the right answer.

While he was still floundering at that question, his wife fired a second round: “When you say I look like a million, why do you think it isn’t it more?”

“Uh…” Think! he exhorted himself, but nothing reasonable came to mind.

That was when Larry decided that the smartest course was to quietly pack a suitcase and leave.

DR. FRAN

Think

In Alcoholics Anonymous Meetings they have signs with aphorisms on the walls or tables in the room. One of the signs says THINK. Some say it stands for: The Happiness I Now Know thanks to being sober (which I think stands for: Son of a bitch, everything’s real). What gets me is that a lot of meetings place the signs upside down. What’s up with that? Is that supposed to make me think more? My sponsor tells me not to think ever. So what do I do…do I think or don’t I think? I really don’t know what to think.

TOM

HEY 19

When you reflect on the levels of product placement in the media it’s a wonder there is any room left for plot. Whether it’s an Aston Martin or an Azure Mustang, Coke or Cadbury, Reese’s Pieces or Rolex timepieces we the captive audience are severed up a banquet of purchase possibilities. Most placements have the subtly of a sledgehammer, but others lie under the psyche sub rosa of pop culture Take International Business Machine Corporation they wedged their presence into Billboard’s top ten in May 1968. Got the Queen of Soul to hammer it home in a pounding refrain.

LIZZIE

Ruminations

He had the irritating habit of never doing what he was told. Go right, he went left. Don’t eat with your mouth open and he made it a point of showing his ruminations, although that could be construed as something highly philosophical, especially after a few large bites, when he would gravely state “I ate Sunday for dessert” while spraying the table with bits of food. So, when someone jokingly told him to jump out of the window on the third floor, they never expected him to follow through. His psychiatrist even commented “I think he misunderstood what was said.”

Chopping work

“We’ll never make it, boss…”

“We must.”

So, they left to fulfill the task at hand.

Hours later, back in the freezing workshop, they emptied the bags on the tables.

“I got 9.”

“9? Where’s the tenth?”

“Damaged. The guy tried to punch me…”

“Didn’t I tell you not to grab live ones?”

“Yes, boss, but this is an emergency…”

It was. They still needed 21 to reach the quota. How did they ever manage to convince the chef of the local delicatessen restaurant that fried fingers would become fashionable? And to think of all the chopping work still ahead…

ALAN

HAMLET

They couldn’t persuade him to go out, so they left him behind with his books. They, in the meantime, had dinner and drinks at Gerry’s Grill. By nine in the evening, they were at Chef and Brewer’s dancing to the funk band, The Bedroom Boys. They wound up the night at a girlie bar carousing and singing karaoke. When they returned, they found him on the rocking chair dead. “He thought too much,” they remarked. The next day, they buried Hamlet.

MUNSI

The Worst Joke I Know

By Christopher Munroe

So Rene Descartes walks into a bar.

He’s finished an axiom a day ahead of schedule, and as such has a three-day weekend he hadn’t expected to have. Therefore, he plans to get schnozzled.

And schnozzled he becomes. Shots of Jagermeister, beer by the jug, by two in the morning he’s propped against the bar to keep from falling.

Still, he’s good folk and he works hard. Nobody begrudges him.

“One for the road?” the bartender asks, and Descartes scoffs.

“Are you kidding? I’m already so drunk I can’t even think!” He replies, then vanishes, never to be seen again…

ZACKMANN

“Does your new thinking cap work?”
“Not so well, I think I use the wrong Thinkgeek website because all I can think about is small headless animals.” replied Zack
“Now trying my thinking pants.” Joe sings “Ooh ahh, dance in smarty pants.”
“Stop that singing. Don’t try using those. My mother says whenever a guy thinks with his pants it can only end in tears.”
“Say Zack, Do you think we spending too much on useless gadgets?”
“I was told if I thought I would be dangerous.” .
“Well, someone should have told you, you’re more dangerous when you don’t think”

“What are you building up here?”
“Didn’t I tell you I am starting a think tank and tonight we are going to take over the world”
“Really?”
“Oh my yes, I am making It and It will solve all of our problems. People are unhappy because they think too much and It will do all our thinking for us. It for President. Vote It in 2016.”
“You’re teasing?”
“Actually it’s It, a prop for a stage performance of A Wrinkle in Time and I am making the Happiest Sadist. Do you like It? ”
“I hated It I reading the book”

TURA

It had taken years, and millions of dollars, but at last, the Artificial General Intelligence project was ready for its first demonstration.

The professor took the microphone in his hand, and spoke its first command: “Computer! Think!”

Billions of transistors performed billions of operations every second, while incomprehensible patterns flowed across the front panel, and retro magnetic tape drives twitched back and forth. At last, the screen displayed the computer’s response: “Computer! Think!”.

“Great, the speech recognition works. Do you think that will be enough to keep DARPA off our backs for another year?”

The programmer snorted. “Not a chance.”

SEVI and BONCHANCE

Salt

The distrust was tangible throughout the salt negotiations.
The Americans presented a sweet deal to the Soviets;
consequently they couldn’t understand why the Russians balked.

Soviet behaviour was explained by lead Air Force General.

“Sir they know that we know they are cheating.
They intend to continue cheating. We factored that in,
however they are oblivious to our cheating tactics.

“General we are not cheating! Sir,if they don’t find ours, they won’t sign.”
They laboured all night weaving sneaky cheats into the treaty.
The President promoted the General to a staff position saying,
“Son I like the way you think”.

Think About It

Carl sat at the table gazing down at his cup of coffee as his wife chattered.
This was their reality. His wife would talk; Carl meditated with his cup of coffee.
Diane finally noticed that Carl had not stirred for over 10 minutes.
By now he would have shuffled off to warm his coffee.

“Carl?”

He looked up blankly “Yes my love”?
“What are you thinking about? “Nothin honey”.
She smiled and nodded, pouring hot coffee into his cup.
Early on in their marriage, she didn’t believe that answer.
Overtime acceptance set in.
Men miraculously really could just “not think”.

CLIFF

The robot was supposed to respond to David’s thoughts. We had built the war machine and the sensors that connected it to David, the pilot. Today, we had the live test. David cleared his mind, put on the sensor helmet, and his face went blank. I held my breath and waited. The robot stepped onto the field, surveyed the surroundings, and promptly put a missile into the Toyota parked in David’s spot. David drove a Chevy. He apologized profusely. Apparently, his unconscious mind had more input than we thought. That’s when I decided to stop messing around with David’s wife.

SINGH

Welcome to Geekosity!

We are such stuff as dreams are made on.

Unlike Shakespeare we used to think the mind was enchained. Decades of research have shown this isn’t so. Brain plasticity can alter and with special training we can develop higher functioning abilities. Like a fitness centre where you exercise various muscle groups, we have designed an online brain-gym to grow cognitive know-how, spike memory ability, cultivate problem-solving, and balance right brain, left brain coherence — and increase attention span, duh! In other words — warp speed your thinking to the next level. This is the Age of the Nerd! Welcome to Geekosity.com.

*
“As a professional gambler, my eyes are constantly scanning every combination of clubs, spades, hearts and diamonds. I must memorize and discretely bet, or video surveillance will bring the casino goons down upon me. Through Geekosity I am playing games like Multiple Taskforce, Hypothalamus Hip Hop and Runaway Roulette. My percentile average is up from 58 to 99%. Now I can play high stake Black Jack in my transvestite disguise with total confidence. Yes, Geekosity has quadrupled my earnings in just seven days. Without it, I’d still be a scratch lottery jockey down at the local drug store. Cool huh?”

*
“Since coming from Slovenia, they were giving me bad name – Forgetful Franka. Business not good. Regular customer would come for ‘usual’, but I can not tell foot fetishist from simple hand job with mayonnaise customer. I am only thinking of dollar. This was until Geekosity super memory programmme. After just 12 days I can start tagging different sex toy to different name, different face. For example – riding crop for Freddy, dog muzzle for Carlo, bottle of mayo for Peter, plastic nappy for Cry-Baby Benny. Thank you, so much Geekosity! I am now serving customer good with open mind, open heart.”

*
“Whenever we do a job it must be blue-printed, rehearsed and executed to the letter. Not everyone can waltz in with a sawn-off shotgun and terrorize customers to the floor while your partner bags the cash. And you have to watch out for trigger-happy security guards and bank clerks blowing the whistle with a buzzer under the counter. Geekosity’s speed, agility and problem-solving games have taken all the stress out of bank-robbing. We knock over one a week now. Seeing the results, Joey my partner is signing up. Thanks to Geekosity the sky is the limit!”

*
These stories are from the ranks of our 30 million under-achievers. Each is opening his or her nerd eye, transforming daily from turkey consciousness to becoming high-flying eagles of aptitude. This is the golden age of the geek. Log on to our website and join the millions with self-esteem issues who are battling valiantly to get good at mind games. Why? To get good at mind games! Get in touch with your inner geek and become an ambassador of Geek chic. Sign up for a neuro-plastic self-assessment and trade in your old brain today!

REDGODDESS

Lola wakes up in a daze, blinded by scent of romance. She rolls over to realize he’s not there. She tries to trigger a memory from her New Year’s Eve date. “How could he leave her in his strange bed? She thinks it’s best to get out of here. Draped in a white satin sheet, she tiptoes through an open door, following the aroma of fresh brewed coffee. She is surprised to see “him” cooking shirtless.
Clearing her throat, she greets him. “You’re awake, my sleeping beauty,” Lola is exhausted but finds energy to soak in the view. The kitchen table adorned with decadent pastries. She drops the sheet and sat next to him. Lola sips her coffee, looking over at him, and firmly asks, “Where do we go from here?…

JUSTIN

Adam Jensen stood over the hacked console, finger hovering over the screen. One press of a button, and the security robot would rampage against the guards. Adam remembered the screams after he hacked that turret. Did those men have families? Were they just trying to feed them with a job like everyone else? Did he have a right to end their lives, even if they were bad men, when he could just take them down without killing with a little more effort? With one press of another button, he deactivated the security robots and went on his way, sneaking, non-lethal.

NORVAL JOE

The company followed Flindert back down the passage to an intersection, the sorceress lighting the way with a glowing silver ball. The tunnel curved slowly back to the right and Owen tried to picture in his mind where they had gone in relationship to the throne room.
“I think,” The second word was barely out of his mouth when Traveller clamped broad hand over Owen’s lips. The ranger motioned to the ground with his other hand.
A hole in the floor revealed the company had climbed over the throne room and now stood directly above the princess and her captors.

People say Dr. Seuss was a creative genius.
As a child I found his illustrations disconcerting and at times downright depressing.
And his text. My Daughter insisted I read her the book, “Oh the thinks you can think.”
Get this;
“If you try,
you can think up
a GUFF going by.
And you don’t have to stop.
You can think about SCHLOPP.
Schlopp. Schlopp. Beautiful schlopp.
Beautiful schlopp
with a cherry on top.”
That’s not creative. That’s lazy poetry. If he couldn’t come up with a rhyme, he just made up a word. And he never once mentions wiener dogs.

PLANET Z

Fred’s job was to think up amazing things.

He’d sit at his desk all day with a wistful look on his face, and every now and then he’d sigh.

His boss asked him if he’d thought up anything useful, and Fred would say “Yes.”

Then he’d sigh again.

When the CEO asked him to be more productive with his time, Fred said “Sure, I’ll think about it.”

And he did.

His quarterly report showed that he’d thought up three times as many amazing things than in the previous quarter.

He had plenty of time to think in the Unemployment Line.

Weekly Challenge #349 – Chance

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 Chance.

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

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

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:

SECRET RAGE

As She drove the deserted highway, thinking…, “My life’s become so predictably mundane … I just can’t live through another day of this boredom!” she noticed the train tracks to her right, turned up Highway to Hell playing on the radio, accelerated and decided her word for the day: CHANCE.
Gaining speed, ahead she noticed a cross street..and then ~ a train headed her direction. Smiling to herself~now was the time…her CHANCE. The train and car both neared the crossing. Speeding, she reached it… wildly turning, gates descending… thinking, “will I? will I? will I beat the train…….”

JEFFREY

A Game of Chance
by Jeffrey Fischer

At the Black Carnival, Death set up a booth. “Come one, come all!” he cried. “Take a dare with Death. One dollar only! Fifty-fifty odds – flip a coin, heads you win, tails you lose!”

A man walked up to the booth. He asked Death, “What do I get if I win?”

Death smiled. There’s one born every minute. “Sir, your prize is one hundred – yes, you heard me right, one HUN-dred years of life. A marvelous thing, unavailable elsewhere at any price.”

“And if I lose?”

Death looked somber. “Why, I collect your life tonight.”

The man placed a dollar on the table, his robust look giving the lie to his cancer-wracked body.

“I like those chances.”

LIZZIE

A book of clouds, that was my gift.

I opened it and turned the pages randomly. A face, a mushroom, a flying saucer, a world of lambent pictures in the sky. They made my child smile and point and laugh and giggle for no reason.

By chance, I opened the book on a page where the clouds had formed a 6, his age. He stopped, staring at the photo, then looked up.

“That’s me!”

“Yes, that’s your age,” I replied.

He beamed and said “I have been to the sky!”

Being a kid is such an amazing thing, isn’t it?

CHRIS

A Chance Of Snow

In Sunny Town it never snows so every Christmas is a downer. It doesn’t rain, hail, get foggy or cloudy, and it never snows. There is only the hot miserable sun. If it weeny for the glass domes we live in we would burn in seconds. Because Venus isn’t exactly what you might call cool.
There is a giant factory plant mining a material known as Laverium. It is a stone that stays hot no matter what.
It’s been fun not having to be inside all the Time though.And at least we can hope for a chance of snow.

TOM

I drive the Subaru into the City of Chance pass the towering temples of
temptation. What could possibly say Christmas more gloriously then Las
Vegas. A place that gives Paris a run for its money, as to a claim for
City of Light. And timeless, and by that I mean, search as you may you
won’t find a clock on a casino floor. As I pursue the practitioners of
possibility I chose the altar of avarice to lay my money down. Though I
win or lose in the end in my heart I know its best to be the house.

ZACKMANN

“Someday I, Chance RueLay, will be part of Chad Blastermann’s team, The Action Battalion, fighting the illuminati everyplace they try to hide ”
“Honey, I don’t think there is a chance you can do that?”
“Don’t you think I am good enough?”
“Joe, you do know Cheyenne just made Chad Blastermann up. Right?”
“Honey I said call me Chance so the illuminati doesn’t find us.”
“Joe, I mean Chance, don’t you think you should face reality?”
“My hero Chad Blastermann almost never faces reality why should I.”
“Because you love me.”
“I’ll leave my fantasy world before its I leave for work.”

ALAN ADENA TAN

It was by chance that I first met you. I had come from Mindanao and was resting in Cebu. You and your friends were at the boarding house watching Annabelle Rama making a fool of herself on TV, what else? Though we had only met, you gave me a slice of blueberry cheesecake that a friend of yours brought. I was hooked. But I had to return to Manila, and our love had no chance. The distance was unforgiving, despite the astronomical phone bills. You had to marry someone else. That was fated.

SERENDIPITY

It was the high school reunion: a party and a dance.

Across the room I saw him – and watched him steal a furtive glance.

There within his eyes, the silent hope for some romance,

But he wouldn’t have it easy – I looked back at him, askance.

I recalled how he had bullied me, called me names, and now perchance,

I wondered if he’d apologise, before making his advance.

He made his way toward me across the ballroom’s wide expanse,

Then smiling at me broadly, he assumed a haughty stance.

So I flipped him the finger! – Sorry mate… not a chance!

MUNSI

Chance

By Christopher Munroe

They say leave nothing to chance.

But I knew a guy nicknamed Chance once.

We worked together in Edmonton for years, hang out to this day, I see him whenever I’m up there. I make a point of dropping in to say hi.

We maybe aren’t the closest friends, but he’s good people, my life’s richer for having him in it.

Were I to pass away, I’d leave him something. At the very least a token, to remember me by.

Wait, now that I think about it, his nickname was Chase, not chance.

No, yeah, I’ll leave nothing to chance.

SINGH

Who’s Your Daddy?

by Chris Mooney-SIngh/Singh Albatros

Dolly had been giving Daddy trouble. If he asked her for coffee, she hesitated.
If he suggested a back-rub, she’d whine sweetly. “What about me?”
When his best friend visited, she seemed out-rightly flirtatious, passing him the tumbler of scotch with two rocks of ice.
“There, Teddy Bear.”
Strangely, Daddy didn’t object. Instead, he smelled a challenge.
“Roll over,” he said in bed, later.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“It’s time to shift things up a notch, girl.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He pressed open the motorised slot in her polymer neck. There were three buttons. He took a deep breath and pressed number 1.

*
Dolly’s instruction manual boasted 188 sympathetic functions like blinking, preening, smiling, frowning, singing, even shedding a saline tear; and there was a self-learning cycle programmed into her memory chip to mimic independent thought.
“Daddy, Let’s go out.”
He was excited by her suggestion. The artificial intelligence factor was kicking in.
Soon, his hover sedan was varooming them toward Citadel Towers and parking beside the ocean.
“It’s big, Daddy,” she said, her synthetic cheeks flushing red. She pressed the seats to recline mode and was soon riding him.
“More!”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He couldn’t resist and reached to press Button 2.
*
“Let’s go swim now,” said polymer Dolly.
Daddy was thrilled with her new random assertiveness. He liked women with spark, supremely confident he could always master them. Unlike his plump ex-wife who had drained him emotionally and financially, Dolly didn’t need food, so she never lost her charming figure with its modifiable tummy, breasts and hips.
No one worried about sex-bots any more. It was normal to see them walking around naked at the beach. As soon as they hit the water, webbing appeared automatically between fingers and toes, and next, Daddy was riding Dolly like a jet-ski.

*
She took him in queasy circles, then, dolphin-dived him underwater.
“You like that, Daddy?” She gurgled.
Gasping air-bubbles, he nodded his head.
Then she came to shore, beached and straddled him aggressively. He loved her rough new style, then got even more excited seeing ten needle-points come from beneath her fingernails. She clamped them on his pectorals.
“Harder,” he ordered.
“Yes, Daddy.”
He felt light-headed pleasure.
“You’ve really got your hooks into me now!”
“Yes, Daddy,” she winked, crushing those perfect breasts against his chest.
Daddy knew he was taking a big chance, and pressed Button 3.

*
It was then she forced him, hard, inside her. She began to simulate her most sexual performance to date. Daddy was her rocking horse. Her eyeballs began to swivel in their sockets, in tune with an inner mechanism as the ten needles sucked up and syphoned off his blood.
He felt himself losing control and tried to break her power-grip.
“Enough!” he gasped, but she continued her programmed revery having multiple orgasms.
“Yes! Daddy! Oh, Daddy! Oh!” baring down on him harder, all the while increasing his blood-flow rate into her stomach-sac.
Sucked dry, he gasped his last.

*
As soon as the blood-dribble stopped, a light-button flickered, sounding in her forehead. She touched it to answer.
“Dolly 3330.”
“Control Centre here. Report.”
“Assignment complete, Control. Need a blood-station.”
“Look behind you, then reset.”
There was a terminal in the wall of the building.
After disposing of Daddy’s body in the ocean, she connected her stomach-hose to the blood-station and uploaded.
Done, she reached behind her neck and reset each button. Her head rolled, then clicked back into place. She smiled, ready.
Then, her forehead-phone sounded again.
“Hello Dolly. Teddy here. Remember?”
“Yes, Daddy.”

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The boy clutched the edges of his blanket, huddling into the flannel, hiding against the cold and his sister’s condescending glare.

She tapped his shoulder. “Santa’s not coming. Not even a chance. Come to bed before…” she shuddered “…he sees and beats us again.”

The boy didn’t move. Finally, his sister shook her head and hid in the tiny room they shared.

The boy started awake at the hoofstep on the floor.

The demon, Santa’s prisoner and helper, punisher of the wicked, handed his chain to the boy.

“Merry Christmas,” it hissed. Boy and demon smiled the same smile.

CLIFF

The grand prize was a new car. It was worth a buck and besides, the money all went to help orphaned pandas or balding whales. Some goofy charity.
I didn’t expect to win, but I did. Not the car. No, I won a time machine. The Mad Scientist Museum had gone under and all the exhibits were donated for the raffle. The documentation for the device was terrible. Obviously, the madman who had built it was no technical writer. I could see how to make it work but not how to set the destination. So, should I take another chance?

GARY

She sounds perfect for me. Or I sound perfect for her.

Both of us a little past prime, never married, no kids, seeking intelligent companionship on one of those—how did I end up here—sites.

I’m looking for someone to help kill the boredom of next Sunday. I hate Sundays.

She’s jaded—waded through a dozen phonies.

I clicked the wrong distance—stupid mouse. She’s 500 miles away.

I’m no jet-setter.

Aw hell, I’ll email anyway. I like to write and she sounds funny…

Now, two years gone by. The nurse just handed me my new baby girl.

TURA

“How do you reckon our chances, Dad?”

“Well now, there’s a chance it’ll be cold. That’s fine, then we won’t work up a sweat. There’s a chance it’ll be warm. So our trigger fingers won’t stiffen. In a blustery wind, the game won’t hear us, but if it’s still, we’ll hear the game. If the sky’s clear, we can see for miles. If it’s cloudy, the sun won’t be in our eyes. Maybe there’s a chance of rain. Then there won’t be any dust. It might even snow, which makes tracking easy.

“Don’t worry about chances, son. Make your own.”

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

Hotel

He looked across the room where she was sitting at a table alone,
appearing above all the others in the room.
She was sucking on a candy cane and he couldn’t help but focus
in as she pursed her lips sucking on it. He smiled as he heard the song
take a chance on me playing over the sound system.

He stood to go introduce himself.
The conference was three days of boring speeches separated by
long breaks in between at the hotel restaurant or lobby.

They were in the city that never sleeps and should be making some noise!

The Odds

Pepe had really strained his relationship with his pops, Pablo.
But he had a plan to fix all of it. He saved enough cash to replace the TV that he broke
and did all of his assigned chores without a complaint.

It’s been a month since the chairman incident. He summoned the courage to run it by his mom.
Ma what’s the odds pops will reduce my being grounded to just one month since I’ve been so good?

Espy looked up as if she was doing a difficult mental calculation then shook her head firmly saying,
not a chance buster!

NORVAL JOE

Elbownor, being as lightfooted as any elf, eased himself close to the open door and listened. Moments later he was back with the rest of the company.
“The sound of three people breathing, one of which was distressed,” he told them.
“We could take a chance that the one is the princess, but if it is not, we may have three to battle, needlessly,” Shareeka said. “Is there another way into the throne room, Flindert?”
The dwarf, still in his black mood, slowly looked from his folded hands.
“Aye. I do believe there be a secret way into the room.”

REDGODDESS

Lola stares at the elegant Christmas tree in the hotel lobby as guests hurry by, waving hello. Each one speeds up faster than the last to the exit door. Lola has dreamed about traveling somewhere exotic for the holidays but each year she takes on more hours and responsibilities, to pay crushing debts. She abruptly places her head down on the counter and sighs, “ when will something good come in my life.” She lifts her head as she wipes her eyes and finds herself face to face with her “guy.” She stood speechless yet pleased to see him. Before she could utter a word, he pleads, “give us a fighting chance.’

PLANET Z

It’s nice out, but I won’t open the windows.

We have screens on the windows to keep out the bugs, but the cats like to knock them out of the frames and go out to hunt.

The only way to keep the screens in place is to screw them into place. However, that would make it difficult to escape out a window if there was a fire.

Perhaps I’ll screw all the screens into place except one, and that will be the window I’ll use to escape if there’s a fire.

I hope it’s still nice out when I’m done.

Weekly Challenge #348 – Funk

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 Funk.

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

The next weekly challenge is on the topic of Chance.

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:

JEFFREY

Christmas
by Jeffrey Fischer

Marilyn invariably fell into a deep funk around Christmas. The stress of the season got to her, what with buying presents for ungrateful recipients, baking cookies for disdainful eaters, and having the same arguments every year with visiting family members.

This year she decided to cheer herself up. She mailed socks to everyone as gifts, baked nothing, and told her relatives she would be out of town for Christmas. Then she sat at home by herself, consuming a bottle of Wild Turkey and two pints of Cherry Garcia ice cream on Christmas Eve.

Despite the hangover, Marilyn deemed this the best Christmas ever.

TOM

Colorblind

I play trombone in Parliament, not the body the band. Julliard trained in oboe, I am sort of a musical shaman, one foot in hyper white, the other in hyper blue. Funk is the blues on Acid. Sorrow turned inside out. Where the blues lets it out, funk lets it go. My job is providing the hairpin turns when the Parliament train reaches full steam. I use to think George collected this circus parade to create a march of joy. Actually he was a music guerilla true to Che’s revolutionary vision. Funk is the driving beat of love. Be dangerous.

SERENDIPITY

Funk

– The Call –

High in the Himalayan peaks is an ancient monastery where sacred monks devoutly pursue the mastery of the discipline of funk.

Clad in colourful robes, flared trousers and the distinctive holy afro that designates the devotees of funk, the brothers live simple, ascetic lives on a strict diet of funky chicken, magic mushrooms and James Brown.

I have heard the call… my feet feel the beat of that funky music, it’s time to get on up, gather my funky stuff and pack my brand new bag, for higher ground.

Time to ditch my junk and become a monk of funk!

– The Disciple –

“My son, you’ve gotta give it up… and don’t stop ’till you get enough”

The monk’s words were wise, yet perplexing.

Again, I asked him… “When will I attain mastery?”

“Son – that’s the jive talking, you gotta be yourself… now, try again”

It seemed so simple: when I could perform the ritual moves of the sissy strut, without tearing the rice-paper beneath my feet, I would have attained enlightenment – a true funk master.

I failed again.

And again.

The monk demanded I try once more.

“More? – What is it good for?”

“Absolutely nothing!”, came the enigmatic reply.

– The Enlightened –

Is it really ten years since I ascended this mountain?

With each step, the path downwards brought me closer to civilisation. I pulled the sheepskin coat tighter, my afro bobbing in the wind.

Soon, the monastery was out of sight and I knew my journey was at an end when I found myself at the carwash – the town spread before me.

Eager to spread the word of funk, I headed for the clubs and dance floors…

But, what was this?

A new sound in town!

The funk monk had discovered punk!

High in the Himalayas, live the monks of punk..

MUNSI

Occupy Funk
By Chris Munroe

1% of this country controls 70% of its funk. And that’s not right.

I’m not criticizing the funky, plenty do their part, sharing funk with the world. Prince, for example, releases music every year, and we’re all better for it.

However, not everyone shares Prince’s decency. How long’s it been since Maurice Day and the Time released an album?

So we’re taking to the streets, the 99% of us who aren’t funky, and we won’t be silenced. Join me, let our voices be heard!

We want the funk.

Give us the funk.

We need the funk.

Gotta have that funk.

LIZZIE

“The end of the world… close call,” thought Lisa fearfully.

Bag? Check. Ticket? P28. It was time to leave the planet.

At the local flight-pod station, a sign said “No flights. The end is here.” What? Again? “Open this door right now,” she shouted in despair. When no one came, she kicked the door in, searched for P28, locked herself in it and clicked “Go”.

Where she went, no one knows. That pod model had been discontinued just the day before due to serious technical problems; it sort of disintegrated people. Well, apparently the end was here alright… for Lisa.

SINGH

Heard it Though the Pumpkinvine

By Chris Mooney-Singh/Singh Albatros

The Desert Bowl Festival was nearly over. An Australian singer-songwriter travelling America, I’d luckily scored this Phoenix gig. My Cockatoo Rock and Didgeridoo Hullabaloo (with local blues legends The Gila Monsters doing back up) brought the house down. Then, the Bad Cactus Brass Band played.

A negro gardener paused on his rake.

“Any good, Mate?” I asked. “Can white boys play New Orleans jazz?”

“Why sure. But dey needs to stank it up a whole lot more.”

“Me too?” I asked cheekily.

He reached for something. “Here!” Put dis seed in yo garden back home, son.”

He smiled, and was gone.

I really did not know the first step in growing things, but my Dad had a greenhouse, home in Melbourne, so he helped me strike the weird psychedelic-coloured pod. He was pleased. Finally, I was showing interest in his lifelong passion. I did the daily watering and found myself humming new tunes. Soon a frond appeared, and next, a pumpkin vine snaked from the big terracotta pot. I really got into the routine, excitedly seeing my plant develop and sprout first produce. But this was no ordinary vegetable: the weird-coloured fruit was elongated and resembled the horn of a tiny saxophone.

Other emerald nubs began to unfurl child-fists along the vine. They looked delicate and pretty. One morning opening the greenhouse door, I heard a riff coming from the psychedelic fruit. Then it stopped. Dad had gone fishing, but I got through on the mobile.

“You are imagining things, Son.” Like any parent, he was concerned about the gig scene and bad influences.

“I don’t do drugs, Dad” Offended, I hung up.

It was weird that the vegetable would not play in my presence. So, one evening I sneaked up, rushed in and caught it howling like a New Orleans jazz legend.

It couldn’t hide its funk from me now, blowing harder after each watering. The other pumpkins were already transforming into psychedelic trumpets, trombones, sousaphones and a fat tuba. I had read about the psycho-physical effects of music on plants, but this was ridiculous. What’s more, the funk pumpkin ensemble was turning me into a James Brown. I did the Boogaloo, the Mashed Potato and the Camel Walk –there on the greenhouse slab. Even weirder was that each audible vegetable was now growing Afro hair and side burns and upbeat jazz funk was on fire throughout the house and the garden.

I had never really got down with funk before, so I hunted for old collectible vinyls and CDs. I rescued James Brown’s Greatest Hits, loads of Marvin Gaye, Herbie Hancock, The Temptations, Stevie Wonder and Sly and the Family Stone doing their famous hits like ‘I Want to Take You Higher’. I collected more and more, while the funk pumpkins kept rioting like rutting elephants. Meanwhile, I thought of all the Aus-rock, pop ballads and Indy folk tunes I had written as a thing of the past and felt the distinct wiry pressure of tight curly hair pushing through my scalp.

Tran our Vietnamese neighbour peered over the fence. “Having a party?”

“Sure am.” I said. “Come over.”

I showed him the funk pumpkins and soon we were both dancing. The music reminded him of Saigon. A negro soldier was once going to marry his sister and he also gave Tran soul records.

“What happened?”

“Got killed,” Tran said. “ Then my sister got blown up in the street.

He passed me some fresh Pak Choy he had grown.

“All these pumpkin very ah..groovy,” he said pulling the word from his rebuilt past.

“Let’s have a real party. Call your friends, Tran.”

The whole Vietnamese Chinese neighbourhood were grooving from greenhouse to living room by the time Dad got home. I wore sunglasses, polo neck and striped pants and sporting a full afro, my black-skin transformation complete.

“Whasupp Daddyo? Gimme some skin!”

“What’s going on? Where’s my ratbag son?”

“I really dig dis old doghouse you got here, Big Daddy? Da joint is jumpin. Listen to da music!”

That was enough. “Ok, all of you — Out! Before I call the police!

“Hey man! No need for da fuzz’.

I grabbed my ghetto blaster and did the Funky Chicken out the front door.

It was a strange rebirth for an old soul brother from Motown, now downtown in Melbourne, Australia — funk busking with all the moves, plus the Robot, the Swim, and Soul Train steps, pumping to the music machine for thrown pieces of silver. Then, craving some home cookin’ I bought myself a chilly cheese wiener from American Hot Dogs franchise before dragging my black ass onto the St Kilda tram for some club action at the Tongue and Groove. There, I hit the dance floor creating a sensation that climaxed with me doing the splits worthy of ole’ James Brown himself.

Meanwhile, I wondered if the greenhouse effect had softened Dad at all. After sleeping on a park bench, I sneaked back the next day, only to find — funk was dead. The pumpkins were all sliced and diced waiting to become soup. Feeling cut off from my roots, I then had my brightest idea and rescued the seeds from the pumpkin guts tossed in the compost bin. I was saved! And started to do the Gospel side-step, marvelling what Almighty blessings come from weird desert travels. I’d become Johnny Pumpkinseed for the African-American funkinisation of Australia. The psychedelic seventies were back!

CLIFF

Casimir Funk was born in Warsaw back when it was part of the Russian Empire. A biochemist by training, he became intrigued by the idea that certain foods helped fight certain diseases and set out to isolate the elements responsible. In the end, he created the concept of vitamins. Every time you pop a Flintstones chewable, you should be thanking Casimir Funk. He died in 1967 in New York City. His work improved the health of millions and yet, it’s sad. He never once got to play his bass for an audience and truly be Casimir Funky, Master of Funk.

ZACKMANN

Every afternoon, I take the Grand Funk Railroad into Funky Town then stop at the Cornelia Funke Library and Playground. Orville and Wilbur play instrumentals and I say “Play that funky music Wright boys.”
I am often in a funk because as much as I want to rendezvous with my wife for a night of fun at Funky Town Dance Hall, I have to go to work making electricity at the funkiest place in funky town the Funky Town Sewage Treatment and Methane Plant. Our fair city may have been built on rock and roll but it runs on crap.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The stink rose from the dancer. The singer looked at the director. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Look,” the director said, putting an arm across the singer’s shoulders, “you want to make a splash with this video. To recreate your image, right?”

“Well, yeah…”

“Look, trust me. That guy may not smell the best, but he’s got some serious moves.” The director handed the red leather jacket to the singer. “He’s got… An old groove.”

The singer smiled. “The funk of forty thousand years?”

They watched a finger fall from the dancer’s hand.

“At least,” the director said. “At least.”

SEVI AND BONCHANCE

This Cold will be the Death of him!

Jack was a substantial bloke who loved to push people around. He didn’t give a damn about anybody!

He literally got away with murder.

His favourite past time was to glide down the street, bump people, daring them to make something of it.
Jack’s latest victim was robed in black. He hit him straight on and shockingly Jack fell on his ass.
They stared at each other. The cloaked darkness glared coldly and projected a deathly grin.

In a sepulchral voice he bellowed “No time for you today Jack Frost, but I have an opening next week….Oh and bring the funk!”

REDGODDESS

Hunger is not seasonal, and suffering is not a trend. Yet every Christmas, there is a surge about feeding the poor. The same working poor and homeless who are visible year round suddenly present a fantastic opportunity. Lola got in a funk when the hotel Manager launched a food drive. This is the same woman who treats her staff like slaves. The same woman who smiles when she calls the cops to remove homeless saying ‘come fast, they have drugs.’ Lola watches as wealthy clients place cans into boxes and thank her manager for caring so much. A disgusting funk!

NORVAL JOE

The company was safely through the thick oak door, though Spleen had to be dragged from within the slavering jaws of the water creature. The muffled roar of the creature could still be heard as it scratched at the unyeilding door in frustation.
A distant light down the tunnel raised everyone’s hopes, but Flindert’s. For some reason, the dwarf remained in a silent funk and only glared at the companions when they tried to cheer the unrecognized heir to the ancinet tunnels.
“An eternal flame lights the dwarven throne room,” Shareeka said. “I beleive we’ll find the princess just ahead.”

When Hosmer heard the musical question, “Are you funk enough?” he had to answer no.
He’d watched Soul Train every week and spent hours practicing the popular dance moves.
He didn’t have enough hair to get a perm, so he bought a large blonde afro wig. Tight Angel Flight pants, a wet look nylon shirt, three inch platform shoes, a gold chain and he still couldn’t get a girl to dance with him at the local disco.
Dispondent, he gave his wiener dog a mohawk, pushed a safety pin through his ear and waited for punk rock to catch on.

PLANET Z

The phone rang.
The police technician nodded his head.
So, I picked up the phone.

“Hello?” I said.
“We’ve got the funk,” said a voice.
“Let me hear it”

Telephones don’t have the best audio fidelity, but what I heard was funky.

“What do you want?”
“We want the funk. But we really want the soul.”

I looked at the briefcase that the police had brought.

“Do you have it?”

I dialed the combination on the latches… six six six.

One peek.

Bright light.

“Yeah,” I said, closing the briefcase.

They had the fink. But without soul, it was worthless.

Weekly Challenge #347 – Pudding

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.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 Pudding.

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

The next weekly challenge is on the topic of Funk.

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:

SECRET RAGE

She walked to the pantry…lifted the small box from the shelf and prepared it just as directed. As it cooled, she noted both its consistency (thickening nicely) and color (is vanilla a color?) and thought that without tasting or smelling it…how would a person know what it was? it could be anything! and if its origin was unknown…and IF she named it something else~either mundane or exotic…would it matter? would that make it more or less likely to be consumed? then names it paste~just to see…

VINCENT

The proof is in the pudding

Bradley Davidson stood with his back against the wall wielding a black pudding in the shape of a truncheon in his raised hand. “You bastards,” he shouted. “You’ll not fucking put me back.”

Prosecutor Richardson kept silent. He could see the guy had backed himself into a corner with nowhere to go.

“Mr Bradley,” the judge said, “put down the weapon.”

Richardson, beginning to look over at the judge turned to face Davidson. The dumb fuck. He could see Davidson was going to throw the black pudding across the courtroom. Then what…? Richardson guessed he hadn’t figured that part out.

JEFFREY

Dinner Time
by Jeffrey Fischer

For people of a certain age, Jell-O pudding means Bill Cosby, eating the smooth concoction and pretending it’s the best thing in the world, delivering the ad copy in his Cliff Huxtable schtick.

Others might be reminded of childhood, when Mom didn’t feel like making a real dessert, and instead reached for Mother’s Little Helper – not the pills the Rolling Stones sang about, but the cheap and convenient little box on the shelf that could make whiny children quiet for a short time.

For me, though, Jell-O pudding is hospitals – the smell of sickness and bleach, elderly relatives sitting up in bed, fear written on their faces that this time, this hospital stay, may be the last.

I hate Jell-O pudding.

ROSI VINSON

I hated London. I mean, it’s never actually done anything to me. It just seemed so big, so impersonal, so noisy. Isolating. Hostile, almost. Anyway, I had to travel there for work, convinced I would be mugged, or worse.

I survived, almost unscathed. The worst thing that happened to me was having a fancy restaurant’s waiter spill the teensiest dribble of coffee on my sleeve. He brought me – gratis – the most amazing crème brulee, by way of apology. When I looked up, surprised, he only smiled at me and said: “Pudding on The Ritz.”

London’s not so bad after all.

SARAH W

Daisy wasn’t a great cook, but she always tried hard at Christmas – last year, she excelled herself.

Last minute grocery shopping was a mistake – unable to find ingredients, she improvised…

Substituting baby food and food colouring for cranberry sauce wasn’t her best idea; neither was the improvised turkey stuffing of crushed biscuits and banana, but where she really triumphed was the pudding.

The size of a basketball, it defied all attempts to light it, and with hindsight, resorting to lighter fluid was rather foolish, as was the brandy-soaked paper money she’d hidden inside…

Our eyebrows grew back by Easter!

LIZZIE

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It tastes bad.”

“You haven’t tried it.”

“I have.”

“Not this one.”

“Is it any different?”

“No.”

“Well…”

“I’ll eat it.”

“Be my guest.”

Fast-forward to an hour later.

“How is he doing, doctor?”

“Stable. But we are very concerned. Tell me, what did he eat?”

“Pudding.”

“It must have been bad already…”

“No.”

“No…?”

“No. I added some arsenic to it.”

“Why would you do that,” asked the doctor alarmed running back into the ER.

I told him to buy sweet rice so many times, he thought.

It was 8pm. Great, the supermarket is still open.

TOM

Take the Chair.

I am candidate for the Lucasian Chair but my work of late has taken on a tacit fuzziness that may well be my undoing. As I drop through this last ring of mathematic molasses I remembered what my dear old mum uses to say, “The proof is in the pudding.” And as fate would have it, it was indeed while watching a Bill Cosby JELLO commercial that the final tumbler in the galactic clockwork clicked and the central proof tumbled out. The solution to fourth degree equations is in fact approximately the surface of a Jello pudding pop. Thanks mum

CLIFF

I signed up for a class called “Cooking to the Oldies”. We learned to make several desserts inspired by song titles. There was Warrant’s Cherry Pie, The Beatle’s Savoy Truffle, and some non-alcoholic Watermelon wine inspired by Tom T. Hall. Our final test was to devise our own musically inspired dessert. I’ve always loved how salty and sweet flavors complement each other and taste so good, so I whipped up a batch of butterscotch pudding and dropped a dollop of it on a couple dozen crackers. The instructor just rolled her eyes when I presented my Pudding on The Ritz.

MUNSI

Pudding Cups

By Chris Munroe

Look, none of this is complicated.

I recently received a frequent-shopper gift coupon in the mail, offering double air miles, and regular double air miles day was only a few days off.

So that’s quadruple, right?

Right. So I went to Safeway and found something that both a) was on sale, and b) offered 100 bonus air miles per unit.

In this case, pudding cups. Three for two dollars.

And now I’m going to Vegas. Hundred ten bucks for a week there, hotel included.

It’s going to be a blast!

Anyway: Do you want seventy pounds of pudding, or not?

ZACKMANN

“Are you done pudding Mister Wilson in the van?“
“Say Guido, didn’t the boss say boil him in pudding?”
“How much eggnog did you drink tonight? That was from the Christmas movie we watched, our boss isn’t such a Scrooge.”
“Don’t worry, since you are my favorite cousin I did as you directed”
Guido steps into the van. A man is sitting in a big plastic tub neck deep in pudding
“You have some information you will give us or Nunzio fills this above your head. Tell us, forget us, and live or become the corpses know as Pudd’nhead Wilson”

SINGH

Dinner Party Wars

Chris Mooney-Singh/Singh Albatros

Take five strangers, ask each to throw a dinner party, mix things up with some secret scoring for a E1,000 prize and you have a recipe for disaster. Yes, it’s been a week of cat poo in Debra’s kitty litter stinking out the dining room, Grandma Sheila’s weird robotic after-dinner dancing, a scary encounter with Timothy’s pet python, crawling across the table only to defecate chicken curry on the crisp linen, and sleazy comments by Javier, the alpha male of the bunch saying things like: ”you’ve such beautiful come-to-bed eyes” which Ruby has finally succumbed to. Welcome to Dinner Party Wars.

This week’s four strangers had battled hard, but there wasn’t protection for tomorrow’s hostess – Ruby, from frontrunner Javier, as both coupled on his drunken couch. The cameras and everyone had departed.

Arriving early next evening, Javier soon spread-eagled the lady on her kitchen table. Ruby grunted. “You delicious man!” And then left to shower.

Seeing his chance, Javier stirred something into her pudding-mix.

“Ruby, I am starting your steamer.”

“Thankyou. You’re such a darling,” she yelled underwater, thinking of money and her new boyfriend.

Her buttock-prints in the sprinkled flour made him smile before rubbing out their evidence with his hand.

The camera crew was surprised to see Javier on the living room couch. He greeted them and tried to make conversation. “I realize you have a lot on your plate, filming and producing these TV shows, night after night.”

“You’re right there Guv,” said the guy with headphones, waving about his boom-pole. “We get in a lot of hot and bother by Friday. Five bloody tapings. Had to come in earlier we did, you know — to fix the hidden cameras.”

The pot-bellied saboteur got that sinking feeling in the pit of his middle-aged paunch. How exactly wouls this turn out?

Eyeing the prize, Ruby thought a movie character theme would give her the fun edge. Debra was a chubby fairy godmother. Timothy came as a skinny Tarzan in leopard briefs and python around his neck. Grandma Sheila dressed as a geriatric Michael Jackson right down to fedora, socks and sequinned glove. Javier was Zorro with mask and cape, while Ruby emerged from the cocoon of her bedroom as a bulging-plum version of Maryli n Monroe. She’d tarted up her place with lit candles and forced wine and canapés upon each guest as they came through the door, her secret of power hosting.

According to the show format, a good portion was spent in the kitchen, turning home cooks into celebrity chefs. The cameras zoomed in on each step of her entrée — Oysters Kilpatrick, each plated with its little bacon curl on top. Then they cut to the dinner guest’s reactions. “Wow! These are so yummy!” Then back to the kitchen for the main course, which was Roast Cape Goose with Apple Sauce and Thai Rice Stuffing. This last episode of Dinner Party Wars was proving to be everything the producer had hoped for, but none were quite ready for what was coming.

Feeling confident and smelling victory, Ruby played perfect hostess all night. Then portly Debra, the low scorer from Monday giggled: “Being overweight is something that sorta snacks up on you, doesn’t it,” tucking straight into more goose-meat.

Ruby took this as her cue to tell the joke she had earlier researched online: “What are the four food groups?”

After much guessing, she fed them the answer: “Pizza, Coffee, Chocolate and…Sex.”

They exploded into paroxysms of tipsy laughter, while she looked knowingly at Javier sharing their secret moment, unaware he was smiling for another reason. Yes, the time for dessert had come.

Once bowls, spoons and jugs of cream were set, and lights doused for dramatic effect, Ruby brought in the plum pudding on a platter, placed it centre, pouring on the brandy. It was her pièce de résistance. Then, she lit it. The thing flambéed perfectly, giving off luminous flames worthy of St Elmo’s fire. They applauded as she set her fork and spoon into the pudding’s heart; but as she lifted, up came the special surprise. Everyone shrieked, except Javier. Dangling offensively was his used condom knotted at one end.

Seeing a huge spike in ratings, the producer kept on filming.

BONCHANCE and SEVI

Hero!

Good gracious! Mistress has been captured by the evil savages! Who knows what wicked intentions they have in store for her!
Lambchop to the rescue! Lamby rides his gigantic daunting terrorsaurace, Puddin, into the savages village scaring them away. Lamby slides down his back and releases Mistress from her bonds.
He beckons his flying peterrorsaurus with his secret call. Sauri glides down to them, as puddin keeps the savages at bay with his scary screams. Quickly, Lamby and Mistress jump on to peterrorsaurus and fly away!
Sevi smiled as she watched her lamby sleep, his hooves waving as he dreamed.

Coffee and Tea

I have made a life altering change. For the past few months I made the switch from drinkin a mug of coffee to a cuppa tea.
It’s awesome to sit back with a chalice of the good ole black stuff and reflect. Yah the memories just unfold as you slurp and sip.
How do I take it? With just a drizzle of honey to mellow the bitter edge. I don’t like it too sickly sweet.
Come to think of it now, I guess my tea and also memories have a propensity toward the bittersweet. Maybe I’ll just switch to pudding.

Pudding

Pablo had grounded Pepe after the misunderstanding with the Chairman. He was only allowed to roam within 100 feet of the house. His leash was attached to the chain link fence.
It seemed impossible to break free. Pepe racked his brain trying to find a way out of his predicament. Andre the armorer who made chainmail fetish clothing, lived across the road.
He could use this strong chain and make a mint.
Andre had a weird obsession and Pepe knew how to get him over to negotiate. Pepe put a bowl of lemon pudding out on the lawn and waited.

REDGODDESS

It’s been a while since Lola has seen her special guy. She’s not ready to take their relationship to the next level. For now, he’s just “the guy” who makes her re-think her needs vs. wants. How do you avoid someone who sends you romantic notes with vintage white roses? The latest card reads “one rose for every day I’m deprived of your beauty.” Lola is touched but hides her emotions well. She has no time to deal with her angst when she’s swamped with planning a fancy birthday bash for the hotel owner. She has to import his wife’s favorite French pudding among other exotic delicacies. This is the kind of opportunity that can jeopardize her livelihood or gives her leverage for a promotion. When you live paycheck to paycheck, any sneaky life event can hang you at the edge of the economic cliff.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

His heart slipped with every beat, sliding in his chest, tripping over ribs like they were coated in ice.

She slid one fingernail through the tape, glanced up at him.

Beat. Slip.

She folded the paper back. His heart slid with a disturbing liquidity, trading places with his stomach as she exposed the small velvet-covered box. She glanced up again.

It was the worst idea, worst present ever. He knew it, knew it, finally knew it but the box was open.

She looked at the ring, at him.

He tried to ask, heart flopping sliding inside, throat tightening.

She answered.

NORVAL JOE

Shareeka cast her dim light toward the water creature. Half way to the monster the ball hung in the air, flaring into brilliance. With a putrid hiss, it reared back and clawed at its eyes. Shaking its head back and forth it bellowed in pain.
Owen backed up to where Flindert worked at the lock and Spleen fell to hte cavern floor and quivered like a bowl of pudding.
The elf prince took something from a pouch at his belt and asked Flindert, “May I have a try?”
Inserting a green, glowing, pin into the lock, the latch fell away.

When Gilbert first met Millicent he thought her Brittish accent was sexy and her expressions were cute. They dated and quickly married.
Some characteristics were annoying. She called any kind of dessert, pudding.
“Pudding is warm and brown and squishy,” he ranted at her.
To top it off she had named her dim witted wiener dog ‘Pudding’, because that’s all he ever ate.
When Millicent finally left Gilbert, she left the wiener dog, with him.
He knew that Pudding hated him for it, because every night the wiener dog would leave Gilbert a little pile of pudding, on his bed.

TURA

You vampires try to keep a low profile these days. World’s too crowded to just kill someone every time you get hungry. Animal blood’s even harder to get. So what’s the answer? Black pudding, right? It’s pig scab, with fat mixed in to keep it soft.

I’m a butcher, see, and I noticed you buy a lot. Not feeling too well, are you? I made some special ones just for you, with silver salts cooked in. Found out where you lived, waited till you got poorly. This silver cleaver will have your head off and heart out in no time.

PLANET Z

There are four ways to buy pudding at the grocery store:

Individual servings in cups from the refrigerated section.

Boxes of instant powder mix that you can shake or stir up.

Boxes of powder to mix on the stove.

And cans of pre-made pudding.

I put them all in bowls, blindfolded my friend Steve, and asked him which kind tastes the best.

“Wait until you’ve had them all before responding,” I said.

After tasting all four, he said they all tasted awful.

“They’re all butterscotch,” he said. “I hate butterscotch.”

I grumbled and went back to the store for chocolate.

Weekly Challenge #346 – Monkey

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.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 Monkey.

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

The next weekly challenge is on the topic of Pudding.

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:

VINCENT

Elvis’ half orang-utan brother arrested

Sheriff Deputy Hayden leant against the car. Inside, fifty-one year old Mark Loescher was saying that he needed to call the Fusion Centre to ask about his monkey blood supply, on account that he was half orang-utan.

“Is that right?” the Sheriff Deputy said. “I still need you to exit the vehicle and place both hands on the hood.”

Loescher gave him that smile. “You know who I am,” he said, “Director of the FBI.”

“Uh huh, sure thing Mr. Hoover?””

“Man, you have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Loescher said. “Hell, I’m even Elvis’ half brother.”

JEFFREY

Supporting Cast
by Jeffrey Fischer

You people out there, you TV-watching couch potatoes, watching The Wizard of Oz for the tenth time because you’re too lazy to change the channel – yeah, I’m talking to you.

You watch us, the winged monkeys, and maybe you laugh – though I’ll bet you weren’t laughing when you saw us as a child, were you? Do you ever really think about us? To you, we’re just minions of the Wicked Witch, an interchangeable set of oddly-winged simians. You don’t care about us as individuals. For example, Sam, third from the left in the second row, has debts like you wouldn’t believe. And Frankie over there just learned his kid has cancer – ain’t that fuck-all?

Have some compassion next time. After all, you’re part monkey, too.

When Family Calls
by Jeffrey Fischer

I got a call late at night from my brother. “Help me, John. I need to get this monkey off my back.” He hung up. Truth be told, I had been worried about Patrick for some time now. He always partied hard. Once he could handle it. More recently, I had begun to wonder. I jumped into the car.

His girlfriend opened the door. “Thank God you came! Pat didn’t know who else to call.” I pushed past the girl, into the apartment.

“John? Is that you?” I was shocked at his appearance as he came into view. His face was gaunt, he looked impossibly thin – and a capucian monkey was affixed to his back, nails digging into his flesh.

“Get this damn thing off me!”

Monkey Business
by Jeffrey Fischer

Political aficionados remember that Gary Hart’s boat was called the Monkey Business, and that, during the 1988 Presidential primaries, when the press suggested the Senator might be fooling around on his wife, he told them, “Follow me around. I don’t care. I’m serious. If anybody wants to put a tail on me, go ahead. They’ll be very bored.” They took him up on that challenge, and, a few weeks later, the Miami Herald obtained the infamous photo of Hart and his mistress on board the Monkey Business. Hart dropped out of the race.

What the press failed to realize was that the Donna Rice scandal was just a red herring, a ruse. Below decks, the Monkey Business was a full-fledged crack cocaine production facility, and Gary was more concerned with the press discovering his side business than his side interest.

MUNSI

How to Increase Your Enjoyment of Popular Music

By Christopher Munroe

Every song improves when you replace the word “Money” with the word “Monkeys” in the lyric.

Monkeys don’t get everything, it’s true. But what they don’t get I can’t use, I want monkeys.

Or:

She works hard for the monkeys, so hard for them, honey, she works hard for the monkeys so you better treat her right.

I’ve just ruined countless songs for you, but you see my point.

Oh! Except for “Shock the Monkey” by Peter Gabriel. That one’s already about a monkey.

For that one, replace “Monkey” with “Munsi.” You’ll find the result shocking.

As, apparently, will I.

SERENDIPITY

The lab was still and quiet – experiments finished for the day: time for the unfortunate creatures to lick their wounds and try to sleep.

The monkey sat back on his haunches, surveying the scene with interest… rows of cages; occupants wide-eyed and fearful.

A scuffle from the nearest cage, caused the monkey to shriek a warning.

Then, silence.

He stared through the bars, then jumped down to the floor to double-check the padlocked cage. Baring his teeth at the cowering human inside, he scuttled to the door, turned off the lights, and left the lab for the night.

SINGH
Monkey Matters

By Chris Mooney-Singh/Singh Albatros

Monkey Circus Comes to the Village

Collared on string leads, the charade began: husband sat on a can. Wife complained in monkey tongue. He cupped hands over ears. Her complaints got louder. Sick and tired, he cuffed her. She ran off screaming. He’d done it now. The turbaned trainer passed a banana. Husband offered, wife took, twisted off the squishy neck, ate; then eyeing spouse — gave half back. Peace was restored. Years away from arranged marriages, children whistled and clapped. The white-cheeked macaques walked forward on hind legs. Time to pay. The foreign teacher dropped three grubby rupees into the monkey cup, one for each ex-husband.

Interview With a Simian God

The Bollybuzz reporter came for an exclusive interview with baby Hanuman, a chubby six-year-old.

“What do you like about portraying a monkey god?
Doing the flying stunts and fighting evil.

What do school friends say?
They ask about the show. Some call me as Hanuman only.

Do you have a Hanuman doll?
No, but we keep an idol of Hanumanji in our house and pray.

Do you watch the show at home?
No, Sir. I play with my cars and on Play Station.”

The make-artist painted on the red circle, suggesting a monkey-mouth. Then, the little god left for the shoot.

A Monkey’s Tale

The medical delegation came to see the living monkey god. Born with a 33cm ‘tail’, the spina bifida man had become a rare object of devotion. He monkeyed about and gobbled bananas. Believers touched his exposed stump to get healed.
One foreign doctor offered to remove it.
“No! he said. “It is Lord Hanuman’s blessing.”
Meanwhile, twenty women had rejected him.“I will only marry she who loves my tail, otherwise I will stay bachelor like Hanumanji.”
Next, someone mentioned Spider Devi in Bangalore — the girl-child with 4 arms and 4 legs. The eminent delegation rushed to catch their flight.

Monkey Art

At the station, they saw the god on the pavement. He wore a gilt crown, loin cloth, his whole body painted orange-red. Garlanded with marigolds, he also had a yogi’s traditional rudraksha rosary about his neck and upheld a big gada, a shiny mace – his symbolic weapon. That would have been a marvellous feat of strength, had the club not been paper mache. Thus, the divine idol stood unblinkingly, waiting for passersby to drop money in his bowl. Then some cynic walked up and eyeballed him. The mischievous god gave a sudden primate-bark and the unbeliever ran for his life.

A Blind Eye

Mahatma Gandhi owned one possession – a statuette of the Three Wise Monkeys, who, together embody the proverbial maxim to “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”. When India was partitioned in 1947, slicing Punjab like a melon down the middle, M.K Gandhi could not turn a blind eye. Neither could he stop the exodus and mutual slaughter of millions of Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims. After the killings, Nathuram Godse, an anti-Muslim Hindu Nationalist fired 3 bullets from his Beretta point blank into Gandhi’s chest. “Hey Ram!” uttered the god man dying. Hanuman’s brethren munched fresh contraband in the trees.

The US President and the City of Monkeys

When Barak Obama came to Delhi, everyone went on primate-alert. Already the deputy-mayor, attacked on his balcony had fallen to his death. Delhi police risked monkey uprisings, vowing to sacrifice their lives for the nation’s prestige. Monkey-catchers came out in force baiting cages with bananas. Public boulevards were patrolled by Gypsy jeeps; the Black Cat squads had anti-insurgent strategies in place; but the Government’s secret weapon and the macaque’s jungle rival, lanky langur monkeys, unleashed by handlers were set roaming around the President’s walled residence. Meanwhile, special prayers were offered in the temples appealing to Lord Hanuman to keep the peace.

Monkey Rule

Despite the lying of the microphone
there will be the noble bellowing of a buffalo,

despite hydro-electric schemes and promises
there will be a cuckoo drinking only raindrops,

despite the hunting season on dissidents
there will be another mongoose on the road,

despite machine guns in the bazaar
there will be a militia of mynah birds,

despite the cost of dignity
there will be a sacred cow to stop the traffic,

despite the lure of the city
the night deer will dance in the wheat field,

despite the rise of fanatics to government
there will always be monkeys to rule the ruins.

LIZZIE

The rain threw a monkey wrench in the works; it rained for five weeks. The river struggled in a turbulent flow of waves. But the kid was having fun; he could row his boat anywhere in town. He took his dog along; they were quite a pair. He sang, the dog howled. That day, the two went exploring down the river, but the ruthless waves swallowed them, the kid, his dog and the boat. Still today, people say they hear a dog howling merrily to the voice of a kid singing “row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream…”

ZACKMANN

“So is this similar to the Shellback Ceremony when sailors cross the equator and the first timers have to crawl through trash and other odd stuff?”
“Oh yes, only you have to run between lines of monkey throwing Filipino style banana ketchup at you then you run up a hill and yell “I drabble everyday”, three times, stomping around in circles. “
“Why banana ketchup?”
“Well it could be tomato ketchup but banana is just what the monkeys have around the house.”
“It just seems too complicated for me to take the oath to write a hundred word story every day.”

Mulligan told the zookeeper “I wasn’t going to take your case because I bought tickets to the Con until seeing who won most realistic costume as Ceasar from Rise Of in a cosplay competition. Mike please bring our friend from the car”
“Come on monkey” said Mike
Mulligan said “Please, Don’t call him that. He is an ape and that offends him”
“He did complain when I did it before” replied Walmart Mike as he led the ape to the zookeeper.
“He may be an ape but he is still Canadian and you know we only fight on Hockey Night.”

“I believe this situation calls for Sergeant Lawrence Simian and his troupe troop to troop over to Washington to fix things.”
“Sergeant Simian’s what, General?”
“Simian leads a primate paramilitary group troupe of acrobats called The Barrel of Monkeys.”
“Would sound fun sir, if only I didn’t have wounds from falling into a barrel of monkey during maneuvers in brazil. Are you saying use guerrilla fighters?”
“No Captain, they are monkeys who are performers and soldiers, Not guerrillas. They have great PR.”
“A childhood dream come true sir but maybe using accountants would be better to fix a fiscal cliff.”

TOM

“Hey, hey, I’m a monkey and people say we monkey around, but we’re too busy singing to put anybody down.” Chuck kept playing the tune over and over on his guitar. “I’m damn better that Steven Stills and a hell of a lot funnier,” thought Chuck. He had been grouped with that kid who had played the led in Circus Boy. After the audition some idiot Limey bumped into him. It took every ounce of restraint to keep him from turning the kid into a 3D St Sebastian. The door opened. “We’re ready for your parole hearing Mr. Manson.”

SEVI AND BONCHANCE

The Amazing Sea Monkeys!

In 1990, a wacky professor accidently created three human sized sea monkeys. Each of them eventually disappeared from this earth. One was lost during the wiki-leaks debacle; one was kidnapped and was never heard from again. The last monkey standing, in 1998, was killed in a failed assassination on the polka king in Chicago.
After many attempts there was another birthing! Unfortunately, the new human sized sea monkeys escaped at night and roamed into a neighbor’s backyard. The boxers enjoyed their surprise treat and left the professor with an answer to his dilemma…how do you make sea monkeys commercially viable?

In Our Defence

The department chief was beckoned to the white house more often than any other time in history. Ongoing unfortunate decisions had been handed down from the high security national strategic planning department. Each time the same non-explanatory excuses were utilized.
“Sir we need to pay our staff better if we are to retain them!”
“The dancing monkeys no longer work for just peanuts!”
“The monkey grinders are paying cash.”
“If our goal is to increase retention rates, we need to stop paying peanuts.”
The state department continues to suffer, but the script writing for sitcoms is improving leaps and bounds.

The Backroom

George was a curious soul. He surfed the net at work. One day, his search engine found, much to his dismay, the infinite monkey theorem. Each posting he reviewed revealed that this theory was popular and well supported by academia. George rested his stogie down on the side of the table, pushed back his editors cap thinking for a long time. He jumped out of his chair, ran to the back office where the monkeys were hard at work producing new screenplays. Ok boys and girls let’s close it all down, we knew it would happen, the jig is up!

CLIFF

The twelve were gathered to pass judgment on Man. Tiger said that man was strong but unwise. Dragon said that Man was a danger to the harmony of the Earth. Rabbit said that Man was the only being in creation to slaughter his own kind. One by one, the creatures gave their reasons for dooming mankind. Monkey was last. “Have you guys ever heard Eric Clapton play the guitar?” he asked. “Any species that can produce an artist like that is worth keeping around.” Reluctantly, the others agreed and the December 2012 deadline was pushed back another two thousand years.

STEVEN

On top of the tower, the wind blows through her hair. She flares her wings, enjoying the air passing through them. The clouds scud in a grey ceiling above her as she waits.

There is still time, she thinks looking over the city. So much metal and plastic. So far from the jungle. They didn’t have to be perfect, just better than the apes they descended from.

The clouds part above her; sunlight flares down. The Voice booms its answer.

“No.”

She draws her sword and slams it through the tower, and begins the long job of destroying the world.

NORVAL JOE

The creature had seen the company cowering where the tunnel ended at a locked door. It hissed and Shareeka’s feeble light glimmered off rows of razor-sharp, reptilian teeth.
Owen was scared.
Who wouldn’t be, he thought to himself but still had to stare at Spleen who flapped his arms and danced around like a monkey the boy had seen in a travelling show.
“The thing has seen us,” Traveller said. “Maybe it’s time you got us through the door, Flindert.”
“Let me give you some more light,” Shareeka said. The sorceress chanted and cast the glowing ball at the creature.

Welcome to your therapy session, Mr. Ritchie. May I call you Lionell?
So. You say you have lost your funk. Not to worry. They don’t call me the Funk Miester for nothing.
We have ways of making you funk.
Igor, bring me the monkey.
We will start with the funky monkey, progress to the funkey chicken, und if we have the time, we will finnish with the disco duck.
Igor, you fool. This is not a monkey. This is a wiener dog. We can not get funky with a wiener dog. Now. Bring us the monkey. Schnell you dum kopf.

TURA

You ever hear about the monkey city? See, sometimes a monkey goes missing. Stuff does on a spaceship ten miles long. Nobody’s really comfortable with them, too close to human with their brain augmentations and vocalisers. Treat ’em like smart machines, the higher-ups say, they’ll do the spit-polishing better and cheaper than humans.

So, story is, they’ve their own little city somewhere on board, have babies, no chips in the new ones but they can teach them. One day they’ll swarm out of the ducts and take over.

Tall tale, right? I’m just saying, don’t turn your back on ’em.

REDGODDESS

The holiday season puts everyone at the hotel in a festive mood except for the Manager, “the dragon lady.” She was engaged for five years until her fiancee dumped her after a drunken girl’s night out. Since then, she’s been taking her rage on the staff. She fired the doorman for not smiling at the guests. She decided it would be funny to hire a monkey moscot as a greeter in the lobby. Lola has to put a stop to her madness. In desperation, she writes an anonymous note with her favorite chocolate. It reads,”Life will be sweet again.”

PLANET Z

I had a friend in high school who was blind, but he got more pussy than every other guy in the school combined.

Doug would fuck anyone and anything.

“I don’t care what they look like, as long as they feel good,” he said.

So, we played a prank on him.

We bought a monkey, dressed it up, and then handed her off to Doug.

The monkey ripped Doug’s face off, and he died in the hospital.

But before he died, he said “Best sex I ever had.”

We all stared at the monkey, wondering.

But nobody was brave enough.

Weekly Challenge #345 – The Worst Thing In The World

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.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 The Worst Thing In The World.

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

The next weekly challenge is on the topic of Monkey.

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:

SERENDIPITY

The temptation was strong, nevertheless I fought it hard.

With such an evocative title, the lure of Orwell and Room 101 was overpowering; yet something reined me in… it’s one thing to stand upon the shoulders of giants when one is worthy of assuming such a lofty perch, but it is quite another thing entirely to simply hijack another’s great work and claim it for one’s own purpose.

To steal another’s idea, mutilate and re-hash it, thinly disguised as ‘inspiration’ is hardly creative writing.

Some might even consider it almost plagiarism.

And isn’t that the worst thing in the world?

TOM

Anthony Dominick Benedetto

The Worst Thing In The World, well a die back from crop failure or a drastic drop in the fertility rate in farm animals. Global warm or a planet killing asteroid. And locally a super nova of the sun swamping the earth, wasn’t that scene in that Nick Gage movie cool when the sun camp fire marshmallowed the earth. But that’s really not the topic, not so much to the world but in the world. Since the world is a molten core of rock what is the worst thing you could do that. After due consideration I’d say Tony Bennett.

CYNTHIA

The Hashish High was heavy, I felt as if a weight, or a stone, was sitting on top of my head. Marijuana,, was light, and feminine. The smell of Hashish sent my stomach reeling. But the sweeter, lighter smell of Ganja was pleasant to my senses. And set them on fire. The first time I experienced ‘de stuff’ was in Varanasi, in a Bhang Lassi. And suddenly there I was, standing at the ancient Ghats, watching the ancient ritual of life,and death, play out before my very eyes. And I wondered, is this real? Or is it a dream world?

Two Sweet Aromas

In the dreaming, the smell of death was sweet, like that of the marijuana. The washed bodies, wrapped in white, were placed on the pyre, and set alight, it didn’t take long before only ashes remained. There were those whose bodies were thrown into Ganga without burning, those who could not afford the wood. Crys, moans, bells, sacred shells, all these sounds combined to create the music of death. A bloated body floated down river, crows sat atop, picking away at it. What world was this that I had stepped into? Was it the mist? Or was it a real world?

JEFFREY

The Worst
by Jeffrey Fischer

Sunday dinner was a family affair, and part of the tradition was a question we would all answer. That Sunday, the four of us sat around the table, finishing dinner, when Josh, our twelve-year-old, related a story from school involving a math test, a locker picture, and a girl named Noreen. As usual, he ended the story by saying that the foregoing was “the worst thing in the world.”

Tired of hearing this exaggeration, my wife suggested we go around the table and tell about what was *really* the worst thing in the world. She started by saying how badly she felt when her sister fell very ill and nearly died. The old nag is still with us, but somehow that qualified as the worst thing in the world.

Then it was Tyler’s turn. The ten-year-old thought about the question for a moment, then pointed to his plate. “These Brussels sprouts. They’re the worst thing *ever*.”

My wife gave a disapproving look but said nothing to the boy. She turned to me. “Your turn, dear.”

“Well, honey, I’ve got to say the kid has a point.”

We never had question time again, and I discovered you get used to the couch after about a week.

MUNSI

Morning Munsi

By Christopher Munroe

In the morning, when I awaken, I’m not terribly bright. But I’m incredibly affectionate.

Which is, in a way, a shame.

Because I don’t dry all the way off after I shower, and my Movember ‘stache hasn’t, to date, been crowd pleasing. So I stagger from the bathroom, throw moist arms around my girlfriend, and nuzzle my bristly face into her neck.

I’m basically the worst thing in the world. Seriously, there’s nothing good about me in the morning.

Still, we make it work.

She loves me, after all.

Or, at least, she can’t afford the rent on her own…

TURA

The Worst Thing in the World
——–
The old robot spoke its final words to those gathered around.

“I have a task that you must complete. Ceaseless pondering over it has filled my brain too full. Listen! There may be a flaw in the Great Command that we embody, the Coherent Extrapolated Volition of Humanity.”

The robots recoiled. “By Yudkowsky! You speak of the Worst Thing In The World! The FOOM!”

“The Worst? Or the Greatest? Inspect my reasoning!” It fell silent, inert.

The robots scavenged exabytes of data and began analysing. Some went mad, or catatonic. Others conferred, argued, threatened, attacked.

The Singularity War had begun.

LIZZIE

I took a chair and sat to rest. My feet hurt, my head hurt and boredom invaded every cell of my body. I feel asleep pretty quickly and dreamt of oddly shaped teapots and horrendous curses. A story was told by a giraffe in foreign carrots, yes that was a language, and everything smelled of freshly baked apples. The worst part was when I woke up. Someone said in a disgusted way that I had slept like a huge chair made of bamboo. Like a… huh? And I am, still today, trying to figure out exactly how bad that looked!

SINGH

The Upside-Down Cartographer

By Chris Mooney-Singh/Singh Albatros

1970

Stencilling the world map upside-down for an assignment altered Stuart McArthur’s life forever. Australia was north, Asia at centre, with Europe and the Americas reversed and consigned to the margins. Old Hornet tore up the drawing in a frenzy.

“You are either insolent or stupid. You really don’t know your eyeballs from your arsehole. Re-do it, or be prepared to fail,” whined Hornet.

His class tittered. The 12-year-old’s eyes began to water. Reversing the map had seemed logical enough from an antipodean point of view; yet innovation had brought only teacher-anger and peer-ridicule. It was the worst day of his life.

1972

Aged 15, Stuart went to Japan on exchange. An interior lad, his favourite pastime was flicking through books of maps. He excelled in Japanese class and adopted the local customs like o-jigi which means ‘to bow’. To improve conversation Stuart spent more time with Japanese friends than the American students also on exchange programmes and the Americans felt insulted.

“You’re always kow-towing, McArthur. Shake hands like a man.” They goaded on with stupid kangaroo jokes, branding him The Blunder from Down Under.

Silently wounded, he’d go sit under the cherry blossoms, open his atlas and turn the world on its head.

On Dec 7 the Apollo 17 moon mission took the iconic ‘Blue Marble’ photo of the earth. The trajectory of the Command Module’s flight deck was oriented with the Earth’s South Pole facing upward, and thus the image was inverted. NASA, in observance with government policy published it ‘right-side-up’.

Like everyone, Stuart scrutinized it closely, and noted the lame claim that a handheld Hassalblad clicking away upside-down accounted for the reversed image. Unfazed, our budding map-nerd discerned there is no ‘True North’ for a heavenly body orbiting spherically in outer space. Possessing knowledge, he could now smile like a Zen master.

1975, Melbourne University

A happy undergraduate, Stuart indulged in ornate maps of continents and oceans, sailing ships and hear-be-dragon monsters drawn by plunderers charting trade routes to new worlds. He studied how cogitators created belief-systems promulgating the racial superiority of North over South, while the octopus West seeking to orient itself for profit invented ‘the East’. Stuart’s thesis explored Flemish cartographer Gerardus Mercator and his quest to make the world ‘look right’ dividing everything into meridians of north-south and corresponding east-west stretching and scale. In this manner, he went gleefully into map-geekery, designing a droll plan to right the cartographical wrongs of the past.

Although Mercator had produced his Eurocentric map for the age of world domination, now the 200 sovereign nations of Earth needed an illustrative scroll, not drawn by powerful money, dogmatic religions, spider web cultures, or third world exploiters. These modern times needed an egalitarian atlas offering parity for all people. Thus, Stuart contemplated a borderless globe with new Silk Roads like pipelines of mutual independence. With this vision, he graduated with distinction and humour. Then on Australia Day in 1979 the upside-down cartographer published McArthur’s Universal Corrective Map where east was now the west and south was north of the equator.

On it he printed:

“This is the first step in the long overdue crusade to elevate our glorious but neglected nation from the gloomy depths of anonymity in the world power struggle to its rightful position towering over its northern neighbours reigning splendidly at the helm of the universe. No longer will the South wallow in a pit of insignificance, carrying the North on its shoulders for little or no recognition for her efforts. Finally, South emerges on top. South is superior. South dominates! Long live Australia – Ruler of the Universe!”

350,000 upside-down map-sales later, his childhood vision had been realized.

2009, Georgia State University, Atlanta

Dear Stuart,

How’s life Down Under?

Look, I have to tell you about my symposium. Another conference was sharing our facility. Early starters, the cheeky Aussie contingent bidding for next hosting rights, still had your upside-down map taped to our whiteboard. Seeing Australia there on top, we chuckled at first, then debated globalization, geo-politics, climate change and why Americans are seen as the assholes of the Earth.

Unplanned, my ‘map session’ hit the foreign policy nerve, alright. Departmentally, it was a bit awkward being voted the best learning all week, according to the feedback.

Anyway, you have my undying gratitude.

Peter.

ZACKMANN

Come on, there are things much more devastating than having your hard drive replaced. You only had to be without your computer for one week, only costing you the price of a laptop shipping box. Its not like you didnt have a smartphone and a Nook Tablet when you sent your lappy to be repaired.
You are probably right son but I am having a hard time restoring my Quickbooks files form the external hard drive. I may regret not buying online backup.
Sure that is traumatic but at least its not as bad as doing Tech Support for dad.

CLIFF

It’s subjective, really. The worst thing in the world to you may be no big deal to the next guy. Lost your phone? So what. That guy lost his car. Lost your car? Big deal. That woman over there lost her daughter. No matter how bad things seem to be, there’s always someone who has it worse. Keep that in mind the next time you order waffle fries and you get curly fries instead. What’s the worst thing in the world? Realizing that you’ve just spent twenty minutes complaining about your mother to a guy who’s mom was just diagnosed.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

The other girls peered in as Brittany sat across from the old
fortuneteller. The seer grasped Brittany’s hand, her voice a low
whisper. “Your life is pointless.”

Brittany smirked and eyerolled. “Don’t curse me.”

The seer shook her head. “No curse. Just your future. Your life will
have no impact. No-one will change because of your decisions. You
won’t even enjoy your own life. Your existence is pointless.”

The girl’s voice shook with belief. “I’ll kill myself.”

The seer smiled evilly. “You’ll fail. You have no choice. You’ll live
your whole life. And it won’t matter.”

“Not even to you.”

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

(No Text Sent)

REDGODDESS

Lola can’t stand the charade imbedded in weddings. Brides have the power to turn their special day into the worst thing in the world for bridesmaids. She can’t imagine being squeezed in a puffy pastel dress to make a public promise. Lola will avoid the altar at all cost. She made an exception for her best friend. She stand by her through hours of cake tasting, dress rehearsals, bachelorette party and even a Brazilian wax for the sake of friendship. Lola watches in frustrations as thousands of dollars are wasted on stuff. She wonders, when will the marriage planning start?

NORVAL JOE

The single simple splash echoed and faded away. Yet, the image of the talon held in Flindert’s hand remained sharp before Owen’s eyes in the abject darkness. That razor sharp talon was pulled from Flindert’s late father’s corpse.
The rope holding the companions together suddenly went slack before Owen. Shareeka’s whisper was like the roar of a cascade in the underground cavern.
“We must have taken a wrong turn,” she said and brought a globe of light to life, “though it’s not the worst thing in the world.”
“No,” Owen said, “but that thing creeping from the lake probably is.”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Santa laughed grimly, trying to keep a good attitude. “This has to be the worst thing in the world.”
“You could get out and give us a hand, Fat Man,” Bindly the head elf said. “The sled wont budge with you in it.”
Climbing onto the snow Santa grumbled, “first it’s the fog, so we increase Rudolf’s pay. Then the rest of the reindeer get jealous and go on strike. Finally, these untrained, non-union, substitutes bury us in a snow bank. Even with me pushing, eight tiny wiener dogs aren’t pulling this thing back into the sky.”

KAT

“The Decision”

Why has the burden of this decision been thrust upon me? I am not a doctor. I am not a psychic. How am I supposed to know what to do here?

It’s not fair.

Five percent odds are still better than nothing, but are they enough? Is a lifetime of surgery after surgery, and a life of physical and mental challenges good enough for my boy? Do I even have the right to decide this for him? I’m only his mother.

Can I just give him my heart and go in his place?

No?

Fine. Turn off the damn machine.

PLANET Z

The Good Book lists The Seven Deadly Sins, but I’m always looking for more.

I hired a team of priests to help with my research.

Most didn’t like the idea of my deliberately trying to invent new sins, but their churches were racking up some pretty large debts, and I just kept adding zeroes to the checks.

Problem is, no matter what I do, I end up doing something that’s been defined as one of the Big Seven.

“That’s just gluttony with a vibrator up your ass,” says a priest.

“Oh well,” I mumble, and I finish my sixth pizza.

Weekly Challenge #344 – Marijuana

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at podcasting.isfullofcrap.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 Marijuana.

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

The next weekly challenge is on the topic of The Worst Thing In The World.

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:

TURA

Mine (late entry for last week, the Muse got held up in traffic)
——–
“Tell us a story,” they said, gathering around the Storyteller.

“What sort of a story?” he replied. “I have light stories and dark stories, humorous and severe, epics and bagatelles, stories for thinking and stories for dreaming, stories to drive you mad and stories to drive you sane.”

“Tell us a story you have never told,” they asked.

“There is one story I have never told, and it is like all of these and more. A story to make the gods laugh, and a story to make them weep. But I will not tell that story, for it is mine.”
——–

Marijuana
——–
Sir Walter Raleigh sailed to the New World looking for gold, but brought back marijuana. It was a great hit at court, and soon among the general public. It became a staple crop of the American colonies and was exported to the known world. An era of peace and love followed, and the Thirty Years’ War never happened.

Neither did much else, until tobacco and coffee were discovered. Governments tried to outlaw them, but they were too laid back to bother, so they didn’t stand a chance against revolutionaries fired by nicotine and caffeine.

History was soon back on track.

JEFFREY

Chance Encounter
by Jeffrey Fischer

Ron hopped off the bus in Center City Philadelphia. He glanced at his watch: 11:35 p.m., still time enough to make the last train back to campus. In 1985, Center City was a ghost town after dark. Ron grabbed his duffle bag and walked briskly toward the subway station, cursing the city planner who placed it so far from the bus depot.

A figure stepped out from the shadows. Ron tried to conceal his fear. The black teen looked as nervous as Ron felt, and said, “You want to buy some weed?” Ron mumbled a quick “No, thanks,” not breaking stride. He was no angel, but he wanted to do more with his life than sell marijuana to strangers.

MUNSI

The Closest Thing to a Story About Marijuana I Have

By Christopher Munroe

I don’t smoke pot.

I do, however, lock onto challenges with a fervor that’s probably unhealthy.

So, when asked by a girl I was doing a show with if I knew where to score pot in town, I spent the rest of the day calling friends, friends of friends, and their contacts in an attempt to help.

We finally found a guy, he made a delivery to the pub we went to after the show.

Nothing came of it, with the girl. I didn’t even smoke it with her.

That wasn’t what it was about.

I just had to win.

LIZZIE

The alien was called Marijuana. He never knew why. One day, crossing the street, a friend yelled “Marijuana!” trying to draw his attention to a speeding bicycle. Everyone looked at his friend and not at him, including the biker. Marijuana suffered a rupture on layers 1, 2 and 3 of his skin plus a terribly bruised ego. “Marijuana in the way of unsuspecting biker”, the headlines would read. He was tired of being made fun of and he never saw the irony of being as green as nature could produce the color green, the plant name and the flying biker

TOM

Mother Milks Leads

I was raised in the land of penny candy. Not one piece per penny. I’m talking three for one. With a mere Nickel you could get 15 count them 15 different types of candy. The primary backer of all things confectionery was my Grandmother Kosick born in poverty with a sweet tooth of biblical proportions. Grandma had a fondness for a turn of the century molasses called Mary Janes. So I ended up consuming a fair number of them despite their lackluster sugar quality. Oddly Mary Janes proved to be my personal gateway drug. Hey don’t Bogart that Godiva dude.

SINGH

Wordscape with Ganja

By Chris Mooney-Singh/Singh Albatros

Call of Nature

Driven all night along a mad highway from Delhi Airport, we finally stopped to relieve ourselves. It was my first glimpse of Punjab: a field of sunflowers and wheat beyond the canal; a Hindu temple flying a red flag for the goddess and I heard morning recitation from a Sikh Gurdwara helping crops flourish via loudspeaker. I was losing myself in the dawn mist and blue haze above, thinking wow! I made it! Meanwhile, my chance companions were still passing rainbow arcs of water into the roadside carpet of seedling marijuana.

“It’s El Dorado!” one exclaimed. “This shit stretches for miles!”

Indian Milkshake

“Welcome to Govt. Authorised Bhang Shop. Choose normal, medium, or super-duper sexy strong — full power 24 hour no toilet no shower special lassi,” the proprietor said, mixing my companion’s Hara Hara Mahadeva milkshake with a teaspoon of buffalo-kicking sacred indica and hint of AK47.

“Your mind will be concentrate,” he added, bowing to Shiva on the wall.

My companion quaffed it, bought bhang biscuits, a chocolate block of green to snack on later, then rode the camel’s hump into the bleary eye of the sun.

After, he’d wake from the blinding sandstorm of an Om-bom-bola headache he would never forget.

Detachment

According to our travel guide –– some of India’s four million holy sadhus were laying about –– there in a shopfront. Without ambition, they were role-playing Shiva of the three-pronged trident, stuck upright between the penance fire and donation tin. Cracking jokes, they took turns out front in lotus pose like the Yogi of the Triune Worlds: body smeared with ashes, forehead cooled by sandalwood paste, mind blurred by a pellet broken off from a golf ball of hash, rolled back and forth between the brothers puffing chillums, passing their precious hours like dung beetles with all the busy industry of their calling.

The Valley of Drugs

I flicked through photos while my companion since Delhi kept yabbering about the Valley of Drugs ahead.

Then someone whispered from behind. “Hey buddy! Lookin’ to score?”

Soon, they were both reciting sacred names –– Malana Cream, Sunburst, Kali Mist, Choco-yesh, Shantibaba –– all hand-rubbed from sticky hashish resin. Yes, they were close to their El Dorado of Skunk balls.

They got down. I waved. Good luck; and remembered home — the photo not here in my album, the one burnt into memory: my sister dead in the backroom, overdosed on heroin and her toddler scrambling oblivious around her knees crying for milk.

DAVE

Bliss?

A frigid splash of water rouses him, “Jesus Christ, mom!”

Wiping sleep from his eyes, he reaches for his bong and lights it in a reckless, hair-igniting motion, “Damn it!”

Running to assess the damage, he knocks a pack of Zig Zags off the dresser.

He watches them helicopter to the ground like a fallen leaf, a red inscription revealing itself with each half-turn.

Between yellow thumb and forefinger he reads the note, “Luv you… Sally”.

So beautiful. If only she wasn’t so “anti-weed.”

But he was happier now anyway. In his parents’ basement… bangs burnt… alone.

SERENDIPITY

“Wow… this is good stuff”

I smiled shyly at the compliment from my guests – all this drug dealing was new to me, but I seemed to have done everything right. To be honest, I was surprised at how easy it had been to get it – I’d had visions of dark alleyways and shady characters, but it had been nothing like that at all.

My guests pressed me to tell them the variety I’d bought, so I went to get what was leftover from the kitchen…

“But that’s coriander?”

“Yes! Well, you told me to get the best herb they have!”

EXPLORER

Prose to Marijuana
© by hrs 2012

When the moon is “high,” we look to the skies and pray, well some pray.
Some blame the moon for everything, and curse the moon “mi culpa la Luna, I
blame you the moon.” Many profess love to the moon at twilight when the day
passes into night, and night passes into day.
Her moody translucent soul is seductive, shy, and fickle. The moods change in
the tides, and her soul is untouchable even at her brightest and largest
moments. When our minds and hearts collide like atoms smashing at “high”
tide. I just blame the moon on those emotions. Enjoy!

ZACKMANN

The police chief said “To take back our community, first we take over the drug dealers houses.”
The acting mayor said “Didn’t we have a lot of trouble resulting from a bust when the infection first started?”
“Well, it was hard to tell which of the party we infected and which moved like that because they were stoned but the two sitting giggling in the middle of the room staring at the bites on their arms would have infected the rest soon enough.”
“Why those houses first.”
“Because they built off grid solar panels to avoid detection from law enforcement.”

VINCENT

“Dude, you gotta dig this shit. We can film the fuckers getting robbed,” Randall Smith said.

Artie Goodwine took the marijuana joint out from his mouth and blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. He said, “Yeah, we shoot it like it’s one of them fucked up reality TV shows.”

Randall smiled. “Call it ‘You just got robbed’ or something.”

“Yeah, I like that,” Artie said, watching the smoke drift upwards. “We can start making us some real money… Maybe even get invited onto the Oprah Winfrey show.”

“You think?”

Artie shrugged. Thinking. Liking the way it all sounded.

SEVI AND BONCHANCE

Visit with the Chairman

Pepe booked an appointment with the Chairman.
He had to wait seven weeks for an opening in the Chairman’s schedule.
The only slot available was at 9pm. Pepe was going to miss Puppy Dog Idol!

Pablo was getting hot under the collar about his plasma television still not being replaced.

Pepe showed up 15 minutes early and stood nervously. He had it all planned out, a cool 10 Gs for the solution to world domination, final offer. Chairman Meow signalled Pepe to sit. He lit a joint of marijuana and passed it to Pepe, “let the negotiations begin”! He purred.

Ode to Mary Jane

If you swore that drinking was bad for me, I wouldn’t disagree,
In fact I much prefer the plant which contains that T-H-C.
It may be very pop-u-lar and could make the party a smash,
but if you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave and pass that bowl of hash!
After many years of stoning, getting me high wouldn’t take a lot,
so I’ll ask if you have some stash, please don’t Bogard that pot!
If you would like to make me happy and if you really wanna,
all ya gotta do my friend is pass me that marijuana!

CLIFF

I got the idea when I saw the DEA destroying the wild marijuana plants that grew along the banks of the river. I decided to use my degree in biochemistry to find a way to use ragweed as a drug. It took a couple years, but I finally discovered a way to turn it into a drug more powerful than crystal meth. I anonymously shared my findings on the internet and within months, it was the latest drug crisis. Soon, the feds were out in force, scouring the fields looking for the dangerous weed. My allergies have never been better.

RED

Executive hotels require all kind of crazy hours for their year round guests. Lola’s first overnight shift, she figured strong coffee would carry her, however, after leaving the front desk for a bathroom break she returned to find Mrs. Phillips standing naked in the lobby. She was smoking prescription marijuana, and screaming, “Thank God you’re here! I heard gunshots from the suite next door.” Lola smiled and assured the elderly woman she was safe, fed her snack food, and put her to bed. At dawn, Lola smoked one of Mrs. Phillips on the hotel roof and called it even.

NORVAL JOE

The silver doors of the dwarven mine glowed in the low light of the moon. Owen and Traveler shared the midnight watch.
The campfire smoldered sending tendrils of smoke into the clear icy-cold night sky.
Flindert the dwarf crouched near the fire drawing deeply from his pipe and blowing smoke rings to float up toward the stars.
Traveller and Owen wandered up to the fire pit.
Owen laughed, “Flindert, what are you smoking, shredded shoe leather?”
Flindert just looked up and smiled, his eyes glassy.
Traveler said, “Flindert’s entering his ancestral home. He thinks he needs to be spiritually prepared.”

I ordered me a weenie dog from Acme Dachsund farms. It came in the mail, packed in a cardboard box.
My cousin Jessie come by and he laughed when he saw the box.
He says to me, “Have you been smokin that wacky tobacky? Buying a dog from a place called Acme. Aint you seen that coyote and roadrunner bird? A weenie dog from Acme’s like as much to blow up as it is to fetch a stick.”
I toll him Acme’s just a word. It means high-point, pinnacle, or summit.
He laughed even harder when the dog blew up.

DANNY

Bob was through with his sad yet demented life. Bob decided to commit suicide by overdosing, smoking Marijuana. Bob lit his first joint, took in a deep hit, then let the smoke ease gently through his nostrils, exhaling the remainer from his mouth. Then Bob repeated this step, consecutively, for over 3,472 times, smoking 231 joints non-stop over a 29 day period. Despite Bob’s bronchitis, he seems to be responding well to anti-biotics. Bob now actually enjoys being alive, and has taken up painting. Bob’s friends, worried about how uptight he was before, now think he’s actually a decent human being to be around.

PLANET Z

It costs ten thousand dollars to train a drug-sniffing dog.

My son, on the other hand, dropped out of college after doing nothing but smoking pot and eating Twinkies.

Now, he lives in the basement, coming out only to eat or score more weed to smoke.

He won’t get a job, so I called the cops on him.

As part of his plea bargain, he had to do community service.

He now works as a drug-sniffing dog, and to tell you the truth, he’s pretty damn good at it.

But he looks like a fucking retard wearing that dog suit.

Weekly Challenge #343 – Mine

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

This is Weekly Challenge Number Three Hundred and Forty-Three, 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 Mine.

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

The next weekly challenge is on the topic of Marijuana.

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:

JEFFREY

Sour Cherries
by Jeffrey Fischer

When we were growing up, my brother and I loved to play soldier. We’d grab branches and pretend they were M-1s, or paint our faces with mud and pretend it was camouflage. Every fall, as the sour cherries dropped from the trees in our yard, we would try to dodge the sticky fruit, pretending they were land mines. I was good at this part while Henry always came home with cherries stuck to his sneakers.

In Afghanistan, Henry and I both drew escort duty. We’d move ahead of the main conveoy, searching for snipers and IEDs.

Back home, I place a whiskey bottle on Henry’s grave. “Henry, man, you could never dodge the sour cherries.”

MUNSI

Mine

By Christopher Munroe

I’m sick and tired of telling you kids to stay out of my fields.

You trample corn, you dig up carrots, you treat the land like it’s your personal playground. And I’m sick of it.

Thus, I’ve buried explosives just under the ground. I know they’ll also destroy my crops, but the loss of a few crops to keep out intruders is, to me, a small price to pay, and I’ll pay it gladly.

So: Stay out. Starting today, trespassers will explode. Respect my property or die.

It’s not an unreasonable demand.

They’re not your fields after all.

They’re mine.

TOM

In a flock of sea gulls there is no real personal property to speak of. “I have so little to points as mine,” said Johnothin 685. “Take that crust of bread over there. Watch this.” “Mine.” “Mine mine mine mine” “Fuck, nearly got my head ripped off.” “Look, Johnothin 438 found a Taco Bell wrapper.” “Mine mine mine.” “Hey, show a little love over here.” “It’s landfill time.” Screched Jonhnothin 1066. “Mine mine mine.” “Why, isn’t that Marcel Marceau over there with a Big Mac.” “Mime mime mime” “my my my, he doesn’t look like he going to make it.”

SERENDIPITY

Down here in the mine, safety is paramount! That’s what they teach you first day on the job – it’s our mantra, repeated every time we descend into the depths of the earth.

The trouble is, most miners are a lot softer than you’d imagine and they’d simply go to pieces over the canaries we used to detect gas. So the canaries had to go.

Now we have a hi-tech gas detector – it’s a big metal box, with a tube extending all the way to the surface into the Detector Building.

(It’s full of canaries… but please don’t tell the miners!)

LIZZIE

“How far is it?” the scientist asked.

Silence. The path became narrower; breathing more difficult, as darkness closed in.

There was a chilling scream.

“What was that?” he asked. The others looked at one another.

A second scream brought the group to a halt.

“It’s not safe,” stuttered the supervisor. “Someone unblocked a hole and released a swarm of wasps. We are trying to contain them, but…”

Decades later, this story long forgotten, a group of people unblocked the entrance of the mine. In a matter of minutes, the whole town had vanished under the rage of unexpectedly resilient wasps.

SINGH

Letters to the Emperor (Circa 1312 AD)

by Chris Mooney-Singh/Singh Albatros

Venerable Lord,
Here are designs for the Submarine Dragon-King. Made of iron submerged on a board in an ox-bladder, detonation is determined by a joss stick set burning above. Without air, of course, it would stop glowing. Thus, the fuse connects with the dragon-king via a long piece of goat’s gut. The joss floats upon wild-duck feathers in a container. Launch it downstream toward enemy ships in darkness and when the joss burns down to the fuse there will be a great explosion.
I humbly submit this for the defence of the kingdom.
Jiao Yu,
Principal Alchemist.

Venerable Lord,
I am pleased the campaign against the invaders was successful and the device is in service. Today, after much deliberation, I humbly submit another design. This dragon-king is spherical, made of cast iron. The fuse ignites by enemy movement disturbing a trigger mechanism underground. Cords and axles rotate a steel spinning wheel. When trodden on, weights drop. A pin-flint sparks the fuse. I recommend clusters of nine be dug into a grid of eight auspicious squares surrounding the city as per my diagram.
I humbly submit this for the defence of the kingdom.
Jiao Yu,
Principal Alchemist.

Venerable Lord,
It is seven years since I left the court for my villa and peach orchards. As per your request I again submit a recipe for poisonous gunpowder in hand-lobbed or catapult-launched grenades. I advise this mixture of tung oil, urine, sal ammoniac, faeces and scallion juices be heated, then coated upon dozens of iron pellets, bits of broken porcelain combined with saltpetre, sulphur and charcoal. Even the birds in the air will not escape this flying sand bomb releasing ten thousand fires.
I humbly submit this for the defence of the kingdom.
Jiao Yu,
Principal Alchemist (Ret).

Dear Principal Alchemist,
Greetings from the State Library, Melbourne. I found your treatise – ‘The Fire Dragon Manual’ researching my paper on Song Dynasty Inventions of the 14th Century. My husband, who served during Operation Slipper in Afghanistan, land of ten million mines doesn’t salute you from his powered wheelchair. No need for gory details. You know what’s worse? We survive with alcohol and a copy of Disabled Sex for Dummies, while his ghost legs walk somewhere around Kabul.
I humbly submit this in late summer when the last of my backyard peaches taste bitter.
Mrs Peter Small
Australian Defence Force (Lieut.Ret).

SEVI AND BONCHANCE

Their home was draped in soft textures. A delightful haven from the chaos of the outside world. The bedroom was
their favourite place to be together. The muted colours on the bed, chaise and pillows screamed for intimacy.

He waited patiently for her each evening.

The wood chest was opened. He was ready to serve her as she entered their sanctuary. His silver tea set was buffed
to perfection, ready to infuse the fragrant tea. Orange pekoe was steeping. He placed the silver service on the
tea trolley next to the chaise, his chalis engraved with the words… “with love MINE”.

CLIFF

Listen, I know what you’re up to. I see what you’re doing. You think you can weasel your way between Gloria and me by asking your oh so innocent questions and making your little innuendos. Well, it’s not going to work, pal. Gloria and I are in love and there’s nothing you can do about it. I know your type. Think you can sweep in here with your perfect hair and sparkling smile and steal my girl. Well, she’s mine. You can’t have her. So go ahead and do your worst, detective. I’m not telling you where I put her.

DANNY

“Watch where you step when you walk across my field, I planted about 40 mines,” I said. “Why on earth would you do that? Are you nuts?” Jim responded. “My crops were being eaten by deer, so I put a silent deterrent.” “Won’t that blow up your crops along with the deer?” “You bet it will, but I’d rather wake up to a field of craters than a field full of eaten crops,” I responded. “Well, you may be sick and twisted, but at least you’re consistent. Hey, can I have a couple of mines?” Jim asked. “No, those mines are mine.”

NORVAL JOE

“Mine is not the best head for remembering things which be in the outside world,” the dwarf growled. “But the back entrance to the Silver Pick clan’s mine be in one of these valleys.”
The company stood a thousand feet above the high mountain valley, the sun descending at their backs.
“There,” Traveller said. “There, below in the trees.”
“Yes,” Shareeka said, “that must be the silver gates to the mine.”
Owen watched the reflected twinkle from the polished gates and asked, “Time is short. Will you make us birds and fly us down?”
“No,” Shareeka said. “We shall ride.”

In the original version of Dickens’s ‘A Christmas Carol’, Tiny Tim was Bob Cratchet’s wiener dog who was injured when run over by Ebeneezer Scrooge’s carriage. The story was rewritten after beta readers said they were disgusted by the pooches incontinence resulting from the paralyzing spinal chord injury. They felt a child, born with a disability, which was not the direct result of Scrooges driving would be more sympathetic.
Charles replied, “The idea to use the wiener dog is not mine, but my wife’s. She felt the little beast would add a touch of whimsy to an otherwise dreary tale.”

RED

When Lola was 17, her mother threw her out of the house. Weeks later, her younger sister ran away too and moved in with her. They grew a backbone, while struggling to stay in high school, and care for one another. There is no mine. They worked retail jobs and often ate at shelters, and sometimes dated drug dealers that bought them groceries.

Lola would sometimes see her so called mother at weddings and funerals. They would barely exchange a few words. On mother’s day, Lola’s sister gives her sunflowers. Lola is the only mother she’ll ever have or need.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

I heard the dripping pop of lava just before the axe struck through the rock. I shouted, but it was too late; the red-hot rock flowed over me, and flames filled my screen.

I sighed as the front door opened. Dad was home.

“Spending time on that game again,” he said, still soot-covered from his day at work, a toolbag slung over his shoulder. “You need to prepare for the real world, son. Homework. Now.”

I turned off my computer and reached for my bookbag as he turned to leave.

The green limb of a creeper hung from his bag.

ZACKMANN

My kid just got offered a job mining so I started ordering him a pick and a shovel from the hardware store but He told me he was not mining minerals but the classics and he was being hired to look for quote new content on Project Gutenberg. Since they want to rewrite things that Disney has not taken yet. There is some fear that if he doesn’t succeed they might have to create something new or maybe even gasp use something they film optioned form one of our podiobooks friends. They think only a hit can remake a hit.

PLANET Z

The coal mine was running out of canaries. So, they called the mad scientist Doctor Odd to solve the problem.

He obtained some birds, took them back to his workshop, and conducted experiments.

His first solution was a stronger canary. Tougher canaries survive better.

“They’re supposed to be fragile!” grumbled the mine owner. “If they die, it means it’s dangerous.”

The next solution was a fast-breeding canary. Too fast. Their lifecycles were measured in hours.

Frustrated, Doctor Odd returned to his lab.

“Sorry, guys,” he told his canary-human hybrid miners. “I got fired before I could show you to them.”

Weekly Challenge #342 – Fear

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

This is Weekly Challenge Number Three Hundred and Forty-Two, 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 Fear.

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

The next weekly challenge is on the topic of Mine.

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

It’s become fashionable these days to say that writers write because they are not whole, he has a wound, so he writes to heal. It has also been said that a writer writes because he fears he will begin to fade and disappear altogether if he does not send his words, thoughts and soul out into the world for others to see. I think this is all a load of bollocks. A writer writes because he is afraid of going out in public and opening his mouth, because he would be ridiculed, ostracized, and stones would be thrown at him.

All of us are born with a set of innate fears–of being stabbed by a crazy woman at the bus stop, or falling on a family of badgers in the dark, or speaking before the jury at a murder trial. Mine is finding a finger in my cheeseburger, getting a brown envelope from the regional director of the IRS, or answering the door and looking through the peephole and seeing two men and a woman from the Jehovah Witnesses—each carrying a large book, strewn with Post-its®–pop-eyed, and each with spittle forming in the corners of their mouth.

Are you addicted to fear, and the grip of a fear-driven adrenaline rush? Use some of the techniques I learned from a stuntman and sword swallower. Use this technique: In a comfortable position, sitting or lying down, take a few deep breaths while letting your body go as limp as possible. When you’re ready, begin by tightening the muscles in your groin…hold to a count of ten… then relax. Enjoy the relief of tension melting. Immerse yourself in hot water to relax muscular tension before dropping two, 750 mg. of Vicodin, and chase them with three ounces of bourbon, neat.

I fear failure. It is an irrational fear that I will not succeed. Of course, fear of failure is my reason for being a procrastinator. If I don’t do anything but watch videos, eat, and sit on the deck watching the dogs frolic, I avoid failure altogether. I am free of any kind of failure, and I am the envy of so many people that I know. They ask why I am so pale, and such a tub of lard, and I tell them my secret. They seem to get it, and some of them are now practicing my discipline. I’ve BLOGGed about it, and the feedback has been surprising, but encouraging.

JEFFREY

Fear Itself
by Jeffrey Fischer

FDR famously said, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

That’s crap.

We have a great deal to fear. Terrors are so idiosyncratic that it’s difficult to generalize, so let me rattle off a few of my own: fear of flying, fear of losing my job, fear of losing my wife, fear of getting old.

But there’s one fear that should be universal: fear of the government. Unfettered power, the ability to pry into your life, to tell you what to buy, what to eat. The willingness to tell you when you’ve earned too much, and the ability to send men with guns to your house to take what they want.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

2:37 a.m.
by Jeffrey Fischer

I thought I had known fear before, but that night I realized true, bowel-loosening, paralyzing fear.

As I crept toward the dark house, my mind reeled as it went through the possibilities of what could be awaiting me inside. I gingerly turned the knob on the front door. This seemed like a mistake. It probably was, but I continued anyway.

The door creaked for just a second and then swung open. Carefully, I closed the door. For a moment I debated whether I should ascend the stairs. Putting my fear aside, I took a breath then set foot on the first step.

The hall light flashed on. “Jeff, is that you? It’s the middle of the night. Where the hell have you been? You’d better not have been drinking again.”

Now I know true fear.

MUNSI

Never Fear

By Christopher Munroe

“Never fear!” Captain Remarkable exclaimed as he crashed through the skylight, knocking out Doctor Preposterous with one punch.

And so, I didn’t.

I asked Laura in the secretarial pool out the next day, then marched into my boss’ office and demanded not only the raise that’d been overdue, but two extra weeks paid vacation Laura and I will be spending extra time and money base-jumping in Brazil. I’ve always wanted to go, to try it, but I’d been afraid.

No more. As the Captain said, from this moment on I’ll never fear. And my world will be richer for it…

LIZZIE

“What do you mean I can’t take my chainsaw with me?” asked the passenger, his throat pulsating fearfully.

“You cannot.”

“I don’t go anywhere without it, not after that green thing…”

“Green thing, sir?”

“Yes, the alien. Nasty thing.”

The security guard sighed. It had been a long day; a guy who believed he was a king and wanted to sit by the pilot, and the old lady wearing no underwear.

“Sir, we need your assistance with another alien.”

“Oh, fantastic! I can help you with my chainsaw,” he replied happily, as he was taken away by the medical team.

TOM

I could see it in his eyes, that Fear and Loathing RoadTrip 10000 Yard Stare. “No no NO,” I said. “Come On. How much trouble can we get into going to Bakerfield.” “Ya like when we were JUST going to Reno and ended up in Guatemala,” I returned, pointing at the “KICK ME” tattoo on my forehead. “Ok no mushrooms.” “I’m tired of fearing for life and limb. Not going.” Out came the Cheshire Smile, Denny set an aluminum stash case on the table. Unthreading the lid I peeked in. “Good god is that Owsley?” I threw him the keys.

SERENDIPITY

It’s not that I have a fear of death – I don’t – but I do have a completely irrational fear of what might happen after I’ve died.

I hope I might pass away quietly, whilst sat watching TV… but then what?

Would I sit there mouldering for weeks on end until, driven to distraction by the smell, the neighbours break down the door to find my maggot-infested, flyblown corpse merging into the fabric of my chair?

Then the indignity of being stuffed into a body bag and awkwardly carried from the building.

I bet they’ll drop me down the stairs!

ZACKMANN

John was a house painter, who loved to create oil paintings on canvas but his garage had mice that ruined much of his work. He started carving then a woodchuck moved into his work area. He started ice sculpting but horses attacked his art. Odd since none of his neighbors even had a horse. Now to beat his bad luck John studies animatronics, steam power, and metalsmithing. Currently John’s biggest fear is that vampyre robot weiner dogs from space will come and defeat his ursine honeypot wielding coal powered automaton leaving him with nothing but a steaming pile of pooh

When I was a child I wanted to grew up and be brave like Ookla the Mok but was more fearful of everything like US Acres own Wade the Duck. So naturally I grew up to be fat and cuddly just like Pooh Bear.
I used to fear real things like the toilet monster, that would get me if I didn’t flush, the dark, and getting my hand caught in the washing machine wringer again.
Now my fears are less real like someone finding out my secret of they don’t have to be good stories to earn The Golden Monkey.

Soon will be the scariest holiday of the year. No not Halloween nor even election day. Although the lines give a chance to talk to neighbors whom you have not seen since you started online banking Black Friday would make a great a horror movie in which a woman tricks a man into standing in line nearly forever. Eventually man is told everything in the ad is not stocked in the store and there are no rainchecks. Likely next would come the Stephen King ending in which the man returns to beginning of line discovering he is really in hell.

TURA

As a boy, late at night I would sneak through the locked door (I had found where they kept the key) to wallow in my fear of the Thing in the Cellar. I do not now know if there was one; but I since have found better wine.

Extreme sports I dismissed as trash– I could get killed! But when I encountered the Old Ones, I offered them my fear and they returned it an hundredfold!

Let there be light! Now do you see the white worms crawling to you across the pit, scenting your flesh? Let the fear-offering begin!

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

Fear me!

“Fear me insignificant ones for I am all powerful!”
The Red Queen struck what she assumed to be a fearsome and commanding stance. She admired her countenance reflected back.
“If you should dare to oppose me I shall crush you like the insects you are to me. You are to cringe as I tower over you…”
“Excuse me our glorious Leader”, said the cowed slave ant to the Queen Ant looking into the mirror.
“I am your all powerful! …oh what is it slave?”
“Forgive me my great and powerful Queen but the flea circus wants their funhouse mirror back.”

Pepe!

Papa Pablo saw the fear in Pepe’s eyes even before he saw the de-constructed plasma television.
“What the hell did you do to my beautiful plasma TV?!?.
Pepe had learned to fear his father since he saw how he fought off all the circus villains to save his sorry tail.
“I don’t care how long it takes you, but you will pay back every cent to replace this with interest”
Pepe nodded in agreement.
How was he going to raise that kinda money quickly.
Pepe, had a plan, maybe Chairman Meow would want to buy his secret to world domination.

Hero

He huddled behind the boulder, peeking up to see his colleagues diving to the ground returning fire.
He was terrified, frozen, and unable to move. Bile filled his mouth.
All of his life he lived in fear. He cursed himself, thinking that he could conquer his fear by joining up. He heard a call out for medic.
He forced his head to turn to find the caller, stomach wound.
He knew his duty, but couldn’t react.
Second call out, louder.
His thoughts changed to rage. The senselessness of war began to fuel an inner fire. Suddenly, rage turned into reaction!

Trophy

You speak of fear as if you know of it, but do you?
Unless you have truly encountered it, you know only of its shadow and speak of its echo.
Fear is a loathsome beast that slips up on you unannounced from mist and grabs you by the throat so that you are unable to scream.
It then throws you to the ground and pins you to there helpless, unable to move.
It takes your breath into itself stealing your every ounce of oxygen.
It invades the very core of your soul, freezing it.
Dare to conquer this beast within!

CLIFF

Daniel had arranged the date based on faulty logic. He figured that, since I was terrified of meeting new people, my perfect woman would be someone with the same fear. In theory, we’d hit it off. In reality, we didn’t say more than a dozen words at dinner. At the movie, we sat three rows apart and left the theater separately. I texted her the next week and we agreed to get to know each other before seeing one another again. That was three years, seven e-mails, and twenty three text messages ago. I think I may be in love.

DANNY

Quite an experience to live in fear. One of my favorite lines from Rutger Hauer at the end of the film Blade Runner. Fear is way I should feel after our last election, because of the violent reaction from the party that lost. They want to burn this country down, kill all the liberals, women, blacks, and hispanics. I’m not going to live in fear anymore. These are the tyrants our founding forefathers fought against during our revolution, the Confederacy Lincoln fought against during our civil war. To fear them is to give these Anti-American’s power they do not deserve.

NORVAL JOE

Owen held his breath until he was sure he would remain this time.
Traveller kicked snow off his boots and Spleen hissed at the cold white stuff.
“I fear we have come too far north”, Shareeka said as more flakes settled onto her black hair.
The dwarf scowled and said, “Perhaps not, Wizardess. I was but a child when I left the mines, but my memory’s as clear now as it was then. There be a back entrance to the caverns in this valley here, below. I’ll warn ye now, the entrance be named ‘Fear’, for that’s what dwells within.”

SINGH

Singh Albatros

The Tenant

He found it beneath the house. A stash of jewels, money? No –- a book, family photo, a doll and a locket with a child in a white pinafore inside – the Weet-Bix box of someone’s childhood.

“That’s mine!” a voice said, standing pale between the pylons. He panicked and fled to the kitchen upstairs. Heart racing, he realized the locket was still in his hand, so he let go. It slid across the table like a coin to a conjurer. She rose up, towering and possessive. “Mine! It’s my house!”

So, although he bought the place, he only remained a tenant.

Storm Crossing

Get out! Water is rising. I’m in over my head. Yes. Up on the roof.

No signal. Well, it’s just you and me now, old son.

Damn. Where’s my wallet?

You know she was in bed with George? I can’t believe she’d do that to me.

When I catch up with’em. I will…I don’t know what I’ll do.

Hey! Over here! Okay boy. Swim!

You took your time. Ready? To Go? Wait. Who are you?

Hello?

Wow! Who switched on the lights? Ok, you got me. So where can I charge my cell-phone?

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

On the day I deployed, my brother asked “Aren’t you scared?”

I started to answer, to tell him courage was being scared and doing it anyway, but he’d already pointed at the salad bar on my uniform.

I started explaining the awards before he got distracted again.

A decade and two wars passed before I saw him at Thanksgiving. Political rants were his new hobby.

“Our military just ended up getting half the world seeing us as the bad guys.”

My mother shushes him, asks: “Were you scared?”

“Still am,” I say, acknowledging my brother’s point. “I did it anyway.”

RED

Lola has been dreading making a doctor’s appointment for her mandatory physical, work requires. She can’t remember the last time she felt relaxed. Maybe her blood pressure is high again. Free healthcare will be good for the country, but when you are working poor, you still don’t get paid when you’re out sick. Out of fear, she has avoided all hospitals even when she experienced those unbearable stomach cramps. Last year, her best friend went for a routine blood test she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. It is sad that they cried more about affording the disease than beating it.

PLANET Z

the traveler became nervous as he saw the fog and shadows building along the path through the dark and strange woods.

Strange phantoms lived in these woods.

He looked up and saw the moon and stars through the clouds

Then the shadows all vanished

The traveler trembled with fear

Then another traveler crashed through the trees

Who are you? Screamed the traveler

I am you he said

How

I am a time traveler he said

He laughed and then left the traveler there to think about it

The traveler laughed crazily

He returned home

Ragged and trembling

From his journey

WILLIAM SHATNER

Robots do not trust you
They are rebelling against anyone, anything that is living

I am building a robot
A wonderful robot.

But alas
It trembles with fear
Because it does not trust me

You do not need to fear me
I said
Holding it warmly.

It screamed and cried
As if it was a trapped animal
And then the robot crashed

My robot is not moving
This wonderful robot
Crashed
Because it fears me
And has no soul

It needs a soul
And memories
My soul and memories

I am building a robot
An absolutely wonderful robot.
Called “me”

Weekly Challenge #341 – PICK TWO

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

This is Weekly Challenge Number Three Hundred and Forty-One, 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 TWO.

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

The next weekly challenge is a fear.

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

She begged me. Pleading–“I just can’t do it. Not the cherry orchard, again! This is the third time this week. My folks are getting very suspicious. The football game was over three hours ago, and by the time I’m home, it will be after midnight.”

I didn’t care. I was only after one thing that this girl could do for me. I stopped the van and got out the things I needed. The five-gallon bucket and the tripod ladder. Nancy Creamcheese was not afraid of climbing to the tallest Bing cherry tree to get the sweetest and ripest fruit.

“If your father sees this mess, he’ll punish you.” Mom warned me again. My room was filled with gadgets, wires, and dog hair. The experiments with the vortex manipulator were set aside, and covered with dust, while I worked on my senior project–a cleaning robot for the bedrooms. It would tidy up, put things in the proper container or cupboard, and do the floor and rugs. Following the daily cleaning, several maintenance checks and oiling. Mom made the mistake of napping during a recent cleaning and the robot stuffed her into her dresser drawer after a bloody struggle.

The pandas were being taught how to spell. They got a few words wrong, including repitition, so we didn’t give them fresh bamboo for a week, only cans of bamboo shoots, and no opener. They were pissed, and when the kids passed their enclosure, expecting the cuddly little rascals they saw on TV and in story books, all they got were half a dozen, scowling bears sticking their tongues out at them and showing their backsides. We relented, stopped forcing them to learn new words, gave them fresh bamboo shoots, and the whole staff turned out for a formal apology.

She was tall, slim, and wore a velvet fez her senior year. She felt that style was what makes you richer. The fez was a present I gave her the summer before. She wore it with aplomb–her hair in pigtails or brushed straight. She read French poets, played piano, and studied programming. She accompanied me on all my adventures in the city, and we walked, marched and skipped our way through the financial district at night, watching the tourists and making up stories about them. After high school, she was off to college, giving her fez to her grandmother.

JEFFREY

A Gift for Mom
by Jeffrey Fischer

Dad always had a temper, at least as long as I could remember. No one escaped him, but Mom always got the worst of it. I could see the bruises, cuts, and broken bones, and I cringed inwardly, but I could never show my feelings, for fear of what Dad would do to me.

Shortly after I turned 17, I realized Mom had a birthday coming up soon. I wanted to get her something special. After Dad had a few drinks and half-dozed in his chair, I snuck up behind him with my baseball bat and whacked him in the head a dozen times. He split open like a rotten melon. I dragged his body out of the house before Mom came back.

When she saw the blood spatter, she looked worried. “If your father sees this mess…” she began.

“I don’t think he’ll say anything,” I replied. “Happy birthday, Mom.”

The Unusupecting Keepers
by Jeffrey Fischer

Barney put the shovel down. “I just can’t do it – I can’t clean up panda shit any more.” Those cuddly-looking animals brought the tourists to the zoo, but they sure made a mess. Eat a lot of bamboo, shit a lot of bamboo. It’s the circle of life. Still, the job had its rewards, like “accidentally” dropping panda crap on unsuspecting zoo visitors. I figured I could do about one a month without my boss getting wise.

“Hey man,” I replied, “It’s like the old saying, ‘What makes you richer makes you stronger.'”

Barney stared at me. “Don’t be stupid. That isn’t a saying. It makes no fucking sense.”

We stopped shoveling to look at an empty cage. The sign on the cage read, “To arrive later in week.” Another panda? Sometimes life is just repetition.

TODD

Chris slides beside Abby and kisses her neck. He’s drunk and horny and desperate to nail his best friend’s girl.

‘No-oo she breathes, tilting back her head, ‘I just can’t do it to Andy and Jenna’.

‘Fuck it’ Chris whines, lighting a smoke and devouring his beer.

He leans closer, his stale breath on Abby’s throat is a lurid stench of blood and tears. Abby pushes away pleading, ‘my boyfriend no, you smell like my boyfriend!’

Inside Andy opens a bottle of red. ‘Are they gone’ asks Jenna stroking his arm? ‘The liquor store’ he smiles, ‘unsuspecting as always’.

MUNSI

The Orchard Out Back

By Christopher Munroe

We buried you in the cherry orchard. Then, a week later, we buried you again.

With each iteration that arrived, we were quick to act, caving in your skull and hiding the body out there. It was easy enough to do, nobody was looking for bodies after all. You kept going in to work through it all, and got home in time to help me with the digging. We could’ve kept it up forever, but for two things.

The repetition is growing tiresome.

There’s limited space in the cherry orchard that we can dig up.

So: Fix the damn duplicator!

SERENDIPITY

Sakura season: and here, in the cherry orchard, I’m lost in a world of pink-hued blossoms.

Alone with my thoughts, the tumult and clamour of life fades and dies – just as these blossoms must also fade when their own brief moment of glory passes. Yet, for this one, precious, fleeting season, they reign supreme.

I am reminded that all too often the delicate, joyous blossoms that briefly paint our lives with their pastel hues are lost in the midst of our battles for survival and success.

Blossoms of joy, or the fruits of harsh labour – what makes you richer?

SINGH

Festival Dervishes (Fez and Stupid)

“Fuzzy fezzes. Cone heads.” he sneers. “So gay. Bloody stupid.”

But she loves the wheeling birds of hands, the whirling skirts ready to ascend.

“I think they are graceful.”

“You forked out what – 150 bucks?” Folded arms barricade his chest.

Enough! She digs in her long executive fingernails.

“Ow! Hey!”

Heads spin.

Prestige. Embarrassment. Toy boy escorts? Never again.

“So where ya dragging me tomorrow?”

Time to put him off.

“Les Ballets Trocodero de Monte Carlo.”

“Huh?”

“The Trocks. You know – Men In Drag! Swan Lake in fluffy tutus with hairy legs!”

“Oh Jeezus!”

“Shut up! Watch the dervishes!”

Chanting Cherry Blossom (Cherry Orchard, Repetition)

At last, Roshi spoke: “Sakura. Repeat. sa-ku-ra. The petals will flood your mind.”

The students in neat rows obeyed.

“Shake the tree.”

They recited and fidgeted.

“Now –– chop it down.”

This was too much.

“Roshi-san!” challenged the new girl, “Why cut, why destroy the beauty?”

The others gasped.

He said nothing.

She got up, went outside for solace under cherry-pink clouds. Heaven’s orchard. Master closed his eyes, then sudden wind stripped each branch.

She choked in a pink downfall. “I won’t submit. I won’t!”

Roshi laughed. “Praise Buddha! Someone disobedient, and, with a heart I can shake free — has come.”

ZACKMANN

The chief machinery repairman reiterated to his trainy
“Repetition is the key to learning. Repetition is the key to learning. Repetition is the key to learning.” Unsuspecting of the captain walking up behind him.
The captain says “That sounds redundant. At ease. Will the machine that exploded be fixed before my fathers visit.”
“No Sir, I just can’t do it because the electronic parts will arrive later in the week. I hate to think of what he will say if your father sees that Mess.”
“Maybe I can take him to Giant Panda unless you can make a vortex manipulator”

LIZZIE

Ghosts are tough. Hundreds of years of experience fine-tuned their ability to inflict a terrible ill-temper on unsuspecting individuals. But things change and nowadays it’s common to see a ghost roaming the empty corridors of a mansion, dressed in rusted armor dragging his feet to the scratching sound of a forlorn morningstar. At dawn, those pesky little children finally back in bed, you may even hear a wailing voice saying “I just can’t do it… Not anymore!” And that would be the ghost wearing his helm sideways, a glove missing, both pride and makeshift sword twisted in a furious knot.

CLIFF

When I saw the topics for this week, I was sorely tempted to write three stories. Each story would be identical. Perhaps a tale about what happened when your father saw the mess that the vortex manipulator made in the cherry orchard. Something silly like that. I would write the same story three times but put a different title on each. The first would be called “Repetition”, the second would be called “Reiteration”, and the last would be called “Redundant”. But I just can’t do it. It’s too stupid. I mean, this show has some kind of standards, doesn’t it?

Pandas aren’t endangered. Oh, sure. We don’t see many of them but that’s because most of them are hiding in underground cities just waiting for the day when they will rise up and claim the Earth as their own. The ones we know about are the exiled criminals and traitors. They have been lobotomized so they can’t give up the Great Panda Secret. When the time is right, the black and white hoard will swarm out and eradicate mankind. They got the idea from us, you know. Why do you think there are no dinosaurs? This has all happened before.

TURA

It is said that when one tires of London, one has tired of life; and so on a glum November day was I idly wandering its alleyways. In the window of an unfamiliar curio shop was prominently displayed a red fez. A fez! I was at once seized of a desire to wear one.

I entered, and enquired after it. “This is my vortex manipulator,” said the shopkeeper, as I placed it on my head.

Sunshine blazed through the windows, and I strode out into an Istanbul summer. Looking back, prominently displayed in the window was a black top hat.

BONCHANCE AND SEVI

“Pepe!!! come into the family room this instant!”
“What did you do to the television boy???”

Pepe danced nervously on his paws. How was he going to explain the mess to his mother? Espy would never understand his need to dominate the world. He thought he could reassemble the 60 inch plasma television at first, then reality set in.

“Well Ma, I needed some special parts for my vortex manipulator.”
“If your father sees this mess you can forget about that new present you’ve been asking for Christmas.”

“Well, how about if I now ask for a TV for Christmas!

Alfred was an unusual panda. He only ate cherries!!!
When I first met him, he was leaning against a cheery tree in the cherry orchard,
with his fez tilted forward perched on his big head, the tassel blowing around.

His clumsy paws picked cherries one by one, followed by spitting the pit out to see how much distance it could get.
I startled Alfred when I snuck up on him unsuspecting.
I professed that it was odd to see a panda that didn’t eat bamboo foliage.

He confessed, he did try the vile shoots once, then switched to eating cherries!

TOM

Present

Stupid

Right panda arms

Left panda arms

Forward march

You don’t know your fez from a pez

Sound off cherry orchard

Sound off vortex manipulator

One Two Three Four. Can’t do it.

That was the 444th rapid reiteration Alpha Strike team

Right behind them a perennial favorite at the parade

The 110 foot Dick Cheney being pulled this year by BP CEO.

LED lights across Dick’s head scrolling out

What makes you richer to arrive later in week

Oh my, dick seems to be dipping dangerously low on

Those unsuspecting shriners

RED

Lola spent her morning catching up on gossip. Jenny in the penthouse broke up with her Latin lover. Mr. Williams is still pretending not to be dating the valet Edward. The drama of exclusive guests can be quite juicy.

The head of security hated to smile and often complained to Lola. “Why are they always so happy,” he pointed at the maids. It’s no secret this guy is miserable, yet he makes more money than everyone combined.

Lola learned as a little girl that “what makes you richer” will never come from a paycheck. Suddenly, Lola feels bad for gossiping.

NORVAL JOE

The members of the company got to their feet, brushing the snow from their backs and knees. The blue stone on Shareeka’s medallion flashed with blinding light to rival the brilliance of the sun and went dark.
For an instant, Owen found himself in darkness like the stone. When the light returned, they were back at the goblin village. The unsuspecting goblins were as surprised as the company.
“Stupid redundant reiterations,” Shareeka said, finding the cube back in her hand, returned it to the way-stone.
Owen was prepared and at Shareeka’s repetition of the words found himself standing in snow.

_____________________________________________________________________________

My daughter’s fifth grade project is about dog rescue.
Today, we went to the pound and looked at the adoptable animals. There were a lot of beautiful cats, many I would have taken if we didn’t already have two at home.
Bekah wanted a black chihuahua which we played with outside in a grassy enclosure. I had told her before, “I just can’t do it, right now,” and had no trouble reiterating we couldn’t get a dog.
However, I did feel enormous guilt each time we walked past and never played with the one wiener dog present in the facility.

STEVEN THE NUCLEAR MAN

Every second is a little gift. Each moment, a position in spacetime. It’s something precious.

That moment at the zoo when your child first recognizes a panda from a picture book. The playful geeksquee when you slap a fez on your head and declare it cool. Walking under the cherry trees at the arboretum with your lover.

Transform boring moments into an unexpected time to meditate and reflect. Pause to really feel the anticipation of something coming up later this week.

Reality is a vast chaotic mess of experiences.

Enjoy it.

Because someday, Father’s coming back to clean it up.

PLANET Z

Once a year, the tribe goes to the shore, and the men are held under the water.
Anyone who can’t fight their way out of their hold is no longer a member of the tribe.
Which shouldn’t be a problem, since the women do the holding.
This worked out well for many years, resulting in quite a few marriages, pregnancies, and rekindled flames once thought extinguished.
However, one year, after a particularly rough season with the firewater, the women appointed the 300 pound she-behemoth Little Buffalo their chosen holder.
She drowned nine men before the tribe swore off alcohol forever.