Shattered bats are a common occurrence in baseball, but once, I was in a game where the ball shattered.
The pitcher was experimenting with substances to doctor the ball, and for one game he was trying liquid nitrogen.
How he managed to conceal the tank, let alone soak the ball in the misty hypercooled solution, nobody ever figured it out.
But he somehow got it cooled, threw it, and when the batter hit the ball, it shattered into tiny splinters and wispy smoke.
The umpire threw out the pitcher and called it a ground rule double.
I call it Science.
The Deepest Sleep
You know how some people need noise generators to help them sleep? Rain, or seashore sounds, or a rain storm?
A fan sometimes does the trick.
I need the sound of the stock market trading floor. That cacophony of phone calls and shouting traders and ringing bells lulls me into a pleasant slumber, and I wake as rested and fresh as a new person.
The more brutal the trading day, the better the sleep.
But I want more.
A friend says they can score me an old recording of Black Tuesday.
Will it take me so deep, I won’t return?
Everywhere Data
Wireless phone companies are always showing off their maps of high-speed data coverage.
They all have every major city covered. And most have the major freeways covered.
It’s the suburbs and smaller cities which make the difference, I guess.
The prices and family sharing plans don’t really matter to me. I’m on my own.
And I don’t talk to folks much, either.
Just the data matters.
Unlimited data.
Sweet data.
As for power, I charge up in restaurants and truck stops.
Or solar panels when I’m off the road.
Anywhere. Everywhere.
I’m crushing candy.
And nothing’s going to stop me.
PR Guy
The Lorax told The Onceler that he spoke for the trees.
A few months later, all the trees were gone, and The Lorax was out of a job.
He lifted himself into the sky, where he flew back to the PR firm he worked for in New York.
“Well, that ended badly,” said his boss. “And those trees haven’t paid any of our invoices, either.”
The Lorax was handed a “rehab” account to get him back on track, and he did well with it.
Then, a tobacco company.
“Shit,” said The Lorax.
“You again?” asked The Onceler, smoking a cigar.
Names Names – Eleventh Anniversary
Another cemetery walk, her and me.
The preacher said that it’s not the numbers on the stone that matter, but what we put into that dash.
I think he’s wrong about that dash. What matters is the name.
You get that name for only so long. As long as that dash, the preacher says.
But barring an incident or bad workmanship, the stone gets that name for longer than you do.
We walk along the path, reading names.
Getrude… Rosemary… Eunice…
“Betty?” I ask.
She thinks. “No,” she says.
We’ll take a different route tomorrow, unless her water breaks first.
The Christ Killer
Whenever someone throws the “Christ-Killer” insult at me, I snap their photograph and run their face through my databases.
Then, I go back in time and kill their mother before they are born.
When I return to the present time, the person is gone, because they never existed.
No, I didn’t kill Jesus this way. It would mess up too many things.
Nor did I shout with the rest of the crowd to call for Jesus’ death.
Instead, I waited for the guy after he “came back.”
Stuffed his body in the time machine engine.
The book says he’s “ascended.”
Weekly Challenge #527 – What’s for dinner?
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:
MUNSI
Happy Anniversary
By Christopher Munroe
An anniversary requires an appropriate gift.
For the eighth, according to tradition, that gift is Steel.
Google is useful.
So I figured, tonight, we’d slip into something a little more comfortable, all of us, every listener, every author and you, Laurence, then we’d cuddle up on the couch, together, again, all of us, pour ourselves some wine, and pop in a DVD.
Specifically, the DVD of the movie Steel, starring Shaquille O’Neal as the titular character. The film is a train-wreck, but tradition is tradition, after all…
Shush, don’t speak, no words are needed.
You’re welcome.
So: What’s for dinner?
JEFFREY
To Serve Man
by Jeffrey Fischer
Jack found himself stranded on an island with plenty of vegetation but no meat, save for a talking rabbit who had befriended Jack. Still, as much as he valued their friendship, as days passed, the rabbit looked increasingly tasty. One day, he asked the rabbit to join him for dinner. He prepared a variety of vegetables and added them to a stew pot. As the concoction started to come to a boil, he made a grab for the rabbit. “Some friend you are!” squeaked the rabbit as it ran away.
Before Jack could devise a plan to get the rabbit to return, an enormous bird swooped from the sky, plucked Jack from where he stood, and deposited him into the stew pot. The rabbit waved at the bird and collected his payment of a dozen carrots.
Supper Duty
by Jeffrey Fischer
When Sarah returned from her first semester living off campus, her mother said, “If you’re going to live here, you need to take a turn at dinner. Make us something you’d cook for your friends.”
Sarah dutifully bought supplies at the local supermarket and set to work. When the meal was ready, she called her parents to the dinner table. Each place had before it a bowl containing orange pasta, tomato sauce, and a variety of spices. Next to each bowl was a pill.
Her father looked at the setting and asked what he was supposed to be eating. “It’s my own recipe: mac and cheese, spaghetti sauce, and any three spices in the cabinet.”
“What’s the pill?”
“After the first few times I served this, I learned that it went best with an antacid.”
CHARLIE
My wife always asked the same question when she came home after work. “What’s for dinner?” We took turns: cooking, shopping, cleaning the toilets, washing dishes, making the beds, doing the laundry, scheduling the yard work, on top or on the bottom, and so on. The marriage was a partnership…no…more like a small business operation. The last time I cooked for her, I made it a very “special” dinner. My unique ingredients, including the garnish for her plate, cannot be disclosed here, as it would be cause for investigation. As you know there is no statute of limitations for murder.
#2
Mom was a nurse, and aware of what we should eat. When I asked “What’s for dinner?”, she would say: “Son, it’s a special meal tonight. We are having butylated hydroxytoluene, monosodium glutamate, citric acid, polydextrose, zinc oxide, yellow #5, high fructose corn syrup, xanthan gum, propylene glycol, polysorbate 60, caramel color, malic acid, some wood pulp, and some grapes. This was a long time ago. Today’s dinner would have dozens more “delicious” ingredients, would probably taste better because of the additives, and would be more filling because of the unique supplements, including rodent hair, fish bladders and coal tar.
#3
I could smell it when I pulled into the driveway. I asked “what’s for dinner?” I knew already…a tuna casserole. It was easy to throw together. It was like eating a gas leak. You could smell it, see it, and you knew that if you had too much of it, it would probably kill you. Had she foregone the spices, the dinner would have been much better and palatable. She overdid the spices and the crumbled blue cheese sprinkled over the pasta mixture. It turned out to be a big rectangle of gelatinous, yellowish paste, and it tasted like ass.
RICHARD
Life lessons
Experience has taught me that – depending on circumstances – there are some questions that it’s usually better not to ask.
Never, for example, ask a friend “Does this outfit make me look fat?”
When pulled over by a policeman, never ask them why they’re not using their time catching real criminals.
And never ask for a person’s full sexual history on a first date.
Most important of all, unless you have a particularly strong stomach, when traveling in Korea, China or Japan, never but never, ask what’s for dinner.
Because they might just tell you!
And refusal often offends.
TOM
Car died in The Double tree
I get an email at 1:40 informing me artwork has been accepted for a show setting up at 8:00 in San Jose. Four in bumper to bumper I pull into the hotel parking lot. Stering and electrical dies. Call Triple A, its the alturnator. Call Gail, who calls Amy, who calls me. Lost in hotel parking Amy calls. Bout this moment I’m the cell is most important tool I own. We pull into Fremont at 10:30. All I want is bathwater and food. Wonder what I’ll have for dinner. Comfort food
SERENDIPITY
There comes a point in a marriage, when all of the magic has gone, and all you’re left with is the depressing realisation that this is as good as it’s ever going to get.
You resign yourself to a future of futile fallings out and bitter disagreements about who’s going to put out the bins, those irritating habits your spouse insists are in your imagination, and conversational exchanges limited to the bare bones of necessary information…
What are you watching?
Why were you late home from work?
What’s for dinner?…
Arsenic dear, with a helping of hemlock on the side!
LIZZIE
The children looked at their plates, disappointed.
“Can’t we have something different for a change?”
“Be grateful, there’s food on the table,” replied the headmistress.
Some of the kids sulked, others refused to eat. When lunch ended, most of the food went back to the kitchen, untouched.
“What should I do with this?” asked the head cook.
“Give it to the dogs. There’s no room in the fridge. And when you go by the cemetery later today, don’t bring the hands. The kids don’t like seeing fingers floating in the soup. Oh, well, at least the dogs will be happy.”
NORVAL JOE
Mickey helped the unnamed girl across the street to the Chicken King restaurant.
“Mmmm. What’s for dinner?” she asked when they pushed through the front door.
“Chicken, of course,” Mickey said. “But you shouldn’t eat anything. You may have a concussion.”
“Oh right. I forgot,” she said with a sheepish smile.
“What’s going on?” Mandy asked, walking around the counter to them.
“This girl got hit on the head. She has amnesia. I need to take her to the hospital.”
“Let me see,” Mandy said, examining the girl’s scalp. “Mickey. This girl’s pulling your leg. This isn’t blood. I’s ketchup.”
TURA
What’s for dinner?
———
Squeak, we called him, because of his squeaky little voice. Our little brother, but little for his age too, never got strong enough to make himself useful. Not much in his head either. When Squeak was hungry, which was all the time, he squeak “What for dinner?” over and over. Boiled potatoes and salt, usually.
I don’t really know what became of him. I didn’t notice him for a few days, and when I asked, Da said he’d fallen from a tree. We never talked more, not even among us brothers. Times were hard, and what else could you do?
PLANET Z
Bud Abbott and Lou Costello took the “Who’s on First?” routine all around the world.
They milked it for all they could.
Once, they tried to do a tour of Africa, but their plane went down in the jungle.
Bud and Lou were captured by cannibals, who threatened to eat them.
The comedians thought quickly on their feet and came up with “Who’s for Dinner?”
“No, What’s for dinner,” growled Abbott. “Who’s on First Base.”
“What’s on Second Base?” cried Costello.
“I don’t know!” replued Abbott.
“Third base!” they both shouted.
While the cannibals laughed, they ran for their lives.
The Business Of Delivering
I ordered a bunch of books, then I ordered a car adapter kit for my phone.
It was sent in two boxes, both of them due Friday.
They made it to Houston Friday morning.
One was delivered before noon, but the other gave me a weather or natural disaster delay alert. Delivery Monday.
The weather was beautiful, and there were no natural disasters. So why the alert?
Okay, so the other package was delivered in the afternoon, and they apologized for the delay.
But I refused to accept the apology. Because they’re in the business of delivering packages, not lies.
The Broken Man
The university built a stadium for a hundred thousand, and DeWayne filled it every game he started.
Brought back 2 championships, too.
He said he wanted to go pro early, and the university said they wanted one more year.
“Or do you want your tutors to talk?”
He stayed another year.
They handed him a degree in finance, but when his pro days were over, he had to declare bankruptcy.
Cars. Jewelry. Houses. Child support. A crooked advisor.
It all brought him down.
What his entourage didn’t steal, the IRS locked up.
He coaches his high school now.
And weeps.
Baby Hate
We’re wired to love our babies
This stinking bloody wrinkled crying lump. We’re supposed to love.
Some say its the drugs we give them, but they love these things even in natural birth.
I guess when you go through all that pain and agony, it’s a rush when it finally stops.
We tried an experiment in one hospital. The painkillers we gave them were supposed to make them hate the babies.
And it worked.
“Get it away from me!” they screamed.
Which worked out perfect, because each of them were putting their babies up for adoption.
No second thoughts.
Clean.