Month: December 2012

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:

• Vincent
• Jeffrey
• Munsi
• Serendipidy Haven
• Singh
• Lizzie
• Zackmann
• Tom
• Bonchance and Sevi
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Norval Joe
• Tura
• RedGoddess
• Planet Z

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:

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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.

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:

• Serendipidy Haven
• Tom
• Cynthia
• Jeffrey
• Munsi
• Tura
• Lizzie
• Singh
• Zackmann
• Cliff – Uncle Monster
• Bonchance and Sevi
• RedGoddess
• Norval Joe
• Kat Claxton
• Planet Z

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:

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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.