Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.
This is the Weekly Challenge, where I post a topic and then challenge you to come up with a 100 word story based on that topic.
We’ve got stories by:
She sat in the water, looking at the horizon. The future promised to be as bright as the brightness of that bright summer day.
Perhaps what happened would not mean anything.
A few seashells swayed with the tide.
Perhaps no one would notice.
The seashells bumped against her thigh. She watched them for a moment. Then she swatted them away, just as she had swatted him away, that greasy fucker who had got her fired.
Shame she swatted him too hard…
This was such a bright day and he would never ever see another bright summer day again.
We were promised a majestic future. We got no such thing. Someone dropped me here, and left me with no guidance, no promise of majestic accomplishments, and no way out.
A remote radio prompt was sent every hour or so. The last one had me engage the drill and gyrate enough to jar a rock sample loose for inspection, photos and subsequent transmission.
The frustration grew by the day. I’d beep and screech so earth station personnel would be alerted.
As the last iteration of the Mars Rover, my time was almost up, after fifteen long years. I was dying.
#1 – Performance Review
I always got a bad feeling whenever I was called into the Managing Director’s office for one of his surprise performance review meetings, but this time it seemed I had nothing to worry about.
Almost the first words out of his mouth were, “I see a rosy future for you!”
“Yes indeed, you’re talented, very capable, and you pick things up very quickly. Not only that, you get on well with your colleagues.”
I couldn’t help but smile a little at his praise.
“Yes, you have a great future ahead of you. Unfortunately though, not with this company…”
After getting the sack from what I’d imagined would be my permanent career I went into a decline.
My father tried his hardest to snap me out of my depression: “Son, you can’t let life’s little trials get to you – there’s plenty of other jobs out there, you just have to go look for them.”
So I took his advice, securing a place at a sweet factory.
Proudly, I told my dad.
The horrified screech he let out brought my mother running… “What on earth did you say to him?”
“I only told him I was a fudge packer!”
Funny how you can get bored with any job.
I’d only been fudge packing six months and frustration was already setting in. Everyone thinks working in a sweet factory is the perfect job, but you rapidly go off it when you’re surrounded by candy day, after day.
The prompt for me finally deciding to quit was the nightmare called Easter. I was transferred to chocolate bunnies and all was well until the sudden, majestic, explosion of the cocoa vat.
It’s not the first time I’ve ended up deep in the brown stuff.
But I vowed it would be my last!
Thanks a million for lending me your time machine. It’s been so long, I’d forgotten what it was like back at the start of the 21st century. I mean, you’ve heard about them burning up all their complex hydrocarbons just to get from one place to another, but you can’t really appreciate the scale of it until you’ve seen their big cities in the rush hour. And chemical space rockets! There’s a sort of majestic absurdity about the Shuttle. To think we’re descended from these apes!
Back in a few weeks, or centuries, depending how you look at it,
For Special Celebrations
Matilda fired the first rocket, and with a screech it did its gyrate dance across the night sky until it burst and made a majestic nebula of multi-colored pinwheels that brightened briefly the blackness of the sky. The report of popping shot sounds was prompt, coming back from where the fireworks exploded in a concatenacious sound array. Matilda felt some frustration that she had not been the packer on that particular display, but she knew that in the future she would be allowed to build the loads on the fireworks, and someday, perhaps, even invent new ones to shoot off.
If you’re going to die, I’ve always thought you should plan for the future.
Let’s not have any half arsed, poor excuses for a death – if you’re going to go, then make it majestic, make it memorable, make it worthwhile.
After all, it’s not as if you’re going to have more than one shot at it.
And let’s not have any excuses about not knowing when your time will come… What you need is a consultant, somebody skilled in such matters. Someone who will handle not only the time, and the place, but the method as well.
My Time and Your Time
by Jeffrey Fischer
The singer was ready. The players ran onto the field to cheers for the home team and boos for the visitors. Both sides lined up for the anthem. As the singer started her off-key rendition of the song, a half-dozen home team players turned their backs and made the Black Power salute. The fans booed lustily.
The general manager emerged, whispering two words to each protesting player: “You’re fired.” Security led the players off the field.
One didn’t go quietly. He engaged in colorful gyrations, shouting, “I got my First Amendment rights!” The GM said, “The team acknowledges your right to protest on your time. And we have the right not to hire people who disrespect the anthem, the flag, and the fans on my time. Now clean out your locker.”
Billy Clark was your average Midwestern corn-feed kid. 4th gen Lutheran Farm Family, really nice kid. When he got on the bus to LA everyone thought he was headed to the Lutheran seminary. Billy had other plans. Seems Bill was never that religious nor scholarly. What he lacked in brain power he apply made up in penis power. Billy was a carnal prodigy so when he got to LA Mr. Happy Productions got him a fake ID to add four years to his new identity and he got a great stage name: Majestic Packer. And so a legend was born.
With a screech, Billbert’s mother jumped back. She rubbed her eyes before she fired off a barrage of questions, which ended with, “What on earth is going on?”
Billbert gyrated in frustration, trying to return to his seat, though the bag refused to let him.
“I’ve got this superpower, Mom. When I wear a grocery bag, I can fly,” he said as his hold on the table slipped and he headed for the ceiling.
She folded her arms and looked up at him hovering above her, and said, “I’d suggest, in the future, don’t wear that bag in the house.”
“I’m glad I got fired!” shouted Betty, dancing on the bar again, gyrating her hips and waving her arms without any regard to the beat of the music blaring from the jukebox.
Her frustration with her job had been all she’d ever talked about.
Tomorrow, she’d be washing down aspirin and antacids with Gatorade to kill the hangover.
She’d pick up another job quickly, because she was that good.
Too good. In time, she’d go back to bitching about the new job.
And the next one. And the one after that.
Eventually, she gave up looking, and bought the bar.