Welcome to the One Hundredth Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
(If you’re curious, this is episode #1,402 of this podcast. 1,514 – 96 – 16 – 1 = 1,402)
The topic this week was selected by Phish Frye of Purple Stripe.
The excellent theme music is by Guy David
This is important, because there’s prizes on the line.
Go ahead and listen to them and then vote for your favorites (multiple selections are allowed):
The cake floats before us, made buoyant by the 100 candles adorning its upper surface.
The century mark.
A sign of longevity, wisdom, and occasionally intelligence.
The cake descends slowly coming to rest on the brightly decorated table cloth.
Many paper plates of various colors are spread around the table.
Forks and cups of clear plastic are nearby.
A green plastic cake knife cuts through the wonderful white icing, biting into the rich brown interior releasing words that spill out and then float upward until they swirl around the guest.
100 words for each.
Happy birthday 100 word podcast.
The recipe amused her: “As this homey dessert bakes…” It was
appropriate, in an overdone kind of way. He had been gone for just
over a year. He would appreciate a little care package.
The scoop whuffed a small puff of flour onto her mother’s old
cookbook. When she cooked, her mother’s memory was close. She could
almost hear her voice.
“Sissy, get all the ingredients together before you start cooking,” it chided.
Sugar. Eggs. Baking powder. Metal file. Chocolate. Vanilla.
Her son called from the other room. “Mommy, when will Daddy come home?”
“Soon, baby. Real soon.”
Tossing and turning in bed, I wondered, will it start again, the sweet whisper of temptation?
As sleep drew me under, the aroma of this magnificent, cruel pastry dragged me back!
“STOP IT” I yelled out. “You’re wrong, I don’t want you or your lies!”
But it was relentless.
Damned dirty cake!
It saw through me, watched me as I thrashed about, fighting the urge, wanting, mercilessly luring me closer.
I KNOW! I’ll throw you out!
As I slowly made my way to this delicious adversary, I reached out and grabbed an apple.
Not as satisfying, sure, but still sweet.
Alma bent her legs first one way and then another, trying to find the right fit. In the end, she discovered if she curled up on her side and tucked her right foot tightly behind her left ankle there was just room to snug her hips inside the rim of the round pan. She leaned forward, pressing her breasts against her thighs; left arm beneath her cheek and right snaked into the small space above her feet. It wasn”t easy, but wasn”t her family worth a little sacrifice?
After dinner the kids all begged for an extra slice.
Cake, soft and squishy, and fluffy, and sugary or tart and sweet and everything complete! What can I say about cake? It is my favorite food. I crave it in all forms. I crave it in Chocolate. I crave it in Vanilla, I crave it in Carrot. I crave it in Red Velvet the most!
Because Cake is my favorite word I use it to describe people as well. The word cake is used to describe people who make me feel sexy, bring no drama, and always make me laugh! Because I can have my cake and eat it, too?
He rose from his desk. Alone in the building, it was that quiet time, before the cleaning crew came but after even the most dedicated employee packed it in.
His legs quivered as he rose. Would he have the nerve to go through with it? This was going to take planning but he had to get it done before things hit the fan.
He stepped through the doors of his corner office, to make his way through cube land, confronted by the remains of Charley’s cake.
Poor guy, wasn’t going to enjoy retirement as much as he’d thought this afternoon.
Bizroc looked at the recipe once again as he prepared the ingredients,
1 cup of ground malni root
1 teaspoon of fugg powder
1 torful egg, divided
1 tablespoon of groggy grease
2 cups of briz flour
Yup, he had all of them set aside.
Now all he had to do is find the main ingredient.
He had seen the two legged earthling a couple of times,
that would be more than enough meat,
maybe too much, he hated to be wasteful.
Ah, but that four legged earthling he saw running round the last few days
would be just right size for the recipe.
How to catch it, that was a problem, it was so quick.
Well, Bizrocca better appreciate her special birthday cake this year,
with all the trouble he was going through to make it for her.
Baby Shower: White and pink. Games played, chablis drunk.
Sweet 16: White and yellow. Ritual passage into adulthood; Stolen kisses playing “Spin the Bottle”.
Graduation: A purple scroll on a field of white: 6 years tedium commemorated by eggs and sugar. Cake ignored. Keg well attended.
Marriage: All white pastillage and fondant. Top layer lasts longer in the freezer than the vows do.
Funeral: A final slice to a white life. Still trying to scrape the frosting off.
Marmalade tiers between dry white crumb layers: first kiss, first car, first child, first marriage, first million… the sweetness of life…
They wanted to bake a cake to be remembered. They wanted to break the world record. What they came up with was huge. 100 yards long, 100 yards tall and 100 yard wide, strawberry, vanilla cream and lime. It was a masterpiece. Then, the cake came to life and started eating people. They had to call in the army. It was messy. Now, I’m left to clean up the mess. I think I just found the cake’s heart. It’s still beating. I wonder…
“colonel Jackson, look at that giant matza marching in the street. I think we have a problem”.
An alarm wailed through the infirmary of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Maria released Cervante”s fingers and ran into the hall. Cervantes continued reading Ellie”s message. He stop at the words: Easy Bake Oven. “How in Zeus will I fit two adults and an oven onto the Kronomotive?”
Suddenly a screen on the wall illuminated. Cervantes still wasn”t comfortable with the concept of images flying through space, but of course he was flying through time. “There was a brench in the hemorrhage collector. We grabbed the first contain we could find.” She held up a toy oven and a cupcake.
Gary Gateau was a uranium miner.
Every morning he would don lead-fiber coveralls and facemask and descend
into the bowels of the Athabasca Pit. Every evening he would shamble
home exhausted, encrusted with triuranium octoxide.
Caked with yellowcake.
Gary hated the yellowcake. It got in his nostrils, his ears, his eyes.
He knew that eventually it would kill him. But he had to make a
living. Ironic, that, he thought.
Today, however, was his birthday. He rushed to his shack, eager to
His face fell when he saw that his wife had baked a cake.
A fucking yellow cake.
Lord Farnsworth reached over to the side table and rang the little
bell which would summon his diminutive robotic butler, Rett.
Wheezing, mechanical sounds drifted down the hallway, “You rang sir?”,
“Yes, you bumbling fool”, Farnsworth exclaimed with a thump of his
cane, “I want some cake, right now!”.
“Yes sir”, Rett said with a mechanical wheeze that sounded almost like
a sigh. He departed for the kitchen to retrieve the cake.
Once in the kitchen, the robots demeanor changes. “It is cake you
want? Then cake you shall have old man, enjoy it while you can.”
The invitation was waiting when Sally turned on her computer. Reading
the email she thought “I need more then cake to chase away this mood”.
Still, it was Saturday and a few sweet bites just might help.
Fork in hand Sally went to the bakery, headed to the sample table and
went from one end to the other. With each bite her feelings of not
belonging desolved just a bit more.
Leaving the bakery Sally walked six or seven miles assuaging her guilt,
then hailed a taxi for home.
The bakery”s computer waited to send Sally a new sweet invitation.
When he saw the size of the cake, Laurence Simon thought he knew what
was coming; but from whom? Ellison might jump out of the cake with a
crummy story, or Tom with something bittersweet that lingered on the
minds tongue like the memory of espresso. Laieanna would pop out with
something deliciously on topic. Guy or Caleb would predictably do the
unexpected and throw pies if in that cake. But when tentacles like steel
cables wrapped around his throat and pulled him into the cake”s
slavering maw Laurence thought, “Oh boy! Andrew Ian Dodge is back,
welcome back Andrew!”
The old man sat in his chair not thinking or expecting much for his birthday.
Then again at the age of 85 you have so many old friends who have passed away and it seems like nobody wants to even be with you. He longed for cake. Even now it was something he could not really have. He can’t even walk up the street to get his own cake these days.
That’s when it happened…
The whole family flood in to the tiny terraced house bearing gifts and cakes. He couldn’t even describe how happy he was to eat cake.
It was her 100th birthday, all her family and her few friends who were still alive were there. They had a party and at the end the birthday cake arrived. She was given a piece then stood up to address everyone, the room got quiet to hear what she had to say:
“What the hell? I live 100 years and you give me a sliver of cake with no frosting? Well fuck you, food police! Give me a real piece with roses, lots of them and that better be real frosting not that shitty whip cream stuff.”
The wedding was going well but I was nervous about the cake cutting.
Of course, our friends were goading us into slamming the cake into each other’s faces, but it meant more to us than that. It was a symbol of our vows, our first test of trust as newlyweds. Would she keep her promise? Could I trust her with my life? I closed my eyes, waiting for her answer.
Slowly, lovingly, she placed the cake in my mouth. Promises kept. Our trust formed. Our lives, together.
In the end, divorce was the only option.
The cake was a lie.
Dang it Wade, David Carr just signed with the Giants. Brad Johnson is
old and feeble, sure Carr has created a suckstorm everywhere, but I
think I could mold him.
What about Tony Romo?
Jessica Simpson has his loins all a quiver! We have got to do
something to get his focus back!
Jerry, I know we bombed two years in a row in the first round of the
playoffs, but I think he is coming around.
Why is that Wade?
He made you a cake, look!
Wade” That cake looks like a set of boobies. Get Romo in here!
In the frigid air, Purple Sprinkle 39 from bottle 142668 awoke in the
dark. He remembered the avalanche of white frosting that sent him
sliding to the platter below. One absent piece from the cake and the
icing on top had become unstable. He got up and felt the layered
edges of the open pastry, determined to climb it’s spongy middle and
make his way back to his rightful place among his brothers who called
for him. He needed to return before the fridge opened and the cake
was taken away again to celebrate 100 Word Story Challenge’s 100th
Old Gertie died last night.
One day short of a hundred.
The TV people will be here in an hour to tape her blowing out the candles.
We bought a big cake just for that.
We’ll just have Fuzzy Norma sit in for Gertie.
She doesn’t talk much, except to say “Yes?” and laugh.
Neither had? I mean have any family around, so I’ll do all the talking.
After the party, we’ll quietly ship Gertie off to Shady Springs.
Don’t worry. None of the residents will blow it.
I’ve told them if they say anything, they won’t get any cake.