The 100 Word Stories Podcast

Every now and then, I watch Warren Zevon’s final appearance on Letterman.
Just to remind me that this doesn’t last.
So, enjoy it while you can.
Even Caesar needed reminding once in a while.
“Caesar, thou art mortal.” whispered a servant into his ear.
The senators reminded him with daggers.
I don’t call this depression.
I call this realism, acceptance.
Sadness or not, there is peace.
A bruise is just life’s way of letting you know someone cared enough about what you say to take a swing at you.
And you cared enough to stand tall and refuse to duck.

I remember when I was five.
I didn’t know how to swim. Or want to learn.
“What if you fall in the water?” they’d ask.
“I drown,” I’d say. “And deserve it for going near water.”
At camp, they had races at the pool.
I won the running across the shallow end race every year.
It became an annual joke. And I laughed the loudest.
The water was only up to my knees.
In my final year, I tripped over one toddler, and hit my head.
Falling, my lungs full of water, resting on the bottom of the goddamned pool.

Fred trained horses at the circus.
One day, a horse kicked him in the head.
He woke up in the hospital, unable to speak.
“We’ve tried all we can,” said the doctor. “Sorry.”
Fred was unable to continue as a trainer.
He spent the rest of his days hauling horse feed and sweeping up horse crap.
When he died, his coffin was carried by a horse-drawn carriage.
His coffin fell from the carriage and broke open.
Another horse kicked his corpse’s head.
“Bastard can’t catch a break,” mumbled the ringmaster, as he and the clowns cleaned up the bloody mess.

It’s good to have a morning routine.
Especially when you have trouble remembering things.
Make a list, put things in order.
Get up, and drink some water.
Stat the toaster, and spread on some butter or jam or something.
Vitamins, pills. And more water.
Make sure there’s enough food and water for the cats.
Put the laptop in the bag, along with the power cord.
Have a shower, get dressed.
Clothes all set out from the night before.
Sit on the chair and dangle shoelaces for the cat to play with.
Until I can remember how to tie my shoes.

The International House of Pancakes gave up on pancakes.
They tried to make burgers, but they weren’t very good at it.
So, they tried fried chicken instead.
Seems that frying chicken takes some experience and skill.
They gave up on that too.
One food after another, they tried making it.
And gave up on it.
When they ran out of food to screw up, they tried all kinds of other jobs: home repair, tuxedo rentals, political assassinations.
Eventually, they went back to making pancakes.
A senator choked to death on one.
Maybe they didn’t quite give up on political assassinations.

We do for them what they cannot do for themselves.
It is the Devil’s bargain we make for their love.
To end their suffering, we must also suffer.
What if, we ask ourselves.
What if we wait just one more day.
All love is torture, in the end.
We can only do so much.
And their tenth lives are our memories of them.
When others face the decision, we do not envy them.
Because we must face it ourselves again. And again.
All that remains is dust, boxes on shelves.
A collar, a beloved toy.
And the sting of tears.

When Harlan Ellison died, nobody believed it.
“Poke him with a stick,” said the head of the Writers Guild. “Poke him hard. The last time, he was faking.”
By the time they got to “Set him on fire and beat him with a shovel” they knew for certain he was dead.
His estate was put up for auction.
Except for his old typewriter.
It was encased in concrete and sunk to the bottom of a deep lake.
Sometimes, at night, a strange green fog bubbles up from the lake.
As for the screaming tentacles, that’s just a myth.
Isn’t it?