Weekly Challenge #453 – Underground

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.

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: UNDERGROUND

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The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of VALUE. Scroll up and click on Weekly Challenge to learn how to join us!

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JOHN MUSICO

Underground
by John Musico

Evolution forces burdened species to find an unused niche with no competition when they get elbowed out by existing competitors.
The density of animals on earth had become critically overpopulated.
The number of square miles of land on our planet; pales in comparison to the many layers of the land below the surface.
Consequently, many species moved underground.
Random mutations in their offspring; either disfavored their survival, or favored it.
Any species with deformities that favored digging skills, or smelling food through miles of tunnels, and the like: survived.
Their offspring were as their evolved adapted parents; and they flourished, wildly….

MUNSI

On Zombie Preparedness

By Christopher Munroe

I’ve always been old-school, that way.

Even before the dead rose from their graves and started shambling across the countryside looking to sate their hunger for flesh, I was at the cemetery every weekend, looking over the tombs.

A bunch of us went, we’d drink wine, write poetry, and discuss what we’d do in the event of actual zombie apocalypse.

People mocked us, called us freaks, but once the graves started opening up again we knew we were the only ones who were ready.

I guess you could say: I’ve been into zombies since back when they were still underground…

JEFFREY

The Commute
by Jeffrey Fischer

I find my usual seat, start a podcast, and wait for the ride to be over. The subway – “the Underground,” as those descriptive British call it, though their system finds its way above ground – is a reasonably comfortable and efficient way of getting to work. Plus, there’s the freak show.

The girl across the way, furtively sipping her Frappucino next to the “no eating or drinking” sign; the guy toying with his cigarette, waiting impatiently to leave the car so he can light up; the woman on the phone, arguing with her boyfriend for all of us to hear; and the man in his underwear, carefully donning his suit and tie as he nears his station – it’s a wonderful cross-section of the weirdos in society, and it makes me want to drive myself to work.

The Artist
by Jeffrey Fischer

Karen met Frank in a noisy bar that played far too much bro country for her tastes. It was a strange place to find a nice guy, but the two of them hit it off right away. Part of Karen’s attraction was that Frank described himself as “an underground artist.” She had visions of being taken to boutique galleries, and smoky (but trendy) clubs. Perhaps he was a graffiti artist, plying his trade on walls in sketchy parts of town – he might even be the next Banksy! she mused.

They exchanged numbers and promised another date. But when Karen went online to look up Frank, she found he was a grave-digger. She debated switching bars and avoiding him, but summoned the courage to confront him about his lie. “It’s no lie, darlin’,” he said. “My graves are the tidiest around. I’m an artist, and I work underground.”

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story – Part 86: Data

George didn’t really know what he’d expected – he’d hoped the computer might provide a portal to some underground organisation with clandestine goals, but he found himself presented with a desktop little different to those seen in millions of offices across the world.

Digging a little deeper provided more interesting results – a set of numbered folders corresponding to the candidates he’d found on the desk, containing datestamped image and video files.

George was astonished to find, in his folder, a comprehensive record of everything that had occurred since waking up in hospital… George’s flesh crawled as he worked through the files.

#2 – Tube

The London Underground has a few surprises for those in the know. Beneath the streets of the capitol, far above, lie stories of ghosts and tales of long abandoned stations and tunnels… If you know where to look you can even see the forgotten platforms as you rattle by.

But look even more closely and you may catch a disconcerting glimpse of the Underground’s most disturbing secret.

The pallid faces and insubstantial forms of lost commuters, grasping their briefcases and bags with skeletal fingers, waiting silently and patiently on those dark, lonely platforms…

Waiting for trains that will never arrive.

TOM

Springs Eternal

Jimmy lived in the underground. The trains stopped running in 2197, by the turn of the century it was the only concentration of electric power left. No one had a clue why they called the place Fruitdale, but it was better by far than Union City run by thugs, or Fremont Station run by religious zealots. “I guess, if you live at the end of the line, the end is always end,” quipped Jimmy. The boy had hacked the intercom system to play 100 word stories 24/7. No one paid much attention to the context. They listen for the sound of hope.

A Well Defined Relationship Part 82

“Gr-K” yelled Mother swung her rifle directly at the Rev’s head, dropped and nailed an incoming Forlite Bird. “Well played Mr. Parsons,” said the Rev picking blue bird parts off his shoulder. “Haven’t heard that word in ages. You were with the underground weren’t you?”

“Much to Lt. Parsons’s dismay.”

“Oh he must have suffered greatly on the duel crosses of love and duty. Gladly I think the breach between is why we are speaking on this noble Sunday afternoon.”

“He got the last of the underground off Beta Bovine.”

“You went agreeably?”

“I was drugged.”

“Easer extraction.”

Mother snorted.

TURA

Underground
——–
God left today.

It hit the Earth ten thousand years ago, sinking deep underground, alive but too damaged to escape. So it projected its mind to raise our primitive cultures towards developing science and technology.

Judaism, Greek philosophy, Jesus, Mohammed: all signs of its memetic engineering. At last, it found the triggers to set us on the path of science. A few years ago it made us find it and set us to work.

And now it’s gone, ignoring us like discarded tools.

As if waking from dreams, we look at each other and wonder, what do we do now?

SERENDIPITY

This deep underground, it is utterly dark, so dark that it’s impossible to see your hand in front of your face. So, when the lamp failed, all I could do was stay put and wait for the rescue party.

Finally, after long hours in the pitch darkness, the welcome glow of light appeared… But something was wrong – this was not the glow of electric torches, but the flicker of flames, and the sounds that accompanied them were not the reassuring shouts of my rescuers.

When I saw my fate, my only wish was for the darkness to return.

Permanently!

SPATE

Thanatos 1:1

Verily I say unto thee, in a time that is soon to come, the world shall be
divided into two peoples, each the opposite extreme of the other.

The sky people shall shed all their clothing and ascend to the heavens so
they may live floating above with their heads in the clouds.

The earth people shall also become naked but dig holes in the dirt so that
they may live bent over with their heads underground.

During this age, the moderate peoples of all nations shall grow silent and
disappear, wearily retreating from the sight of so many assholes.

(music: “Vivian and Ondine” by William Basinski is licensed under Creative
Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States and curated
by freemusicarchive.org / sound effects by soundjay.com)

ZACKMANN

Lollipop Rant

I’ll tunnel into the Google Complex. I’ll make them fix my Nexus 7 which hasn’t worked right since Lollipop. I should’ve know that when the new unhealthy treat name of the OS 5.0 wasn’t as good as the unhealthy treat 4.0 was named after it would suck. Kit Kat should have been replaced by It’s Its or Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Icecream. I want Google to know if I wanted a device that doesn’t work right I would have paid the extra for Apple. Maybe I’ll try uninstalling my apps and clearing the cache or Factory Reset first.

Seeing my son’s face after he ate an unprocessed olive was nearly priceless and I wish I would have taken a picture but the coolest part of the wine tour was the wine tunnel. Literally as well as figuratively since our visit to Napa Valley was in the summer when it gets very hot outside but it was not hot in the tunnel. Watching all of those barrels sitting there with the wine aging in them wondering if we would survive an earthquake down there. On second thought the wine, vinegar dip, and olive dip tasting was my favorite part.

RICK

Walt had made his fortune here
The underground …
the counterculture …
here the inhabitants aren’t above the law,they are below the radar.
Unheard, unseen by normal society …
a place where anything might be available, anything can happen.
:Pot, pills, coke, heroin …
murder, weapons, whores …
all manner of goods and services!
Walt had made a nice living providing such things to those who wanted them.
Walt made his fortune from the secrets he kept!

Ironic …

10,000 well kept secrets earned Walt millions!

One un-kept secret cost him everything!

Shot in the head, fed to the dogs …
his death became underground legend!

ANIMA

Underground Saint

Trouble was brewing at school; I was failing the fourth grade. How can you fail reading?

Like a good catholic, I prayed to every saint I could muster.

St Quigley answered: “Look to the sea of letters”.

The next day, I asked my most troubling spelling question, and the answer appeared in the cereal –

“PREPOSTEROUS”

This worked for several years, through graduate school. Honeycombs for science, Fruity Pebbles for geology, Lucky Charms when I had no clue.

By age 31, cereals had been reformulated to a more nutrious, non-sugary base. No more answers and I am doomed to black coffee.

NORVAL JOE

Dergle looked at his cards. “That’s not a very good hand.”
He looked around the table. The Cat Lady shrugged and the dealer stared, expressionless.
“You taking another card, Weiner Dog Man?” Superconductor asked.
“I don’t know,” Dergle said. “It’s a seventeen, and if I was only wagering five dollars and not my life, I would hold. But if the dealer’s hiding a face card, I’m lost. What would the house recommend?”
“This is an illegal underground card room, not a friendly Vegas casino. You have to make your own decisions,” Superconductor said.
Dergle reached out and tapped the table.

DANNY

There is no Underground anymore. Corporate America has purchased the real estate, bought all the media outlets, and controls the music we hear. Our corporate media tells us what to think, what to feel, which pretty much means feel nothing, unless you are going to buy a sweater a Macy’s. Because we corporate American’s LOVE Macy’s. We pray allegiance to our corporate overlords, the mere concept of “Underground” has been driven underground. And society suffers for it. After all, your listening to nothing more than a corporate condominium erected in the place where music once lived and breathed, then died.

LIZZIE

A faint line of smoke came up from the manhole. It smelled deliciously of grilled food. Sean found that odd and decided to investigate.

The manhole led to the sewers. At some point, these connected with the old tunnels of the underground. That’s where he met Henry.

“Why do you live here?”

Henry replied “Why not?”

“Well, it’s too dark.”

“It’s not what you see with your eyes that matters.”

There were hundreds of people living there, adjusting.

Sean decided to drop his life above ground.

“We’ll be ready,” said Henry.

When the catastrophe happened, they were the only survivors.

PLANET Z

Ted had a book.
So did I.
Sally found two in the trash.
That’s how the underground library began.
People from all over the city brought books.
It didn’t matter what kind of book.
The language. The subject. The condition.
We gathered them all up in the library.
People came to read.
People came to learn.
People came to share knowledge.
It was only a matter of time before the authorities found us.
They burned the books.
And some of the readers.
Still, a few books survived.
Ted had a book.
So did I.
And we began the library again.

Plymouth

While on a trip to New England, I asked my mother what the difference was between a stone and a rock.
“A rock is natural,” she said. “A stone’s been worked on.”
“So why is it Plymouth Rock instead of Plymouth Stone?” I asked.
“Because Plymouth Rock wasn’t really worked on,” she said. “Although, they did break it apart and moved it around a few times. And souvenir-seekers have been breaking off pieces of it for years. Oh, and they carved the year into it. So, technically, it should be Plymouth Stone.”
I think historians have rocks in their heads.

Whispering Trees

It all started back in the Sixties when an advertising executive was sitting on his back porch, listening to the wind whisper through the trees.
“I’m listening to trees,” he said.
And that’s when the idea hit him: Trees that whisper advertising when the wind blows through them.
He mastered botany, genetics, grafting, and meteorology.
Then, he raised generation after generation of trees to perfect a single strain that whispered advertising.
“Eeeeeeat Hossssstesssss Twinkeeeeeeees,” whispered the tree.
By then, of course, Hostess had gone bankrupt.
So, the ad man used the trees for firewood.
They screamed curses as they burned.

Santrum

The editorial board at the New English Dictionary had debated for weeks about their newest entries, and every conflict had been resolved.
Except for one: Santrum.
One group wanted it to mean the tantrum that children throw when they want to visit Santa at the mall.
Another group wanted it to mean the fit that frightened children throw when placed on Santa’s lap.
And a third group wanted it to represent a fit that a mall Santa throws after being pissed on.
“We should be a bit more specific about that last one,” said the editor-in-chief.
(He was into watersports.)

Black Santa

Whenever I go to the mall to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what I want for Christmas, I ask for “The Black Santa.”
The mall added him to their Christmas Village a few years back, and he’s got better drugs than the regular Santa.
“What do you want for Christmas?” asks Black Santa.
“Just my two front teeth,” I reply.
He hands me 2 pills, and I hand back a twenty.
I swear, on these pills, I can fly higher than a reindeer.
They found his body on New Year’s.
Must have gotten on his supplier’s naughty list.

Crapmas

When I was very little, mom took me to the mall. Two strangers picked me up and stuck me in Santa’s lap.
I screamed.
Santa asked me “What do you want for Christmas?”
“DON’T TOUCH ME!!” I yelled.
“No, what do you want for Christmas as a gift?”
I said “I already got Hanukkah gifts. Sucky socks and sweaters. I had to write thank you notes. Mom made me write them again because I said they sucked.”
Santa waved his hands angrily.
The strangers picked me up again, I yelled even louder, and we were thrown out of the mall.

Menorah

The kids hate going to visit their Grandmother in the rest home.
I don’t blame them. She was a royal bitch before the stroke, not much better now.
But if I don’t teach them to respect their elders, how will they treat me and their mother if something happens to us when we get old?
“See that pretty menorah?” I tell them. “We wouldn’t have it if your grandmother hadn’t have smuggled it out of Poland. Shoved up her ass.”
Okay, so she bought it for a wedding gift. And it’s fucking ugly.
But it sure shuts the kids up.

Weekly Challenge #452 – New Jersey

Welcome to the 100 Word Stories podcast at oneadayuntilthedayidie.com.

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: NEW JERSEY

We’ve got stories by:

The next 100 word stories weekly challenge is on the topic of UNDERGROUND. Scroll up and click on Weekly Challenge to learn how to join us!

Tinny!

NOTE: I feel that my rambling in between stories disrupts the storytelling. And I really don’t like the impersonal robot voice in between the stories. So, let’s try it without anything between the stories for a while and see how that works.


JOHN MUSICO

New Jersey
by John Musico

I was flying into Newark NJ, the murder capital of the U.S. My wallet was in one front pants pocket and my jewelry in the other.
The cab proceeded through the factory town of Elizabeth where the stench and smoke hurt my lungs.
However soon after, the surroundings changed drastically. The highway had no trash and was crested by landscaping.
On either side of the highway; trees abounded. I always wondered why NJ is called the Garden State.
We arrived at the Jersey Shore along side vacationing New Yorkers; who cracked NJ jokes and led to my impression of Jersey.

MUNSI

…for when I go to Flames games.

By Christopher Munroe

I want a New Jersey.

One that won’t make me sick.

One that won’t make me crash my car, make me feel three feet thick…

Sorry, I got off track there. I’ll try again.

I want a New Jersey.

I’ll order it eventually, there are places online to have Jersey’s custom built.

It will be stark black and white, minimalist, numbered zero-zero.

On the front and back, where the athlete’s name would traditionally be, will be the word “Sport!”

This way I can wear it to ANY game I want, and it will always be appropriate!

I’m a genius, yes?

RICHARD

#1 – George’s Story – Part 85: Password

Completely at a loss, George decided to try his luck with the computer. Switching it on, he was faced with the familiar instructions to enter his password. It was only after numerous failed attempts using “123ABC”, “password”, “admin” and random keystrokes that he spotted the ‘password hint’ link…

“George, my boy, you are an elite hacker”, he muttered to himself, smiling.

His smile faded when he saw the hint: ‘What word links: boys, shore, cattle and new?’

Needless to say, it took him several hundred attempts before he managed to come up with ‘jersey’.

The screen flickered: he was in!

#2 – Christmas jumper

Every year I drag it out of the box in the wardrobe, for its annual moment of glory. For a good three weeks it goes everywhere with me… work, church and the pub.

I’ve had that Christmas jumper for longer than I care to remember, and it’s starting to show its age – it’s a little threadbare in places. I have to say that it’s no longer in particularly good shape.

Neither am I… which is why, I’m afraid, it’s just a little too small to fit me comfortably this Christmas.

So I guess it’s time, for a new jersey.

JEFFREY

Atlantic City
by Jeffrey Fischer

In Vegas, the neon and the glitz artfully conceal the real city. Atlantic City tried, but just couldn’t muster the same degree of illusion. Threadbare carpets, tired buffets, and an aura of resignation permeate the casinos and hotels. Still, the faithful – elderly, overweight, and chain-smoking – keep returning, inserting their worn dollar bills and twenties crisp from the ATM. They keep pushing the button to watch the wheels spin, sure that the next pull of the lever will be the one in their favor. The one similarity between the two gambling meccas is that both towns run on hope. It’s just that in Atlantic City even hope is shopworn.

Pit Stop
by Jeffrey Fischer

The New Jersey Turnpike named its rest stops after the state’s famous sons: Woodrow Wilson, Thomas Edison, and Joyce Kilmer. Worthies all, but perhaps they don’t resonate with young people the way they once did. Here’s a suggestion to Gov. Christie: you have a deep roster of luminaries with a connection to New Jersey, so why not update the rest stops? Jon Bon Jovi, for when someone needs to apply hair spray, or Charles Addams, if that’s not too creepy. Chelsea Handler, for a vodka break, Peter Dinklage, for those times when a short stop is all that’s needed. Or James Gandolfini, in case Dad needs to bury an unruly child in the woods.

CHELSEA

The New Jersey

It was red. That was the first thing she noticed about it as the box fell away. It was red and stiff, with deep creases where it had been folded.

She spread the clothe across her lap running her fingers over the stitching that held the white letters in place across the sholder, the small captain’s C on the front above the the team logo, white and burning.

Splashed across the logo on the front was his autograph. Her childhood hero.

She could not stop the tears from falling as she finaly lifted her eyes from her new jersey.

TOM

A Well Defined Relationship Part 80

“patient”

“Mrs. Parsons there are few sounds in this Universe the will test the mettle of a young man, the drawing of a saber is one. That sound doubled will turn a beer hall silence as a morgue. The company froze as I and your husband engaged. What saved me and by proxy your husband was my total lack of willingness to go on the offensive, to be patient and wait him out. Each of his blow diminished till he was unable to lift his arm.

“yield,” said I

“Never,”said he

“no I yield.”

I lower my blade to the floor

A Well Defined Relationship Part 81

“New Jersey”

Rev Sockbe stood and reslung his rifle. “Perhaps it was for the best Mrs. Parsons. Good to know one is not a warrior. That is how I came to join the order of St New Jersey. Think of that a man of god unable to forgive the man who caused his calling. “But he is gone sir, doesn’t that end the matter?” “One would image so, but sadly not the case. I come from a race of warriors. When my blade touched the ground I became dead to my people. I can never go home again.” “That makes two of us.

Oh What A Night

Last night I watched Jersey Boys. I was intrigued how well Clint Eastwood would handle a musical. Would it be as lame as Sir Richard Attenborough’s Chorus Line or as surreal as Bob Fosse’s All That Jazz. Surprisingly it held up pretty good. Knowing all the songs by heart helped. I wished I had seen the stage production cause I did not get the four seasons metaphor or the 4th wall intrusions. Usually I detest a dance party ending, but Mr. Eastwood’s New Jersey street lamp quartet was spot on. I had no idea Christopher Walken could dance that well

SERENDIPITY

Just off the New Jersey Turnpike, in an everyday urban street, something is stirring – something monstrous and terrifying!

Some call it ‘The Beast’ – a portent of the apocalypse – an all-consuming and mighty adversary corrupting all who fall within its grasp.

But this monster is cunning: it masquerades as an angel of light, cajoling and enticing its victims with illusions of wholesomeness and goodness.

It is a deceiver that leaves its mark wherever it spawns its evil.

So watch out, residents of that quiet New Jersey street for the mark of the beast…

The distinctive golden arches.

ANIMA

The New Jersey

Jerry, you’ll play forward, number 19. Coach did not look happy.

Grinning from ear to ear, I thought about all the hard work I had put in.

The early morning work outs, staying after school to run laps, skipping parties to make sure I was rested.

I missed the cut the first two years. The players were bigger, and more skillful.

But I closed the gap.

I honed my tactical skills, learning more with each passing day.

Through a series of unfortunate accidents, dubious illnesses, and vicious rumors, the bigger lads dropped off the team.

I love my new jersey!

SPATE

Eating In New Jersey

Somewhere in a strip mall on the westbound side of Route 46 between Totowa
and Parsippany, there’s this Italian restaurant.

Inside there’s a counter where you can buy slices, but look to the left
you’ll see a narrow passage leading to a dining area where you can eat and
bring your own bottle of wine or a six-pack.

However, if there’s a crowded table of smartly dressed older gentlemen
speaking Italian back there, some tips:
1. The two twitching burly guys standing around are not waiters.
2. Probably best to do takeout.
3. The chicken scaloppini is to die for.

LIZZIE

Jonathan won the writing competition! He just couldn’t believe it. The prize was one night spent in the lighthouse, the main attraction of his town. It was said to be the residence of a dreadfully horrid ghost.

With great disbelief, everyone saw Jonathan enter the place triumphantly.

A few hours were enough to drive him crazy. He screamed, he yelled, he begged for help.

The next morning, Jonathan emerged through the door to face everyone’s curiosity, his eyes looking down. After all, he managed to single handedly ruin the main attraction. No one would see that poor ghost ever again.

NORVAL JOE

Four cowboys were sitting around a campfire listening to the crickets chirp. Passing a bowl of tortilla chips and salsa around the circle, one of the cowboys said, “This salsa is awful. Cookie! Where’d you find this stuff?”
“San Antonio,” Cookie said, buttoning his new sweater and heading to the cook wagon. “Good night, boys.”
“Cookie,” the cowboy laughed and called again, “Did you get that new jersey in San Antonio as well?”
“Nope. I got it from the Montgomery Wards catalogue. It came all the way from Atlantic City.”
“Atlantic City,” the cowboy exclaimed, “Well don’t that beat all.”

DIO

New Christmas

The tragedy of the Jersey Shore Snowman, whom Wenceslas murdered, and whose dismembered orange body we found scattered under our Christmas tree, threatened to ruin the holiday for us, until we discovered that all the cast of Jersey Shore were New Yorkers, mere signifiers of a construct, and thus themselves mere signifiers of signification itself, a great circle, like the circle of life (memories of Christmases past), or the water cycle, and as we joined in this feast of signs, we somehow found it in our hearts during the season of love to forgive this signification of hate, knowing the New Jersey Snowman did exist after all.

TURA

New Jersey
——–
Hamish! Hullo!

Hullo Dougal! Ye’ll have had yer tea then? But jings, whit’s that beastie out there in the field?

Farmer McTavish got rid of his Old Aberdonian cow, and this is whit he’s got to replace it. But I cannae make out whit breed it is.

Well, it’s definitely not a Modern Friesian.

And it canna be a Recent Charolais.

Could it be a Nouvelle Afghan Dwarf?

You know, I’m thinkin’ it maybe comes from one o’ the Channel Islands.

And it’s certainly an up to date breed.

So we’re coming to a consensus here? It must be a….
——–

PLANET Z

Michael rowed his boat ashore.
But nobody said Hallelujah.
Instead, someone shouted “Fuck you, buddy!”
And another threw an empty beer can at his head.
Michael had rowed his boat to New Jersey.
And tied it down to The Boardwalk of Atlantic City.
“You think you can just dock your boat here?” said one of the natives. “What’s a matter with you?”
Michael argued with them for a while, but gave up and rowed his boat away from the shore.
“What rude people,” he said.
Then, he rowed it to Connecticut.
And was shot by a yacht club security guard.